#alpine!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

papayainsectorone · 24 days ago

Text

Emotional Support Stranger

summary: stranded in a late-night airport hellscape with a dying phone and a delayed flight, you are one sarcastic comment away from a breakdown—until an unexpected laugh from the guy in front of her sparks an unlikely connection.

content: no real warnings

airport purgatory vibes™, emotional damage via sleep deprivation, crying in public (but make it sexy?), strangers-to-deliriously-flirty-to-???, phone battery anxiety, surprise first class reveal??, “wait... are you famous?” energy, terminal-based emotional intimacy, light angst, one shared headphone

word count: 3.3k

pairing: franco colapinto x fem!reader

You're standing in line at the rebooking desk, the strap of your carry-on digging into your shoulder like it’s punishing you for booking with this airline in the first place. Your phone's at 7%. Your charger is buried under everything you packed for what was supposed to be a nice trip, now turned emotional survival exercise.

The clerk ahead of you looks like she'd rather be anywhere else on Earth.

You're trying not to cry.

Really, you are.

You keep chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes burning as the guy in front of you hands back your passport and ticket with the words:

“Thanks. Have a nice flight.”

It breaks you. Not all the way, not loudly—but enough that the sarcasm slips out before you can stop it.

“Yeah, hope it crashes.”

Silence for a second. Then a laugh—quick and startled.

You glance up, tense, expecting judgment.

Instead, he’s smiling.

And not in a mocking way. It’s this crooked little grin like he wasn’t expecting to laugh today, but you just made him.

He’s... hot. You notice that, but not first. First, you notice how real he seems in a sea of people who are all pretending not to lose it. His hoodie’s a little wrinkled. His curls are a mess. He has dark circles under his eyes like you do. He’s leaning on the handle of his suitcase like he’s been here a while too.

“Bit dark,” he says, voice light but low.

You exhale—half a laugh, half frustration. “I’ve been in this line for hours, my flight’s delayed indefinitely, and the dude behind the other counter just told the guy two people ahead that the next flight out might be tomorrow.”

You tilt your head toward the heavens—well, toward the buzzing lights—and add, “So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a mood.”

“Fair.” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. “You looked like you were about to leap over the desk. I was rooting for you.”

Your laugh this time is more genuine, and your posture shifts just a little relieved not to feel entirely alone in your disaster.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

You sigh. “San Fernando International. Supposed to be working.”

He raises an eyebrow, then deadpans, “Maybe this is fate.”

You scoff. “Or just hell with extra layovers.”

That earns a grin. “That too.”

You’re finally done with the rebooking desk.

They couldn’t get you on another flight. Couldn’t even guarantee the one you’re already booked on will go at some point. They handed you a sorry-looking meal voucher like it was a prize for surviving airport purgatory.

You spot him a few rows down—hood up now, slouched in one of those hard plastic seats by the gate, his suitcase serving as a footrest.

Without thinking much about it, you walk over and drop yourself into the seat beside him.

It’s not graceful. More like a slow collapse.

You lean your head back against the metal wall behind you, closing your eyes.

“Bad news?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Worse. No news.”

He exhales a laugh, not because it’s funny but because everything feels like a cosmic joke now.

You crack your eyes open and glance at him sideways. “What time is it?”

He checks his watch. “2:57.”

“AM,” you clarify.

“Yep.”

You groan and rub your face. Your phone’s been dead for an hour, and the outlet near your seat refuses to cooperate, blinking out the second you plug in your charger.

You try it again anyway, just in case the universe suddenly decided to cut you some slack.

Nope. Still dead.

He chuckles.

You look at him. “Are you at least entertained? Or is your Spotify saving your life?”

He holds up one earbud. “A bit of both.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He hesitates... and then offers the other bud.

You blink. “Seriously?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Better than both of us being miserable.”

You take it.

The bud is warm from his ear and weirdly, you don’t mind. There’s something oddly intimate about it, like sharing a hoodie or a private joke.

The music is something soft. Guitar, a little lo-fi beat under it.

“Okay,” you say, settling back, letting your arm rest between you, not quite touching his. “I expected, like... EDM.”

He huffs. “And you seem like the type to listen to... what? Heartbreak ballads in a coffee shop?”

You smile. “Only sometimes.”

The next track fades in. You don’t know it, but it fits. Everything slows a little.

You're both still for a while, music filling the space between you.

Then, he clears his throat, quiet. “You know... I can deal with it if you need to rant. About the flight. Or the apocalypse-level service desk. Or life in general.”

You laugh softly, your head turning toward him. “Are you offering yourself up as an emotional support stranger?”

He grins. “Pretty much, yeah.”

You let out a breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

And once you start, you don’t stop.

About the mess at the gate. The rude lady who snapped at you like your very presence was an inconvenience. About your power bank dying. About the overpriced water bottle. About how the vending machine ate your last coin and gave you nothing.

You don’t think he’d laugh so hard at that, but he does genuinely, hand-over-mouth, eyes-creasing laugh.

When you finally sigh again and slump further into your seat, he says, “Feel better?”

You nod. “Weirdly, yeah.”

He glances over, soft smile still lingering. “So… what work got you flying at ungodly hours?”

You huff, eyes flicking up to the departure board like it might remind you where you’re even going. “Conference. I’m in engineering.”

His brows raise. “Oh, cool. What kind?”

That’s all it takes.

You don’t even realize how fast your words come, about structures and materials and that one project you’re working on that somehow turned into your entire personality for the past three months. You don’t even register how animated you are, hands gesturing slightly, voice picking up momentum like a train rounding a bend.

You don’t notice, because he never interrupts. Never glances away. Just watches you with this sort of quiet focus that makes it feel like everything you're saying matters.

You only pause when your throat goes dry and you realize you're smiling a little too hard.

“Oh my god. I’ve been talking for, like—what? Ten minutes straight?”

He laughs softly. “More like fifteen.”

Your face flushes. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

He leans his head against the metal wall, smiling crookedly. “Didn’t want to. You look happy when you talk about it.”

That stops you. In a gentle way.

He shrugs like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you a little. “I like people who light up.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile and nudge his shoulder with yours.

And then—quietly—you say, “What about you? Why’re you flying?”

His mouth quirks a bit. “Work too.”

“What kind?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking away for the first time. “It’s a bit... niche.”

You nod, not pressing. There’s a flicker of something behind his expression—not embarrassment exactly, just a desire to stay in this moment where things feel easy, where no names or titles are needed.

So you don’t push. You just smile gently and shift the topic.

The conversation meanders from there. One of you asks something small, and the other answers. Then it flips. Back and forth, for what feels like hours—but the good kind, the fast kind. You talk about favorite snacks, worst travel experiences, weirdest dreams. The kind of things only a half-lit terminal at 5 a.m. makes feel profound.

Then it drifts again into music, and eventually, quiet.

His playlist becomes the soundtrack to your shared waiting.

You hadn’t noticed when your eyes slipped closed, but you must have drifted. The warmth from his side, the quiet static of airport announcements, the fading adrenaline of frustration—it all lulled you under.

You don’t notice when he gets up.

You don’t stir when he approaches the gate desk with a soft-voiced question and a charm that’s more polite than pushy. You don’t catch the way he angles your boarding pass across the counter with just enough casual confidence to make it all seem easy.

When he comes back, there’s something in his step—a quiet buzz of victory. But he says nothing.

He just sits again.

And the subtle motion—the shift of weight next to you—is enough to nudge your head, gently, down onto his shoulder.

His breath catches a little.

Not enough to wake you.

Then, gently, he tips his head—just enough for his cheek to graze your hair.

He lets it stay there, barely touching, like any more might wake you. And maybe he wants to let you sleep a little longer. Maybe he wants to stay like this a little longer too.

But the intercom crackles overhead, sharp and abrupt in the hush of the terminal.

Flight 227 to San Fernando International now boarding.

You shift beside him, blinking awake, your hand rubbing over your face as you sit up a little too fast. “Shit,” you mumble. “Did I—was I drooling on you?”

He smiles, still a little sleep-warm. “Just a little. Adds to the charm.”

You groan softly, dragging your hoodie sleeve over your mouth, cheeks burning. “God, kill me.”

But he just chuckles and stands, brushing the wrinkles from his jeans. “Come on. Looks like our ride’s here.”

Your boarding pass is wrinkled in your hand, thumb dragging over your seat number again and again, a nervous tic you don’t even realize you're doing. The gate agent takes it with a pleasant smile, scanning it with a soft beep. Then her eyes flicker to the screen, and she pauses.

“Oh, Miss,” she says, reaching for a pen. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded.” She scribbles something quickly over your seat number before handing it back, like it’s routine.

You blink. “I’ve been what?”

But she’s already turning to the next passenger, smiling as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. But your brain—still fogged from sleep and that strange, dreamy layover haze—doesn’t quite catch up.

You go with it. What else is there to do?

The jet bridge feels colder than you expected, your hoodie not quite enough against the sting of early morning air. You wrap your arms around yourself as the line creeps forward, every step oddly slow and too quiet. You rub the sleep from your eyes, phone clutched in your other hand, still dead. Everything feels like a dream—like you’re watching your own life through a half-fogged window.

Then, as you step into the cabin, the flight attendant greets you with that practiced, polished smile. “Welcome aboard,” she says, checking your pass once more. “You’re to the left.”

Left.

You hesitate at the threshold, feet sticking to the floor like you missed a cue. “Sorry,” you ask, brow furrowed. “This is… first class?”

The attendant nods without blinking. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re in 1A.”

She gestures with an open palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and somehow your body moves before your brain can catch up.

You walk in slow steps, the plush carpet soft beneath your feet, the lighting warm, impossibly golden. It smells like leather and something faintly floral. You pass other passengers already settled in—pressed shirts, neat hair, a man sipping champagne at 7 a.m. like it’s juice.

And then you see it. Your seat. Spacious. Sleek. With a blanket folded neatly across it and a glass already waiting on a tray beside it, bubbles rising in perfect spirals.

You’re still staring at it when he appears beside you.

“Would you look at that?” he says, voice low and amused as he slides into the seat right next to yours.

You stare at him. “This is first class.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t quite know what you’re talking about, dropping into the seat beside you with casual ease. “Huh. That’s wild.”

You scoff, sipping the champagne that’s already making your head feel a little floaty. You study him from the corner of your eye. “You didn’t… do something, did you?”

He raises a brow, feigning offense. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Pull some secret-string or bribe someone with your—” You gesture vaguely at his whole face. “—unfair cheekbones or something.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, reclines his seat just a bit, and fastens his belt like he’s done this a thousand times. “I think you might be overestimating the power of my cheekbones.”

You turn more fully toward him, champagne resting lightly in your lap. “So this is just a cosmic coincidence? We both got upgraded to first class?”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe the universe owed us something after a seven-hour gate delay.”

You exhale a soft laugh, but there’s still something curling suspiciously warm in your chest. Gratitude. Disbelief. And something quieter. Something that makes you want to lean into the seat beside him and pretend you’ve always flown like this.

As the cabin doors close and the safety video begins, you find yourself watching him instead of the screen. His eyes track the window lazily, fingers idly brushing the armrest, his whole posture relaxed in that way people are only when they’re somewhere familiar. You’re starting to realize he fits here.

You don’t. But next to him, maybe it doesn’t matter.

And when the plane begins to taxi, the low rumble beneath your feet swelling with momentum, you grip the armrest hard—knuckles whitening, body stiffening without meaning to. Your breath stalls somewhere in your throat, chest locked tight like the air’s already thinning.

He notices. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches the way your fingers curl against the leather, the way your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Then, quietly, without turning his head fully, he murmurs, “I don´t know if i have to ask… but are you nervous flying?”

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. It’s not pitying or amused—just there, open and real.

You nod, small and sheepish, biting the inside of your cheek. “I think even more so being in first class,” you admit, the words slipping out with a faint, breathy laugh. “Feels too high up. Like I don’t belong here. Like if we fall, it’s further to the ground.”

That makes him chuckle, quiet and low in his chest, the sound warm and steadying. “That’s a first,” he says, and then—without even looking down—he reaches over and takes your hand.

It’s not a showy gesture. It’s easy. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it just makes sense. His fingers curl over yours, firm but not tight, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles.

His eyes stay on the cabin wall ahead of him, but his voice drops just a bit more, close and sure. “It’ll be alright.”

And for some strange reason, you believe him.

The plane lifts from the runway with a low, drawn-out hum that vibrates through the cabin. Your fingers tighten instinctively in his, but he doesn’t flinch or tease—just holds steady, anchoring you through the ascent. His thumb keeps moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. It’s quiet up here—strangely soft, like the world below has muffled itself entirely.

After a few minutes, your grip relaxes, breath coming easier. He shifts slightly in his seat, his body angled toward yours, and for a while you both just sit there in the low hum of first class silence, warm hand in warm hand.

“You alright now?” he murmurs eventually, voice dipped low with fatigue.

You nod, turning your face toward him on the plush headrest. “Yeah. You’re—really good at that, actually. The whole handholding thing.”

A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Thanks. I charge per flight.”

You smile sleepily, eyes heavy. “Put it on my tab.”

A pause drapes between you. Not awkward—just easy. Shared. You both sink deeper into it, exhaustion softening your edges. Your legs stretch out a bit under the blanket the flight attendant tucked over you earlier. He shifts too, letting his head lean lightly against the headrest.

You both speak again at the same time.

“What do you do—”

“Do you always fly nervous—”

You both laugh, just a soft puff of air and amusement in the dim light.

“Go ahead,” he says.

You shake your head. “No, you.”

He lets his eyes drift toward the window, a soft shrug rolling through his shoulder. “I was just gonna say… you look like you don’t sleep much.”

That catches you off guard. Your brow creases slightly, but there’s no sting to his words. Just observation. Care, even.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while.”

His gaze returns to you—warm, thoughtful. “You should.”

You smile faintly. “So should you.”

He smirks. “I will. Right here. Got everything I need.”

The flight levels out and the lights dim further. One by one, the cabin falls into a hush of flickering screens and quiet breathing. His grip on your hand never slackens—not tight, just present, like a tether.

Eventually, your eyes fall closed.

His follow not long after.

When the attendant comes by to check on passengers, she pauses—smiling faintly at the two of you, slouched toward each other, hands still clasped between the seats, asleep above the clouds.

The plane’s descent is gentle, the soft hum of engines lowering as the city lights begin to twinkle beneath the clouds. Your hand still rests in his, fingers intertwined, and though you’re tired, the closeness keeps a quiet energy alive between you. You glance around the cabin, noticing how the few other passengers steal brief looks your way. Is it just the dim light, or do they seem to recognize him? You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the feeling lingers—whispers, soft murmurs, and the faint clicking of a phone camera.

When the wheels touch down with a smooth thud, he squeezes your hand lightly, a silent reassurance. As the plane taxis to the gate, you both stir, stretching out the sleep from your limbs. You gather your things slowly, the haze of tiredness still wrapped around you like a blanket.

The moment you step into the terminal, the sensation of attention intensifies. People glance your way, some whispering just loud enough to catch your ear, others sneaking pictures when they think you’re not looking. You’re half-tempted to ask him if they know him, but he just smiles softly, not drawing attention.

He steps in front of you, lifting your carry-on with an easy grace. “Let me,” he says, his voice low but steady. You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and intrigue.

By the baggage claim, the noise picks up. A young boy, no older than ten, approaches, tugging at his mother’s sleeve before gathering courage to step forward. “Can I have a picture?” His wide eyes shine with admiration.

He chuckles, nodding. “Of course, mate.” He crouches down, smiling warmly as the boy’s parents snap a quick photo.

You watch, puzzled but smiling at the easy way he handles it, the humility that doesn’t demand attention but quietly commands it.

As you head toward the exit, the crowd grows thicker, flashes bursting like fireflies from outside. You spot several cameras aimed your way before you even reach the doors. He notices your widening eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.”

Then, without breaking stride, he grabs your hand again, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into your palm. “Text me sometime, stranger.”

You blink, heart skipping. “Wait—what’s your name?”

He grins when looking back. “Franco.”

With that, he steps outside, and the air bursts with a chorus of screams and the relentless staccato of cameras.

You stand frozen, the crumpled paper warm in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as the noise fades behind you.

#franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto one shot #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto x fem!reader #op81 #𓊆papayainone𓊇 #franco colapinto #alpine f1 #alpine formula 1 #fc43

539 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 1 month ago

Text

healing hands — pg10 + kika

smau + blurbs

pierre gasly x !surgeon norris reader x kika gomes

lando norris x !surgeon sister reader

An emergency brings Kika and Pierre face-to-face with the perks of knowing a skilled surgeon—but what starts as a crisis might just lead to something more, like finding the perfect girl they never saw coming.

fc : olivia white

—

doctoryn

united kingdom 📍

liked by lando, flonorris1, lilyzneimer & 1,589,787 others.

doctoryn : quick trip back home before im back on call and lan starts a triple header 🥴

—

flonorris1 : missed you so much! was so fun to go out riding with you again❤️

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : missed you even more my flobug🫶🏻

lando : what about lando?? did nobody miss lando?

doctoryn : not with that attitude sir

liked by flonorris1, ciscanorris1 and lando

username00 : oh the norris family is so special to me

lilyzneimer : so pretty yn! happy you got some time away💘

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : love you my lils 💋

carlossainz55 : about to pretend I need another emergency surgery to make you come back home

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : sadly 30 year olds with ruptured appendix are not my specialty but i will be home today, los!

liked by carlossainz55

lando : starting to feel like I’m not your favorite norris anymore

charles_leclerc : your sister is monaco’s best pediatric surgeon— you have been replaced

liked by doctoryn, carlossainz55 and lando

lando : understandable. she is pretty badass 😎

liked by doctoryn

alexandrasaintmleux : so beautiful mon ange😍

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : that’s all you❤️

olliebearman : yn!! we need you

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : what’s up ollie? kimi need stitches again?

liked by olliebearman and isackhadjar

kimi.antonelli : …no

isackhadjar : yes

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : oh sweet little kimi. text me a picture

liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and isackhadjar

kimi.antonelli : thank you yn😁

—

Coming back to the hospital after sometime away is always hard. I’m convinced that I will never be ready to return- especially to being on call. Ollie had just brought Kimi in after the picture determined he would definitely need stitches. As a surgeon am I overqualified for just stitches? Absolutely. Did I do them anyway? Of course I did.

“You are all good, my dear.” I said and set down my needle and gently tapped Kimi’s shoulder.

“Thank you so much, YN. Really.” He said and pulled me into a side hug.

“Of course. Please be more careful. I’ll make ollie get you one of those backpack leash things if we have to.” I said with a smile making both of them chuckle.

“Thank you YN, see you at the race this weekend?” Ollie said as he stood and gave me a hug.

“Absolutely. See you both there.” I said with a smile.

The two left and I wandered back down to my office, where I had been— eating snacks and catching up on charts. Being on call was generally pretty chill until an odd case comes through or some sort of trauma situation.

Just as I was settling back into the rhythm of mindless charting and half-stale pretzels, the calm was shattered by a flurry of urgent footsteps and raised voices echoing from down the hall.

“I need a doctor—please!” someone called out.

I stood, instinct kicking in before the words fully registered, and stepped out of my office just as a nurse rushed past.

“Trauma coming in—possible ruptured appendix,” she said over her shoulder. “Kid’s in rough shape.”

I nodded and turned to follow her, but just as I grabbed my pager off the desk, it buzzed.

Surgical consult needed – suspected appendicitis, Trauma 2.

I moved quickly toward the room, already slipping into the headspace I’d been trying to avoid all day. But the second I stepped through the trauma bay doors, I froze for just a moment.

Pierre Gasly was pacing the room, running a hand through his hair, panic written all over his face. Kika stood at the bedside, gripping her little sister’s hand. The kid was pale, sweating, and curled in on herself, clearly in pain. Neither of them noticed me enter.

“I thought Y/N would be back by now,” Kika said quietly, voice cracking. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“She said she wouldn’t be back for another week,” Pierre murmured, trying to stay calm. “I don’t know who’s on tonight…”

“Hi,” I said, stepping in fully. “Guess who came back early.”

They both turned.

“Y/N?” Kika gasped, eyes wide.

Pierre looked just as stunned. “You’re here? You’re the surgeon on call?”

I nodded, already reaching for the chart. “And very ready to help your sister. I’ll take great care of her, I promise.”

Kika let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sob and a laugh, rushing to hug me. “Oh my god, thank you. I was so scared.”

Pierre looked visibly relieved, placing a hand on my shoulder with a shaky smile. “I’ve never been happier to see someone in scrubs.”

I offered a reassuring grin. “Let’s get her prepped for surgery. She’s in good hands.”

And just like that, whatever hesitation I’d had about being back vanished. Because sometimes, coming home means being exactly where you’re needed.

—

The surgery went smoothly—textbook, even. The appendix had been close to bursting, but we got to it in time. I stayed with her through post-op until she was stable, then finally peeled off my gloves and scrub cap, exhaustion settling in.

But I wasn’t done yet. I knew two people pacing the waiting area like caged animals, and they deserved answers.

I found them exactly where I expected—Kika sitting rigidly on one of the stiff hospital chairs, wringing her hands. Pierre was standing, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes flicking toward every door that opened. The second they saw me, they both jumped to their feet.

Kika was the first to speak. “Is she okay?”

I smiled, soft and tired but genuine. “She’s okay. Surgery was successful. We removed the appendix before it ruptured. She is in recovery now, sleeping off the anesthesia. You can see her soon.”

Kika’s breath left her in a rush as she pulled me into a hug—tight, grateful, and shaky. “Thank you. Seriously, Y/N. I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t been here.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I murmured, hugging her back. “She is family to you, which makes her important to me, too.”

She pulled away, wiping at her eyes, and sat down like her legs had finally given out. “I’m never sleeping again.”

Pierre stepped closer, his voice quieter. “You really saved her.”

I nodded, my eyes meeting his. “Yeah. She’s going to be just fine.”

Kika let out a breath and pulled me into another hug. “I think I love you,” she mumbled into my shoulder, making me laugh.

Pierre stood behind her, looking just as relieved. “No, seriously, I might be in love with you too.”

I raised a brow at him over Kika’s shoulder. “Both of you? That’s a lot of pressure.”

Kika pulled back with a dramatic sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “You saved my sister, Y/N. I owe you my heart, my future, and possibly my apartment.”

Pierre stepped in with a smirk. “We could split the debt. I’ll give her my heart, and you can keep the apartment.”

I shook my head, laughing. “You’re both impossible.”

“And yet,” Pierre said, his voice softening just a bit as his eyes met mine, “you’re still here. Still saving lives. Still stealing hearts.”

Kika nudged him. “Ugh, that was smooth. I was gonna say that.”

I looked between them, teasing. “Are you two trying to charm your way into a date or into my will?”

Pierre grinned. “Whichever one gets us dinner with you first.”

“I’ll take both,” Kika added, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

I rolled my eyes playfully, but I couldn’t help the warmth blooming in my chest. “Alright, alright. Let me finish my shift. We’ll revisit this threesome of affection later.”

Kika gasped. “Oh, she likes us.”

Pierre leaned in, just close enough to be dangerous. “You have no idea.”

—

kikagomes

princess grace hospital 📍

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly, lando & 1,577,813 others.

kikagomes : 3 weeks ago, my baby sister was the sickest ive ever seen her. naturally, i panicked but little did i know the best doctor on the planet would be there to fix everything. so much love to yn for not only saving my sister but keeping me calm all the same breath. today, sis got to have lunch with the amazing doc who saved her and who I love dearly 🫶🏻 thank you @/doctoryn !!

—

doctoryn : omg you’re gonna make me cry!! she is such a little rockstar. lunch dates for life💕

liked by kikagomes

pierregasly : yn is a superhero in scrubs! lunch on me next time ladies?

liked by kikagomes and doctoryn

doctoryn : can’t wait;)

charles_leclerc : so we’re all just in love with yn now??

liked by kikagomes and pierregasly

kikagomes : she saved a life. you would be in love too

lando : yes yes my sister is unreal but where was this energy when I fell off my bike at age 10?? I got a pack of peas and sarcasm.

liked by doctoryn and kikagomes

doctoryn: told you not to try and ride your bike down that hill. that was natural consequence sir.

F1 : our fave doc that doesn’t actually work for us

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : I’ve patched up enough of your drivers just hire me atp

kimi.antonelli : true

carlossainz55 : can confirm

charles_leclerc : the scar on my knee is proof

—

doctoryn

liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes, charles_leclerc & 2,299,007 others.

doctoryn : love this little life (and my little australian friend @/oscarpiastri for bringing me a lifetime supply of tim tams) (and kika and simba😍)

—

oscarpiastri : anything for my favorite norris

liked by doctoryn

lando : now wtf is this MY OWN TEAMMATE. what happened to landoscar???

liked by doctoryn

oscarpiastri : I said what I said. (yn is cooler im sorry)

liked by lando and doctoryn

carlossainz55 : aw yn finally got charles’ drawing

liked by doctoryn

charles_leclerc : that is not mine. mine is hung up in her office 😁

liked by doctoryn

kikagomes : we love you more ❤️ miss you beautiful

liked by doctoryn

pierregasly : dinner tonight ladies?

liked by doctoryn and kikagomes

doctoryn : no way I’d rather spend my night

liked by pierregasly and kikagomes

username00 : what is happening here??

username15 : throuplleeee

ciscanorris1 : my sister is the best and prettiest doctor on the planet 😍😍

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : love you to the moon and back

—

The restaurant was quiet, tucked away along the coast, all candlelight and soft music and the kind of warm, golden glow that made everything feel like a movie. I should’ve known something was up the moment I saw Kika in a silk dress and Pierre not in a hoodie for once.

“This is… fancy,” I said, letting Pierre pull out my chair like it wasn’t some kind of coordinated move.

Pierre smirked. “Only the best for our favorite doctor.”

Kika leaned in with a grin. “And before you ask—no, no one here needs stitches or surgical consults.”

I laughed, settling in as the waiter poured wine. We talked, we ate, we flirted—Kika feeding me bites of her pasta, Pierre offering to trade desserts and then not actually giving me the last bite. It was comfortable in the most dangerous way—too easy, too warm, too good.

When the plates were cleared and the candles burned a little lower, Kika glanced at Pierre, then turned to me, suddenly more serious.

“Can we say something without it getting weird?” she asked, fingers brushing against mine across the table.

I raised an eyebrow, a little suspicious. “You’re already being weird. Go on.”

Pierre chuckled, resting his elbow on the table and leaning in. “We’ve been thinking about you. About us. About how this isn’t just a casual little flirt we picked up during a medical emergency.”

Kika nodded. “You’ve become someone really important to us. Not just for what you did that night—though, yeah, saving my sister kinda made you an automatic hero—but because of how you are. How you show up. How you make everything feel less scary.”

Pierre reached across and took my other hand. “So, we were wondering… Would you want to try something with us? Something real?”

Kika’s voice softened. “We’re asking if you’d be our girlfriend. Both of ours.”

My heart stuttered. The room, already soft and golden, suddenly felt like it narrowed to just the three of us. Pierre’s eyes were so steady. Kika’s smile was pure hope. And God, I wanted this.

“I didn’t see this coming,” I said quietly. “But… I want it too.”

Pierre let out a breath, that rare, unguarded kind of smile taking over his face. Kika squealed and immediately stood to lean across the table and kiss my cheek.

—

kikagomes

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly, charles_leclerc & 1,245,908 others.

kikagomes : life with my favorite people lately

tagged : pierregasly and doctoryn

—

lando : kika idc about you but pierre why are your mitts all on my sister

liked by pierregasly, kikagomes and doctoryn

pierregasly : just a friendly hug bud 😏

lando : GROSS

doctoryn : my cutie pies

liked by kikagomes and pierregasly

username00 : what does this all mean

username4 : I’m so confused

username15 : so is yn just a professional third wheel

alexandrasaintmleux : my faves

liked by kikagomes, pierregasly and doctoryn

charles_leclerc : tell yn to check her texts. i threw something at arthur and he didn’t move in time

liked by doctoryn

doctoryn : guys 🤦🏻‍♀️

doctoryn : arthur come see me rn

arthur_leclerc : coming yn🏃🏼‍♂️

—

doctoryn added to her story!

{caption 1 : biceps🥴} {caption 2 : oml my heart}

seen by lando, kikagomes, alexandrasaintmleux and 4,378,990 others.

lando : if you do not get your ass to the mclaren garage and slap on some orange — i am going to throw a toddler fit

doctoryn : I’ll be down soon you big baby

kikagomes : god i love you both sm

doctoryn : love you more

—

kikagomes added to her story!

{caption 1 : cutie} {caption 2 : got our girl today}

seen by alexandrasaintmleux, pierregasly, doctoryn & 1,234,897 others.

pierregasly : so happy to have both my girls in the garage supporting me ;)

kikagomes : go make us proud love

charles_leclerc : so weird seeing yn in alpine 😁

kikagomes : yeah lando is losing it

doctoryn : love you soooooooo much my keeks

—

pierregasly

liked by doctoryn, kikagomes, charles_leclerc & 2,298,897 others.

pierregasly : mes amours

—

doctoryn : omg omg i love you both so much

liked by pierregasly and kikagomes

kikagomes : you both are the best thing to ever happen to me

liked by pierregasly and doctoryn

charles_leclerc : carlos you owe me 500 bucks

carlossainz55 : not happening mi amigo— you already knew. THAT IS CHEATING

charles_leclerc : to be fair I just found out like last week

alpinef1team : our faves 🩷💙

lando : this is literally my sister. i hope you both stub your toes tonight

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly and kikagomes

georgerussell63 : oh the Netflix ppl will love this

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly and kikagomes

lilymhe : is Lando already face down in the carpet throwing a temper tantrum??

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly and kikagomes

carlossainz55 : can confirm he is

—

kikagomes

liked by doctoryn, pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux & 1,327,289 others.

kikagomes : two of the hottest ppl on the planet are mine!! 💋💋

—

lando : has no one ever listened to the “don’t date my sister” speech??

liked by kikagomes, pierregasly & doctoryn

kikagomes : didn’t know that applied to me

lando : tbh I didn’t think it did either

lando : but PIERRE

pierregasly : sorry your sister is so hot and incredibly smart and so irresistible

lando : GROSSSSS BARF

doctoryn : brb updating my emergency contact form to include both my partners and one very angry little brother

liked by pierregasly and kikagomes

lando : not angry just disappointed

pierregasly : my beautiful girllssss

liked by doctoryn and kikagomes

fernandoalo_oficial : am I old now? is this the new normal?

liked by kikagomes, pierregasly and doctoryn

doctoryn : you’ve been old but we love you anyway

—

doctoryn

liked by kikagomes, pierregasly, lando & 2,298,890 others.

doctoryn: turned off the comments because lando isn’t done throwing a fit but these two have my heart and always will❤️💋🫶🏻

—

user has turned off the comments for this post.

—

🧚🏻🪼🦚🌵🪲🐡🐢🌙

785 notes · View notes

buckyalpine · 1 month ago

Text

Wrote in a rush and this was meant to be a fluffy drabble (lo behold is now much longer) but give me Bucky who finds the littlest ball of orange fluff on the side of the road, picking her up and tucking her into his leather jacket to take care of her. He can't leave behind that trembling baby behind on the streets which is exactly why she's scooped away without protest and snuck right into the tower and straight to his room, doors locked behind him immediately.

His biggest concern isn't the fact that he's currently housing a stray kitten in his room. It's not that he was breaking the no pets policy which he was already given an exception for. Once.

No.

His biggest concern is currently staring daggers at him with blue eyes that match his and an irritated swishing tail.

"C'mon Alp" Bucky tried to reason with his stubborn cat only to be met with the bat of a paw to his cheek, "You gotta be nice to your new baby sister, she needs a home"

Alpine isn’t having any of it. He saunters away and curls up high on the cat tree Bucky installed, turning away to ignore the new visitor.

"That could have gone....worse" Bucky mumbles to himself, knowing a grumpy Alpine was as good as it was going to get.

Now, he didn't exactly think any of this through when he picked the kitten up. He forgot how sharp those tiny claws are and he definitely forgot orange cats were a different breed. Still, he manages pretty well, playing with her and feeding her.

It's great until there's an attack on the compound the security system is breached. It's more of an inconvenience than actual threat which is why Bucky grumbles while rubbing sleep from his eyes when he hears the sound of a scuffle down the hall near his room. He's out of bed and grabbing his gear, the handle of his room jangling before being kicked down by the intruders, weapons in hand.

Alpine jumps up to his spot high in his cat tree waiting for daddy to handle business. Bucky is about to take down whoever entered his room until he feels soft fur brush his ankles, his tiny orange furbaby leisurely strutting over and sitting in front of the first gunman without a care in the world. She licks her paw and just before Bucky could react-

"What's this tiny piece of shit-OHFUCK-FU-

*Silence*

"What the hell..." Bucky's jaw is on the floor and his eyes are frozen on the spot where the intruder stood now empty. Because he is in his baby's belly. His tiny kitty just unhinged her jaw and a bunch of tentacles for a tongue grabbed the man whole and swallowed him like a Friskies snack.

"Meow" She purrs and comes to nuzzle against his leg, her tail swishing and curling around his ankle as she looks at him with all the love in the world. She goes back to licking her paw like nothing happened and Bucky stays rooted in place.

A Flerken. The tiny kitty he rescued was a whole ass Flerken.

Fuck.

After that night, imagine every time Bucky joins the team for dinner or training he has a new scratch somewhere or the other. The longer he hides his secret, the worse his excuses get but how can he tell them it's just his baby Peaches. Little Peaches the orange kitten who was also apparently a Flerken.

"I-I nicked myself while shaving"

"On your arm, Buck? Really?"

"It's just a papercut!"

"Why the fuck is it on your chin"

"Broke a cup, must've been the glass"

"....across your nose. The broken cup got you across the nose..."

"Yep"

"What are you, training with Alpine in your room?"

"...something like that"

Now at some point he does get caught because all you hear from his room is “awww-ow, fuck-shit-aren’t you the cutest”as he continues to coo, rubbing Peaches' furry tummy, her little paws reaching to bat the long strands of his hair. Everyone know he definitely can't be talking to his sassy white fur baby so who could it be-

"Really Bucky?" You stood at the door with an incredulous expression your face while he's in the middle of his cuddle session. You knew your boyfriend was hiding something all this time. Honestly, no one is really surprised given how much of a "secret" softie Bucky can be.

Still, no one really gets why he had to keep her a secret for this long, it's just a cat, what was the problem....

Now, I’d absolutely love for him to sneak her on a mission, a small lump rumbling in his jacket and Sam and Steve can only assume it's some type of weapon though for some reason Bucky keeps petting it. Eventually they get to their location and instead of reaching for his gun, he pulls out Peaches, holding her out like a rifle.

Before anyone can bombard him with a flurry of questions as to why in the FUCK would he bring a kitten to a mission, she eats off 4 of the bad people with one swallow and a content meow.

“That’s my baby” kisses her head before stuffing her back into his leather jacket where she purrs against his chest.

"Barnes what the fuck-"

"You guys can get what you came for" Bucky says with a shrug while scratching her behind the ear, a now stunned Sam and Steve slowly backing away to retrieve whatever they came for.

Bucky couldn't be prouder. The only mission he's still working on is getting trying to get Alpine to not plot to kill them both and it's going great.

788 notes · View notes

multicohn · 3 months ago

Text

summary: the rookies notice that their partner is missing from an important race and immediately thinks the worst

warnings: this took me DAYS to do 💀 some might be longer than others but keep in mind that i do like all the rookies and some were just easier to write for — ooc? since i don't know them that well, some might have similar situations but i tried to not have them as the same scenario — missing or misspelled words maybe? i might have missed it cause this is quite long — drivers wanting to die / thinking their s/o died ( jokingly ) — death jokes in general — just the rookies being dramatic and thinking the worse

pairing(s): gn! reader x jack doohan, gn! reader x isack hadjar, gn! reader x ollie bearman, gn! reader x kimi antonelli, gn! reader x gabriel bortoleto ( all written separately )

genre: fluff, dramtic drivers, established relationships

author note: lawson and alonso are not included

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

jack doohan - australian grand prix

the first race of the season would be in jack’s home country. he felt excited, but also very nervous. jack wanted to prove that he deserves to be a main driver and that he can pull in results. sure, it’s only the first race, but if he doesn’t prove that he deserved that seat, he’ll be dropped quick.

jack bit his nails as he stood in the garage. he made it into the second round of qualifying, but was easily knocked down the longer it went.

was he upset? yes, but y/n made him see that it wasn't his fault.

now, however, jack hasn't seen y/n since that morning.

he's aware that they're most likely with pierre's girlfriend, kika, but they haven't answered any of his texts either. pierre wasn't worried, use to kika not coming until a few minutes before he had get in the car or she just came and go.

jack wasn't use to it though. y/n normally popped in to see him or at least texted him back.

did their phone die? break? is franco trying to steal them before stealing his seat? ARE THEY BEING THREATENED BY ESHAY'S?

"jack"

nevermind.

“y/n!” jack shouted in relief as they walked towards him

“sorry” they quickly kissed his cheek as kika walked away to do the same with pierre

“kika’s heel broke so we had to go get her a new pair of shoes and my phone went flat”

jack breathed out a sigh of relief before engulfing their partner in a hug.

"i thought i was going to die" y/n rolled their eyes

"i've always made it on time”

“yeah, well, i thought franco was trying something or that you were being threatened by an eshay” y/n nodded while trying not to laugh at the thought of jack thinking an eshay was trying to have a go at them

“i’ll make sure to remember to bring my portable” jack pouted at their words

“no. you’re not allowed to leave me at all on race days”

“what if i need to go toilet?"

"i'll stand outside"

"you can not be serious..."

jack placed his hands on their shoulders and stared right into their eyes.

"dead serious" y/n scoffed and started swatting him away.

"get in the car!"

"you haven't given me a good luck kiss yet!"

"you aren't getting one!"

"oh so you want me to crash?"

"jack!"

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

isack hadjar - japanese grand prix

the sound of someone texting him made isack momentarily snap out of his trance and look down. a smile creeped onto his face as the familiar contact name of his partner sat at the top, but it slowly washed off his face as he read through their messages.

loml <3: baby im here!

loml <3: there’s lots of people

loml <3: they have ( favourite food )!

loml <3: hey so…

loml <3: i think im lost.

they hadn't been at the previous races due to conflicts with their own personal schedule, but had reassured him that they would be able to make it for this race and would be by his side for bahrain as well. isack had cheered when they revealed the news after friday's practice sessions ended.

y/n had landed a few hours ago, but isack was already making his way to the track when they did ( he had been dragged and strapped into the car by his manager because isack tried to run off to the airport ).

“isack?” his trainer knocked on the door and called out to him before opening it

“you good, mate?” isack only stared at his phone, his race suit still hanging around his waist

isack took a deep breath in and spun around.

his trainer blinked as he brushed past him, determination obvious. however, isack was walking away from the garage.

"wha — isack?! that's the wrong way!"

"no it isn't!"

the trainer quickly caught up to him and grabbed hold of isack's shoulder. the driver turned around, his determination had slipped and fear seemed to have consumed isack.

“what’s wrong?”

“my partner got lost"

"oh, well..." his trainer had no clue on how to comfort the driver who was trying to pull himself away

"at least they're here?" isack whipped around so fast that it startled his trainer

"that doesn't matter! they aren't with me! i can't race knowing they're not here waiting for me! what if they fell into a ditch and died or something!?"

he watched as his trainer opened his mouth to reply, but it fell on deaf ears as isack caught sight of y/n. he sprinted towards the garage, leaving his baffled trainer.

"y/n!" they didn't even have a chance to turn around before they felt isack crashing into their back, his arms tightly secured around them.

"i thought you fell into a ditch and died or something" y/n turned their head to stare at isack with an offended expression

"why was that your first thought?" isack didn't answer and continued to squeeze them tightly

( his trainer literally had to pull and carry him away from y/n so that he would get in the car )

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ollie bearman - british grand prix

despite their relationship still being relatively new, ollie found himself having "withdrawals" as kimi called it. he felt weird and itchy when y/n wasn’t by his side, but when they were ollie would just aimlessly follow them around. fans thought it was cute and started comparing him to a dog more than a bear.

however, ollie received devasting news on the day of the british grand prix.

they would be late.

ollie thought then and there that he should just die.

the young driver arrived at the paddock with sadness beneath his fake smile. he raced towards the garage, only gave short answers to those who questioned him about something or rushing through with signing something, barely having time for pictures. ollie didn't meant to come off as rude, but he really just wanted to curl up in his drivers room and wait for them, but he couldn't.

esteban who was hit with a sense of boredom wondered why he couldn't hear his teammate's usual chatter and when he peeked around the corner, all he saw is a pouting ollie.

"ollie? what's wrong?"

he mumbled an answer, but due to all the noise, esteban didn't hear a thing.

"what?" ollie huffed as he leaned closer to hear

"my partner isn't here"

he crossed his arms with an irritated expression while esteban glanced over at ollie's team who were all collectively ignoring the upset driver.

"they told me they were going to be late, but i didn't think it would be this late! what if they got into a car accident?!" he only had a few more minutes to spare before they would start forcing him into the car

esteban only nodded along as ollie continued to think the worse — he's certain he heard something about an alien abduction. the younger driver didn't even notice that his teammate had left halfway through until he spun around to see a tired looking y/n just walking in.

if ollie was a dog, his ears would’ve perked up and tail would be wagging.

“y/n!” he cheered before jumping them

thankfully, ollie had enough strength as to not let them fall over.

“ollie, you’re heavy, i can't breathe”

"you wouldn't be talking if you couldn't breathe" they groaned lightly as he pressed their bodies together

“why are you so late?”

“traffic”

“you should’ve ran” y/n scoffed

“yeah, don’t think so” ollie lifted his head from their ( neck / shoulder / chest — depends on height )

“do you… not love me enough?” his eyes widened at the thought while y/n stared silently at him, but that just made ollie grow even more nervous

“why aren’t you saying anything? do not love me anymore?!”

“ollie. get in the damn car”

“and now you’re trying to get rid of me?! y/n, i will cry”

“i don’t think your team will let me near you if you do”

“i’ll kill myself”

“ollie!”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

kimi antonelli - italian grand prix

kimi dislikes the word “possessive”. he isn’t possessive, he just doesn’t trust anyone around partner so they should stay by his side until he’s in the car and then stay beside someone he trusts while he races. that person was george’s girlfriend — carmen, but kimi’s hasn’t been liking her recently since she always stole them away.

y/n is HIS partner. how dare she keep them away from him.

carmen would pop up out of nowhere and take y/n away while george held him back from chasing them down. his partner would be returned before he had to get in the car, but that didn't matter to kimi, y/n should be with him the entire time unless they aren't allowed ( like meetings, but he was able to convince toto to let them in ).

kimi impatiently tapped his foot while george hummed to himself. he didn't speak, but kimi knew the older man was amused by the situation. would it be bad if he took george out right now? toto does favour him and valtteri is here, so it should be fine, right?

an evil glint sparkled in kimi's eyes that george was unaware of since his back was now turned.

"it's his fault for letting his girlfriend take away my partner" kimi nodded to himself as he glared at the taller man

however, he never got to initiate his plan.

"kimi"

"my purpose in life has been restored"

he sprinted towards his partner and snatched them away from carmen ( yes, kimi did glare at her, but she only laughed before going to george ).

“i hate when she does that” he scoffed before wrapping them in a tight squeeze

y/n wondered if their boyfriend was a snake in his past life by the way he hugged them.

“we just lost track of time” they managed to say, but kimi wasn’t having any of it

“you were almost late. i’m going to tie us together whenever she comes”

“you still have ten minutes”

“it would’ve been a hour, but noooo” y/n laughed and kimi finally loosened his hold on them

“sorry, sorry, i know important this race is to you” they threaded their fingers through his hair before pressing a quick kiss to kimi’s cheek

“is that all?”

“you got to put the rest of your stuff on”

“i’ll put it on when you kiss me properly”

“everyone’s looking…”

“y/n. i will not get into that car unless you kiss me”

they felt toto turn towards them and they cursed kimi quietly before pressing their lips to his.

kimi smiled happily and skipped off to put on the rest of his race gear.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

gabriel bortoleto - brazilian grand prix

this particular race weekend had been a huge deal for gabi and y/n is well aware of it. the driver felt bad about not being able to spend much time with their partner, but y/n understood and was able to keep themselves entertained without gabi.

“where are they?” he tapped his foot impatiently while staring at the empty hallway

practice and qualifying has gone well, the crowd went absolutely wild when he managed to push the car to p6, but then a few other drivers managed to get better times and that knocked him down to p10. gabi wasn’t upset about that though, what he is upset about is how his partner has seemingly disappeared the moment they arrived at the track.

sure, gabi does blame himself since he was instantly swept up with journalists and fans that seemed to increase every time someone left. y/n had given him a quick kiss before making their way to the sauber hospitality. gabi didn’t get to check in on them, at least physically, since he had a meeting and other duties to attend to before changing into his race suit. gabi didn’t think anything of it; they might have gone to get food or needed the bathroom.

but, this long? something must have happened.

he didn’t want to think the worst, but he couldn’t help it.

“how likely do you think someone here would be a kidnapper?” nico slowly turned towards gabi who stared at the wall, no thoughts seemingly behind the younger driver’s eyes

“what?” gabi blinked

“nothing” he tried to brush it off, but nico wasn’t having it

gabi sighed and started explain.

“maybe they ate something bad? or lost track of time?”

yeah, that seemed more reasonable than them being lured away and stuffed into a random van.

gabi thanked nico before wondering off back to his side of the garage.

"it's fine. maybe they did eat something bad or didn't realise how close the start time is — it's happened before..." he sighed and crossed his arms before closing his eyes

gabi drowned out the noise and envisioned himself on the track. it calmed his mind, but only slightly.

he didn't know much time had passed since he entered his own head, but gabi instantly recongised y/n the moment they were close enough. they always wear a certain ( perfume / cologne / spray, etc ) that gabi is all too familiar with, it helped that y/n is the only person he knows to wear it.

their arms wrapped around his ( waist / mid-section / shoulders ) and gabi opened his eyes and turned around.

"where were you?"

"i think i ate something weird"

a sigh slipped past his lips while his shoulders sunk in relief.

"at least weren't lured to a van and almost kidnapped"

"what?" gabi shook his head

"don't worry about it"

he pressed a soft kiss to their ( neck / cheek / forehead ) before walking away to grab his helmet. y/n stared at their boyfriend's back, confusion washing over them as they replied his words in their head.

"by the way..." with his helmet now in his hands, gabi walked back over to stand in front of them

"i'm going to handcuff us together if you leave like that again"

"gabi —" he cut them off with a kiss on the lips before quickly making his way to his car while putting on his helmet

y/n only sighed and rubbed their forehead.

1K notes · View notes

theonlyonesora · 5 days ago

Text

Public Risk

Synopsis. When you are almost caught in public.

Franco Colapinto —

The garage was dim, humming with distant voices and clanking tools as you pressed your back against the cool metal wall. Franco's lips found your neck, hungry, his hand sliding possessively over your waist, drawing you closer.

"Just a minute," he whispered in Spanish against your skin, breath hot. "I missed you all day..."

You gasped softly when his hand slipped under your shirt, fingertips teasing, mouth trailing toward your collarbone. His race suit was half open, messy and undone, the scent of champagne and sweat thick in the air.

Footsteps echoed.

Franco froze.

"Shh... someone's coming," you whispered, pulse racing.

He grinned against your throat, wicked. "Let them." But he pulled back reluctantly, adjusting his suit just as a mechanic passed by, completely unaware of what he'd almost seen.

When the coast cleared, Franco leaned in close, brushing his mouth over your ear.

"Next time... somewhere they will see. I want everyone to know you're mine."

Max Verstappen —

In the Red Bull motorhome suite, Max pins you against the glass wall with the paddock below — and the terrifying thrill that anyone could look up.

His hand slid up your thigh as you backed against the tall glass window of the Red Bull suite, the murmurs and camera clicks from the paddock below just faint noise.

"Max—" you gasped, breath catching as he pressed his body against yours, his hand curling possessively around your hip.

"No one's looking," he murmured against your lips, the smirk unmistakable in his voice. "But they could be. Right now."

His fingers trailed under your skirt, dangerously high, his knee parting your legs as you whimpered softly. You could see them down there — journalists, fans, staff.

Max smirked. "You like this, don't you? The risk." His mouth brushed your ear. "I could make you fall apart right here..."

A knock snapped you both to reality. "Max? Christian's asking for you."

He pulled away smoothly, biting back a grin. "Later," he whispered, eyes blazing. "Finish what I started."

Lewis Hamilton —

In the back of his private car, Lewis loses control — but the driver’s voice through the intercom makes things far riskier.

The tinted windows of Lewis’s car gave you both false confidence as his hand slid under the fabric of your dress, tracing your inner thigh with maddening patience. His teeth grazed your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

"You know what you do to me when you wear this," he murmured, voice low and rough.

You gasped, gripping his wrist as his fingers slid higher — only to freeze when the driver’s voice crackled through the intercom.

"Sir? Just ten minutes to the hotel."

Lewis stilled for a heartbeat. Then his grin widened, dangerous and slow.

"Plenty of time."

His hand resumed its slow exploration, his knee parting your legs wider, thrill and fear mixing deliciously in your chest. If the driver looked in the mirror—if he heard—

Lewis kissed the corner of your mouth, wicked. "Quiet now, baby. Unless you want him to know what I’m doing to you."

Lando Norris —

Lando pulls you behind the McLaren hospitality desk for a stolen moment — but the staff is far too close for comfort.

“Lando—someone could see—” you gasped as he pressed you back against the storage shelf behind the hospitality desk.

"That’s what makes it fun," he whispered with a grin, his lips brushing your jaw, hand sneaking under your shirt. The buzz of voices and clinking glasses was dangerously close — staff just meters away.

"You’ll be quiet, right?" he teased, mouth hot against your ear. "Or I’ll have to make you."

His fingers hooked in your waistband, tugging slightly as you squirmed, heartbeat thundering. Anyone could come back here. The thought made your breath hitch, made Lando smirk wickedly.

"Lando? You in here?" a voice called nearby.

He pulled back at the last second, fixing your hair with playful fingers, winking as someone peeked around the corner — none the wiser.

As the staff left, Lando leaned close, smirk growing.

"Later, babe. When no one's stopping us."

406 notes · View notes

no-144444 · 4 months ago

Note

Hii, you could do something for Paul. where the reader is an Alpine driver, and all the fans start joking that Paul is joining this year's wag. I don't know, I feel like it would be a lot of fun for both of us

wag or reserve driver? -p.aron

summary: the world sees how you respond to paul being announced as a reserve driver

pairing: paul aron x alpinedriver! fem! reader

a/n: thank you for requesting :)

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

alpinef1team

liked by paularon, youruser, pierregasly, and 896,365 others

alpinef1team We are thrilled to announce our reserve driver for 2025 will be Paul Aron! Runner up in the tense 2024 F2 title fight, we can't wait to see what he does for us this year. 🩷

comments

youruser WOOOOOOOOAAAAAAHHHHHH YEAHHHHHHH -> user7 she's so me -> user928 she gets me on a very deep and personal level

pierregalsy 🩷

youruser omg his hair is this picture... -> alpinef1team plz stop thirsting in the comments -> youruser prolly not...

user73 MY BOY! HE'S MADE IT OUT

oscarpiastri welcome to the big leagues buddy :0 -> user82 no way we gt oscar commenting on an alpine post before GTA 6. -> paularon thanks oscar :) -> youruser so you reply to him but not to me????? -> paularon you're beside me.

user81 y/n is so unhinged i love it

user92 @.alpinef1team what was y/n's reaction? -> alpinef1team totally normal :) -> paulron they're lying she burst into tears and I had to calm her down. -> youruser i hope you don't race at all this season.

user02 PAUL ARON IN AN F1 SEAT BEFORE GTA 6

user8 didn't know they were announcing wags now? -> liked by alpinef1team

-------------

paularon

liked by youruser, alpinef1team, pierregasly, and 765,352 others

paularon Wow. What a dream to be part of a Formula One team such as this. Thank you for the opportunity, thank you for the support, and thank you for taking a chance. Let's go racing. 🩷

comments

alpinef1team our favourite wag :)

--------

youruser

liked by paularon, pierregasly, landonorris, and 765,873 others

youruser does this bitch always have to copy me???? KIDDING! Yay, Paul is in F1! I'm so proud of my wonderful boyfriend to be coming into the big leagues with me! (ps, i'll pretend to be sick so you get a turn, but only if you actually make the fucking bed, yeah?)

comments

paularon thanks baby 🩷

user85 i in fact did not beat paul aron to y/n y/l/n comments...

user6 THEY'RE SO CUTE

user02 thank you queen for these wonderful photos of our man -> youruser just doing my duty ladies 🫡 -> paulron i'm just your boyfriend -> user7 incorrect, we're actually married! -> paularon ?????????

alpinef1team love for our favourite driver and wag :) -> paularon ???? I'm your reserve driver??? -> alexlabon nah mate you're just her wag -> youruser HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH -> paularon 👎

user9 the cutest couple together in one team!

pierregasly you're such a trendsetter -> youruser ikr

user6 is that photo from his first win in F2 when he ran over to y/n and hugged her so tight and then kissed her in front of everyone??????? -> paularon Yes, she took that one before I did all of the things you are describing. -> user62 MY Y/NPAUL HEART

landonorris @.paularon make sure franco doesn't steal your girl...🫢 -> youruser sadly I'm into blondes... -> paularon sadly??????? -> youruser no babe i love you just... blonde duded are the lowest of the low. not u tho... ha ha.

francocolapinto vamos! 🩷 -> youruser paws off my man -> francocolapinto i wish there was an eyeroll emoji -> youruser bitch there is 🙄 -> francocolapinto 🙄🙄 -> paularon 🙄🙄🙄🙄

--------------

youruser

liked by paularon, pierregasly, zakbrown, and 1,248,937 others

youruser so i got a podium in australia? wtf? anyhoo, back to work for next week!

comments

paularon that's my girl! -> liked by youruser

user664 DID YALL SEE THE WAY SHE RAN OVER TO PAUL? SHE LITERALLY JUMPED OVER THE BARRIER TO HUG HIM. UGH I'M SO FUCKING SINGLE

pierregasly MY TEAMMATE LADIES AND GENTLEMAN! -> usr9 pierre is such a girls girl

kikagomez my girl ❤️ -> youruser my queen

oscarpiastri podium in an alpine, do i hear goated? -> youruser WINNING HIS HOME GP? DO I HEAR CHAMPION? -> landonorris just say you hate me. -> youruser i fucking hate you. -> landonorris oh... nice.

user92 the way he was looking at her on the podium ❤️ -> user7 he's so pathetic and in love i need to fuck him. -> youruser me. -> user7 GIRL WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?????? -> youruser in my own comment section? I wonder.

alexalbon GOATED -> youruser ALBON IN THE POINTS? P5? GOATEDDDDD

user8 i love how the whole grid loves her, she's like their collective little sister ->liked by lewishamilton, fernandoalonso and lancestroll

user234 anyone want to talk about the last slide or? -> youruser idk i ship it -> zhouguanyu same lowkey -> logansargeant same highkey -> user782 LOGAN SARGEANT PROOF OF LIFE?

------------

paularon

liked by youruser, alpinef1team, oscarpiastri, and 2,176,573

paulron ok i guess i am her wag

comments

youruser yeah, you're getting it tonight 😈 -> liked by paularon -> francocolapinto PAUSE -> user8 Y/N! -> oscarpiastri omfg please be normal -> pierregasly 🐶 -> landonorris my eyes! -> youruser ok mister netflix and chill. -> user637 LIKED BY PAULARON? bitch why are yall FREAKYYYYY

user347 they're so fucking cute i cannot

user892 he's so in love with her it's insane

zhouguanyu she's literally my goat -> paularon mine too -> arthurleclerc weirdly enough, mine too -> liked by charles leclerc -> fredrikvesti same...

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

navigation for my blog :)

alpine masterlist

583 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 2 months ago

Text

'Babygirl'

Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader (platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader)

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You get possessive while watching Sharon flirt with Steve.

Warnings for being short, bit of teasing Steve, but nothing else. WC 638

He’s not into you. Move on.

Steve arrived at Bucky’s with a ‘friend’ tonight. She was sweet enough, at first, but now she’s really making you mad. ‘Sharon’ won’t stop flirting with Steve, who seems especially uncomfortable when her hand brushes down the length of his back.

Steve’s neck tenses slightly as she whispers something in his ear. His body stiffens each time she laughs and rests her head on his shoulder. He does not move his hand over hers once she lays hers on his thigh to lean forward in conversation.

She leaves it there.

Her hand, just sitting there, on Steve’s lap, and he’s clearly not into it.

You hop onto the coffee table and swat at Sharon’s hand before she suddenly moves to touch you.

“Awww, Steve, look. I think she’s jealous of us,” she coos.

Sharon flips to scratch at your cheek, which feels good, then she says exactly the wrong thing.

“Don’t worry, babygirl. He’ll still be around to pet you.”

No one—no one—calls you that but Steve.

Your fangs are out instantly, claws spread on both front feet as one raises into the air, and both Steve and Bucky pounce to stop you. Sharon, however, is the fastest to grab the scruff behind your neck and lift you to arm’s length.

“No, Alpine, we don’t attack friends,” Bucky soothes.

“Bad kitty,” Steve bites from behind bared teeth. “Stop that.”

You fall limp in Agent 13’s hold, eyes wide and questioning to the handsome blond man whose honor you were protecting, but after a moment of silence, Bucky cracks up, doubled over with near tears in his eyes.

Sharon breaks next, gently placing you in Steve’s lap as he settles back onto the couch, a dejected look on his face.

You don’t understand. You think they are laughing at you, so you growl in annoyance.

“Well, at least somebody bought it,” Sharon chides Steve. “Can’t say your performance will work on anybody else.”

“The point is for the mark to believe you two are a couple, punk. I barely believe you’re friends. You look so uncomfortable.” Bucky shakes his head, sweeping over your haunches before returning to his seat.

Sharon scratches your butt, and your head whips around to give her the stink eye from behind the tucked forearm of Steve. She smiles, almost proud of your fighting spirit.

“Don’t worry,” she loudly whispers to you. “We’ve kissed before, and let me tell you, there is nothing there.”

“Hey,” Steve grumps, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Bucky makes a face. “He…tried. Gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder to convince a new gang in Madripoor—“

“I know, but it’s not really me, is it?” Steve pulls you a little closer, holds you a little tighter in his defense.

“The photostatic veil cannot make you a believable boyfriend just like it cannot make you a good dancer,” Bucky points out.

“Woah, now,” Sharon chuckles, “baby steps. Literally. Rogers has two left feet.”

Steve looks down at you gazing up at his handsome face. “Alpine has faith in me,” he mutters.

“We’ll have faith in you after you practice. Put down your real girlfriend and come dance with your fake girlfriend so we don’t all die in two days!”

He just buries his fingers in your fur, talking about how soft you are in hushed tones. You don’t like how stressed Steve looks, and you wedge your face into the crook of his elbow in an effort to console him.

Bucky clears his throat.

“No, you may not take my cat into a sting operation—” he stretches his arms toward you to take over “—not until she’s had some training at least.”

��Absolutely,” Sharon bursts. “Train her up! Bring her everywhere—that’s safe—because I like her. She’s feisty.”

[Next Part: Outing]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @yenzys-lucky-charm @irishhappiness @fallenxjas

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #shapeshifter!reader #alpine the cat #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #shapeshifter #companion animal series #alpine!reader

258 notes · View notes

miryum · 2 months ago

Text

Doing Something Stupid Pt 1 (Thunderbolts*!Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Part 2

Warnings: very obscure/small spoilers to Thunderbolts* (the scene I wrote about was in the trailer), allusions to sex, talk of guns, allusions to Bucky’s trauma, Bucky’s metal arm

Standing in the kitchen, Bucky watched as Alpine ambled across the counter. The cat was due for a vet appointment soon and he knew he would be the one taking her. You never liked taking Alpine to the vet because it was one of the few times the cat shook in fear and you would look over at Bucky, wide-eyed and lip practically quivering. With both of his girls looking like that, Bucky always caved.

He was wearing a white tank-top under his dress shirt, eyes scanning over packets that had been sent over weeks ago. He was still getting used to being Congressman Barnes, but he certainly liked the way your eyes glinted whenever you called him that. It usually led to other things that you called him much too old for. He always proved you wrong.

As he was taking a bite of leftovers, sauce plopped down onto his shirt and arm. He looked down and sighed in defeat. Alpine meowed at him, as if chastising him for eating messy food in his fancy clothes. Shrugging the shirt off and running it under some water from the sink, Bucky shot Alpine a glare. “Don’t tell her,” he grumbled. Alpine promptly leapt off the counter and sauntered off.

A while later, Bucky was still flipping through the packets, left arm gone. He heard you before he felt you. Your footsteps were ingrained in his mind and he was sure he would be able to distinguish them out of a lineup if need be. Your hands pressed along his back and then up to his shoulders. He could feel your cheek between his shoulder blades and he felt his muscles instinctively relax. You weren’t repulsed by the raised scars and mountains that littered his skin, leaving patches a bit lighter or redder than normal. Your fingers brushed over them all, just the same, never wavering or disgusted. After years of fearing human touch and all that it had done to him, Bucky was still baffled that yours was the one that could soften him and leave him undone. Wrapped around your finger, Sam used to say.

“What have I told you about eating before an event, James Buchanan Barnes?” you asked, voice soft and teasing.

“Did Alpine tell you? Traitor.” He turned around and leaned against the counter, hand instantly finding your hip and drawing you close.

You gave him a knowing look as you stepped between his legs. “Don’t call my baby that.” You glanced down to see the dishwasher running before looking back up at your husband. “Really?”

Bucky shrugged innocently. “It’s efficient. Plus, it needed a good cleaning after last night.”

You scoffed and pushed at his shoulder lightly, knowing exactly what he was talking of. Your hands slipped down to his waist before resting your chin on his collarbone, eyes staring up at him. Bucky silently begged the dishwasher to finish; he wanted to hold you properly, with both arms. Luckily, he got his wish.

“Gimme a second, doll,” he said, opening the dishwasher and steam gently rolled out. It only housed two plates from breakfast that morning and a couple of glasses, the majority of the bottom rack being taken up by his vibranium arm. Clicking it back into place, after a roll of his shoulders, he could hold you again.

The silence was interrupted by his phone ringing and he let out a low groan, head dropping to rest on your hair. “Could be work,” you coaxed and he reached over to grab the offending device. You were right, as you always were, and you listened as Bucky tried to encourage Mel, the assistant of Valentina De Fontaine, to testify against her employer. You pitied the poor girl, knowing that she was in a difficult position between morality and power. Bucky’s metal hand drew absentminded circles over your waist as the call continued and Alpine mewed from the couch.

“Are you gonna be safe?” is all you asked when the phone had been hung up and Bucky stared down at you with that look in his eye. He was planning something that most likely involved guns and superhumans.

“I’ll try.”

“That’s not exactly convincing,” you muttered out, but let your head rest against his chest. You caught his left hand in yours and began to gently trace the golden edges of his knuckles and wrist. Your thumb brushed over the engraved gold strip on his ring finger he had gotten after your wedding. He still wore his ring most of the time, but when he was in the public eye and away from you, he wanted something that didn’t draw attention to you while also silently professing his love. It was for your protection and you understood that wholeheartedly.

“Doll…” he said in response.

“No, I know,” you sighed softly. “Just please come back to me in one piece. And don’t do anything unnecessary.”

Alpine let out a loud meow that seemed sarcastic, if that was even possible. “I love you,” Bucky reminded you, though he didn’t need to. You knew that he did, unwavering and strong as always.

“I love you, too,” you replied, knowing that no matter what, your husband would find a way back to you. He always did. He was stubborn, something that seemed synonymous with the last name of Barnes. And that stubbornness had served him well numerous times over, always leading him back to you.

Over the years, both of you had changed. But you had changed together. Things were more mellow now than they used to be and you felt more concrete in your love for each other. It wasn’t wild and firey like it used to be when you were younger, but that was something both you and Bucky were okay with.

“And remember,” you said as he reluctantly pulled himself away from you to go change into something not stained – you would take it upon yourself to clean his shirt, “you have to take Alpine to the vet in two days. She needs a shot, my poor baby.” You moved over to where the cat was lounging on the couch, right on top of the cushions, and gave her a few scratches behind her ears. Alpine let out a rumbling purr, leaning into your touch. Like father, like daughter, Bucky rationalised.

“Of course,” he replied, changing course to step over to you. He didn’t want to get dressed if you were standing there, looking like that. His nose bumped into yours and as his scruff tickled your cheek, he kissed you like he always did; that was one thing that hadn’t changed over your years together: he was still a starved man when it came to you.

...thinking of making this a mini-series. Thoughts?

534 notes · View notes

artficlly · 2 months ago

Text

close quarters [one-shot]

fantasy marvel au bucky x reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him.

Warnings: forced proximity, one bed (kinda), panic attacks, fear of dark, class difference, kissing, generous use of the petname princess, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, fluff, kinda sweet, protective bucky, mentions of steve, peggy, sam, dum dum dugan, fantasy elements, monsters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: hello, i don't expect this to do well, kinda lost motivation near the end as you'll probably be able to tell. I've been working on this one and off the past two weeks but i'm so over it i just need to post it and be done with it. i've been sick and busy with uni so it's kinda mid so apologies but enjoy my flu induced insanity with this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt.

That was the extent of your introduction.

Yet, for all his glowering, women seemed to flitter around him. You had watched as a group of younger women, likely around your age, whispered and giggled as they cast lingering glances down the platform at your sullen escort. To his credit, he didn’t react or even lift his gaze from the train tracks ahead.

You let your own eyes waver on his profile, dark hair, strong bone structure, straight nose, and eyes like an oncoming storm. Handsome. That was undeniable. Startlingly so, if you were being honest. But you refused to let his looks—or the broad, muscled frame beneath his heavy coat—distract you. Especially not as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmistakable flask.

You shot him a scathing look as he tipped back the silver flask, his throat working with each swallow. Whatever was inside had to be strong. The slight wince as he lowered it from his lips gave that much away.

“Is that wise?” Your voice carried a pointed edge, skirting somewhere between disapproval and disgust.

Bucky chuckled, though the sound lacked any true amusement. His breath lingered in the evening air, curling into a thin mist before being carried away by the brisk breeze that serpentined through the exposed railway tracks. “Only way to stay warm, Miss. Only gonna get worse the further north we go.”

He tucked the flask back into his coat. The worn leather of his gloves creaked as he dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw as if brushing away the chill. You hated to admit he had a point. Spring had come late this year—if it had come at all. Even here, in the city, ice still clung stubbornly to the streets, and heavy grey clouds loomed overhead. The snow hadn't yet relented up north, where your brother was waiting.

In the safety of the larger cities, warmth was never a concern. The luxury of fire and heat was abundant. With proper protections and Firewardens employed, there was no fear of the light it produced, or more specifically, there was no fear of what the light might attract. Civilised folk no longer had to shiver in the dark. They had cast aside the weight of thick furs, the obscuring hoods, the need for constant vigilance. But where you were headed, where your brother waited keenly for your arrival, it was different. There, Ignivorae were far more frightening than the cold.

“I just hope you’re not a drunkard,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the empty tracks, the frostbitten metal beginning to hum with the distant approach of the train. You hadn’t meant for him to hear, but his trained ears caught every word.

He scoffed, the sound half jest, half feigned offence. “Why? You gonna rat me out to your brother?”

“You are under his employ,” you reminded him coolly.

Another scoff. “He wouldn’t care, Miss. Hell, if he were here, I bet he’d be doin’ the same as me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, irritation flickering through your chest. You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “You don’t know my brother well enough to make such a statement.”

Bucky inclined his head, unimpressed. “Two years is a long time, Princess. Feels even longer out North. I don’t think your brother is quite the same as when he left.”

You had little doubt he was right. Beyond the city limits, out in the rural farmlands, the world stretched isolated and desolate. This was the first time your brother had taken on such a venture alone, desperate to keep the family business alive even after the sudden loss of your parents. A part of you wondered if he had conducted the plan in a haze of grief, or if it was a means of proving himself to whatever invisible pressures he envisioned pressed upon his shoulders.

You sympathised with him, truly, even if he had abandoned you in his pursuit of imagined grandeur. A part of you had stopped expecting to see him again, had never anticipated his summons. But now, it seemed, he was finally ready to need you. Finally willing to accept your help.

The thought soured in your gut as you scowled at Bucky.

“Don’t call me that.” You snapped, refusing to let your voice be swallowed by the growing roar of the train.

“Call you what?”

“Princess.”

The train rushed past, a violent gust of wind pulling at your coat as the metal beast groaned to a stop, sparks flaring against the melting ice before flickering out.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Where we’re goin’, you’ll prolly be the closest thing to a princess they’ve ever seen. You’re a proper-bred lady compared to the folk out there.”

“Does that distinction truly matter that much?”

You had never thought of yourself as well-bred. Privileged, maybe, but not delicate, not sheltered in the way Bucky seemed to imply. Your parents had been wealthy, yes, and you’d received an education few could afford. You had never gone hungry, never shivered through winter, never known true desperation. But your family’s fortune hadn’t come from lineage or titles. Your parents had carved it out themselves, built it from nothing with a mix of skill, relentless work, and a hell of a lot of luck.

It was a dangerous formula, one your brother was determined to replicate.

“To them, it will,” Bucky said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. “Especially if you ain’t prepared to get your hands dirty.”

You gave a terse, humourless smile as you stepped toward the waiting train. “Well, good thing that is my brother’s job, not mine.”

Bucky huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, watching as you handed your ticket to the conductor. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he followed you aboard.

—

“This can’t be right. They’re expecting us to share a compartment—?”

By the time you reached your assigned sleeper car, the train was already rocking back into motion, the shrill whistle signalling your official departure north.

The train itself was plain but sturdy, built for endurance rather than luxury. The windows were fitted with metal shutters that could be pulled down from the inside—a feature you weren’t sure was meant for privacy or protection. You had passed through the lounge car, where Bucky had eyed the open bar with distinct interest and a dining car for breakfast, lunch and dinner service. However, your silent approval of your brother's transportation choice was promptly shattered when you caught sight of your assigned compartment.

The compartment was tight, with only a small walkway that had another space for you to stand. If you were generous enough in your observations, you could lie to yourself and say that it allowed the room for you to walk two paces in either direction. One side held a stiff leather bench, its upholstery worn but well-maintained, bolted against dark wooden panelling. Above it, a metal luggage rack with frayed fabric straps provided limited storage.

It was the other side that filled you with horror.

You wouldn’t have complained about the cramped space if it weren’t blatantly obvious you would have to share it with your hulking escort. Two bunks lined the opposite wall, the mattresses thin and stiff, large enough to accommodate one person each. A ladder at the end next to the window allowed easier access to the top bunk. You took one look at the lumpy pillows, dull green sheets and scratchy blanket that had been neatly folded by the feet end of the beds and turned around. You barely had time to process your own dismay before you were met with a wall of muscle as Bucky pressed in close, making way for other passengers filing through the narrow corridor. His chest was solid, his coat rough against your cheek, and you recoiled back.

Unfazed, he flicked his wrist, turning his ticket over to confirm the compartment number. “It’s what is on the tickets, Princess.”

You stepped back again, putting as much space between you as the cramped compartment would allow. “Don’t call me that, and this can’t be what my brother meant by ‘escort’—”

“His exact words,” Bucky interrupted, tucking his ticket back into his coat. “Keep my eyes on you. Keep you safe. Deliver you to Glenwyck.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring up at him. “So you’re going to watch over my every move? How am I supposed to get changed? Just rely on your gentlemanly instinct to turn a blind eye? Which might I mention, I have seen very little of—”

"There's a bathroom at the end of the train car." His tone was dry, as if he were already exhausted by this conversation. "You can use that for changin’. And whatever other business you think is necessary."

"How kind of you." You dropped your luggage onto the seat with a huff.

Bucky stepped further into the cramped compartment, either oblivious or determined to rile you up. The back of your knees pressed flush against the leather bench as he closed the distance, dipping his head so near that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your skin.

With effortless ease, he hoisted your luggage and swung it into the wire rack above. The movement and sway of the train forced your chests to brush. Just for a few seconds. Just enough to make you swallow hard and for a tinge of pink to dust your cheeks. But before you could shuffle away, he reached for his own bag, taking his sweet time as he secured it into place.

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling hotter with every second you spent trapped between his broad chest and the wooden panelling behind you. If he noticed, he didn’t care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

“Now, tell me, Princess. Are you going to be picky about your bunk too?” Bucky hadn’t moved, lingering far too close, his broad frame crowding the already-cramped space. He was looking down at you with a rather lazy grin on his face as if he was particularly amused with the sour expression you regarded him with.

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. You didn’t bite back, instead feeling your shoulders droop in relief as he finally backed up. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bottom bunk, stretching his legs out as if he’d already made himself at home. “I’ll take bottom, you take top.”

You stiffly nodded, trying not to linger on how ridiculous this arrangement was. Sharing a compartment was one thing, but a room barely large enough for the both of you, sleeping in bunks not even an arm’s length apart? You hesitated, debating whether to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t exist or escape to the relative privacy of your bed.

The choice was easy.

Without another word, you clambered up the narrow ladder, the mattress shifting beneath you as you settled in. At least up here, out of his immediate line of sight, you could pretend for a moment that you weren’t stuck sharing close quarters with a complete stranger. A man, at that.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the cream-coloured curve of the train’s ceiling as the steady rumble of the tracks beneath you filled the silence.

God, you hoped your brother had put his trust in the right man.

—

"At least open the window if you’re going to smoke in here," you muttered, tugging your bootlaces tight with a firm yank. You were perched on the edge of the stiff leather seat, dressing for breakfast, while the faint hum of the train carried on beneath you.

You’d slept well—surprisingly well. The rhythmic sway of the train had lulled you into a deep, dreamless rest, a rare reprieve from the constant churn of thought that had plagued you for weeks. For those few blissful hours, you weren’t fretting over your reunion with your brother, or what exactly waited for you up north. You certainly hadn’t been thinking about your frustrating, tight-lipped escort.

Bucky was posted by the window, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word to you since the night before, and you weren’t sure if he’d slept at all. You’d awoken to find him already awake, elbows braced on his knees, methodically rolling tobacco like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

Beyond him, the world outside had vanished into white. Snow blanketed the earth, smoothing the rough land into a quiet, endless plain. No houses. No fences. Just the distant silhouette of mountains breaking up the pale sky.

"I can open the window if you want, Princess," he said without looking at you, voice low and gravel-edged. "But all you’ll get is a cabin full’a coal smoke."

You shot him a glare, then rolled your eyes and stood, brushing the creases from your coat with a sigh of forced patience. You’d learned, albeit reluctantly, that pushing him got you nowhere—at least, not without a headache in return.

“I’m going to breakfast,” you said crisply, sliding the compartment door open and casting one last look over your shoulder.

He pushed off the windowsill and followed without a word. Of course, he did.

For all his witty remarks and infuriatingly smug demeanour, Bucky took his job seriously. Wherever you went, he was just a step behind—silent, watchful, and always armed with that barely concealed impatience. He even waited outside the women’s lavatory, arms crossed, like a guard dog forced to sit through etiquette lessons.

You had no doubt that, given the choice, he’d rather have spent the journey holed up in the bar car or asleep in a quiet corner. But duty clearly came first.

The train was scheduled to stop in Hollowpass by evening, a final pitstop before you boarded the next line toward Norcross. From there, you had two more days of travel—by carriage, no less—until you reached Glenwyck. Your brother’s outpost.

No train lines reached that far north. Too remote, too wild. Just frostbitten roads and vast stretches of wilderness. And Bucky Barnes, your less-than-charming, maddeningly handsome escort, to lead the way.

Wonderful.

You stumbled, the floor pitching beneath your boots just as a blur of motion came barreling down the narrow walkway. A firm hand caught the back of your collar and yanked you sharply backwards into the compartment right as a trolley clattered past, steered by a flustered cleaning woman who offered a breathless apology as she vanished down the corridor.

Your back landed squarely against Bucky’s chest, the breath knocked out of you more from the closeness than the pull. “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low beside your ear before letting you go.

You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, heart skipping for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

“How are you gonna survive in Glenwyck,” he drawled, “if I can’t trust you not to get run over on a damn train?”

You twisted around with an irritated look, brushing your hands over your skirt to smooth it back into place. “You’re rather dramatic, you know that?”

He only shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my job, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the corridor, leading the way.

The sleeper car stretched ahead of you, its narrow passage lined with compartments like the one you’d just vacated. The metal shutters had been slid open now it was morning, the orange glow of the sunrise casting a glow over the polished brass handles and dark wood panelling. You passed passengers still tucked into their compartments, some reading, others quietly sipping tea or peering out windows wrapped in thick scarves. You pressed on, following the distant tang of strong coffee.

When you finally reached the dining car, you were quick to find an empty table. The tables were arranged in neat rows along either side of the carriage, bolted securely to the floor with matching bench seats upholstered in deep green velvet. You slid into the booth nearest the window, the cushioning stiff beneath you. Bucky settled across from you with a grunt, his eyes swept the car.

You eyed your escort as you delicately draped one of the napkins across your lap. In the daylight, he looked younger than you had first assumed. The lines on his face seemed less carved by time and more etched by worry. His stubble had grown out further, darkening his jaw in a shadow.

“How long have you known my brother?” you asked, tone light, almost casual. However, your gaze didn’t waver from over the rim of your teacup.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone ask something personal. Until now, most of your time together had passed in silence. He kept to himself, either smoking, draining cup after cup of bitter black coffee, or nursing that damn flask of his. Always wound tight, like a viper coiled in wait.

“‘round two years,” he said finally, guarded. “I was workin’ as a Firewarden in the city. Your brother came through and convinced a bunch of us to sign on with him.”

You tilted your head. “How did he manage that?”

Bucky gave a short scoff and leaned back against the booth, his arm slung along the top of the velvet seating.“Hell if I know. One week I’m lazin’ around the city guardhouse, the next I’m freezing my ass off patrollin’ the edge of some nowhere, nobody town I ain’t ever heard of. Your brother talked like the place was already rebuilt. Like it’s a done deal. Gets in your head like that.”

You smiled faintly. “He gets that from our father. He was like that too. Good at leading people. Better at convincing them they wanted to be led.”

Bucky raised a brow, studying you. “How’d your family even get into this line of work?”

You hesitated, then set your cup down and rested your hands on the table. “My father grew up in the city. But he met my mother at one of those old debutante balls—they used to invite girls from rural towns and farmsteads to give them a shot at something different. She caught his eye. When he travelled north to meet her family, to ask for her hand… he was horrified.”

“Horrified?” Bucky echoed.

You nodded. “They were barely surviving. No access to reliable fire, which meant no protection. No fuel, no heat. Elders froze to death in their sleep. Crops dead. Livestock gone. And the Ignivorae…”

You shuddered, though the memory didn’t belong to you. Your mother had repeated it countless times until it had practically become your own. “Towns would light pyres and pray their tenders could keep them burning through the night. Others would go dark completely. No light, no sound. Just hoping the Ignivorae would pass them by.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“So your father stepped in.”

You nodded again. “He saw the problem for what it was. Cities survived because they had infrastructure. They had fire. Steady, managed fire. But out in the rural zones, people were alone. Busy farming, raising children, barely getting by. Staying up all night with a torch and a pitchfork wasn’t sustainable. And most of them couldn’t afford to hire proper wardens.”

You looked down, fingers idly toying with the corner of your napkin. “So my father hired them himself and paid for the fuel to burn too. They’d build firelines on the outskirts, massive pyres like the ones in the city to burn hot and long enough to lure the Ignivorae away from homes. If the flames didn’t kill the things outright, the wardens would. ”

Bucky was quiet, eyes drifting toward the window. The snow had deepened outside, smooth hills like frozen waves rolling across the plain. The sun peeked over the horizon in slivers of pale gold and silver, bouncing off the frost-bitten world in blinding flashes. Mountains loomed ahead like jagged teeth, their peaks lost in cloud.

“With protection in place, people could sleep again. And once that foundation was stable, once the fireline was holding… then my father would start investing. Building industry. Bringing in trade, tourism, and shipping routes when the rivers allowed for it. Giving the town something to build on.”

The dining car had filled slightly while you talked. The clinking of cutlery and low murmurs of conversation filled the space. A few other passengers sat at the other tables, most dressed in heavy coats and wool scarves. One man read a newspaper folded neatly in front of him, while a young woman stirred sugar into her tea.

“Then my mother stepped in. I did too, once I was old enough,” you went on. “She’d open little schoolhouses, sometimes just in empty sheds or old barns at first. We taught the adults first. Reading, writing, and arithmetic so they could manage their own businesses when they came. And then we taught the children, so the next generation didn’t grow up at the mercy of someone else’s charity.”

Bucky turned toward you again, his expression unreadable. That same brooding stare, heavy-lidded and cryptic, like he was always walking the line between irritation and interest.

“Didn’t peg you for the charitable type,” he said at last.

You gave him a dry look. “It’s not charity. It’s a foundation. If you want people to build something that lasts, you have to teach them how to keep it standing.”

He considered that, thumb tapping once against the edge of the table.

“And when the towns were strong enough to hire their own wardens and run their own schools?” he asked.

“We moved on,” you said simply. “All my father asked was one percent of their profits each year. Over time, it added up. He used that money to invest in the next place.”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned back, eyes still on you. The sunrise spilt gold across his features, catching on the stubble along his jaw, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.

“Sounds borderline predatory, Princess,” he said finally.

You gave a faint smile, one without warmth. “It’s business.”

A pause settled between you, brief but heavy.

“My brother trusts you enough to send you on this escort job, and you barely know anything about him?”

“Didn’t come up much in conversation, Princess,” he said, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Too busy not getting killed. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a sister until he handed me this job.”

You frowned, studying him. “You follow someone that blindly?”

“I follow people who get things done,” he said. “And if he says protectin’ you is part of the deal, then that’s what I’m doin’.”

—

The wind cut sharp through Hollowpass Station, knifing through coats and gloves, the chill carving you down to the bone. Beneath your boots, the platform creaked, salt to banish the ice crunching underfoot. The sun was long gone, leaving the world drained of colour, lit only by moonlight and fire.

Far beyond the edge of the town, a pyre roared like a heartbeat in the dark. Massive, constant and crackling. You watched it through the flurries of snow, that distant beacon where the Firewardens stood vigil. The Ignivorae circled in lazy, sweeping arcs above the flames, dark silhouettes, long-limbed and hungry. One would dive suddenly, vanishing into the fire with a hiss and a burst of embers. The swarm would follow, mindless, forever drawn to the searing light.

Bucky stood nearby, gloved hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and the curve of his collar. He wasn’t watching the pyre, instead scanning the tracks as if willing the train into existence through sheer force of irritation.

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip, then stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share the heat from his body.

He didn’t move. Just gave a small, knowing smirk without looking at you. “You cold, Princess?”

You huffed lightly, eyes still on the horizon. “A little.”

“Gonna get a lot worse where we’re headed,” he said casually.

A low whistle echoed across the pass. You turned toward the sound, the relief unspoken. You would not be the only one on the platform anxious to be on board where it was warm and sheltered. Somewhere in the dark, gears shifted, and brakes hissed, metal groaning in protest as the train began to slow its approach.

“Do they ever break through?” you asked quietly, nodding toward the fire.

Bucky’s expression turned stony again. “Sometimes.”

“And if that happens while we are out here?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you better hope I’m as good as I say I am.”

The train emerged from the darkness like a beast of iron, the plume of smoke engulfing the falling snow. Around you, the waiting crowd stirred, boots shifting on the frost-glazed platform, murmured conversations fading into anticipation. A conductor stepped forward, shoulders hunkered against the cold and swung down the footstools with practised rhythm. Another man unlatched the station door, shouting over the chatter of passengers as mail and luggage were wheeled out.

You felt the press of people closing in, eager to board. A woman with a bundled baby stood just behind you, and further back, a pair of merchants argued softly over seating. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice the gathering heat of bodies around him. He kept his eyes on the tracks, one hand resting lightly on the strap of his pack.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You travel a lot, then? You seem very at ease with all this.”

“I get around.” He drawled, gaze still on the tracks. “You always this nosy?”

You caught his eye, refusing to let it go. The cold air curled around your cheeks, but the heat building in your chest was enough to thaw any frost.

“You’re a mystery to me,” you confessed, your voice barely above the noise around you. “Maybe I find that interesting.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you. His pupils dilated, irises flicking across your face like he was mapping something he didn’t quite expect to find. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, but you didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he murmured, just for you. “What exactly is it you’re hopin’ to figure out, Princess?”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” you replied, letting the wind catch your words. “Other than that you used to be a Firewarden in the city and work for my brother now.”

He lifted his brows. “You never asked.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just a little closer as the platform shuddered with the weight of the train’s arrival, “I’m asking now.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, the shove of the crowd pulled him closer to you, his warm breath fanning across your chilled cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

You opened your mouth, but your words were lost as the train neared. The brakes shrieked against the frozen rails, a grinding howl that sent a cascade of bright sparks down the line. You flinched from the sound, blinking against the sudden burst of light.

For one breath, it was quiet as you blinked away the stars in your vision.

A scream rang out behind you.

Then another.

The platform erupted in chaos, boots scrambling, bags abandoned, a child crying as they were yanked backwards by the hand. Shouts rose, some in warning, others pure terror.

The Ignivorae hit the platform with a sickening crunch, its claws punching through the wooden planks like it was paper. A monstrous silhouette of twisted anatomy, the creature loomed in the firelight, half-moth, half-man. Its gangly limbs bent at the wrong angles, ending in hooked talons slick with frost. Translucent wings stretched wide behind it, tattered and powdered, like those of a colossal night moth.

Its face—if you could call it that—was a hideous blend of bone-white mandibles and jagged teeth, stretching unnaturally wide. Two bulbous eyes blinked out of sync, scanning the crowd.

You’d never seen an Ignivorae this close before, not mere paces away. You had seen them at a distance, grown up watching as they dived into the pyres at night. You’d heard descriptions. Your father or brother telling gruesome stories of the outskirts while your mother scolded and ushered you away—‘such stories are not appropriate for young ladies’. In all your years, you had wondered what you would do if faced with such a moment. What would you do if one broke free from the swarm, disregarded the Firewarden’s efforts, and came straight for you? Would you grab a weapon, fight, scream, run?

To your disappointment, all you found was that you froze, as if the ice from the platform had crept up your legs and locked you in place.

With one violent shudder, it threw its wings forward. A cloud of fine, shimmering dust exploded into the air, catching in the light like gold. The effect was anything but beautiful. Screams tore through the crowd as the dust landed on exposed skin, the powder causing instant stinging. Red welts rose in its wake like a poisonous plant’s touch. People scattered in a frenzy, tripping over luggage and each other to escape.

A shriek tore from its throat, shrill and distorted, like metal bending under strain.

You still stood rigid, breath caught in your throat.

Bucky shoved you back, hard enough that your shoulder slammed into a column. “Stay down!” he barked.

The Ignivorae’s milky eyes swung around and locked on Bucky.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp motion, he pulled a hunting knife from inside his coat and rushed the creature. You had no idea where your escort had produced it from nor how long he had been so easily armed on this trip of yours. But rather than worry, you were rather grateful for his cunning. The Ignivorae lunged, jaws unhinging to reveal a mouth full of jagged, needle-like teeth. Bucky ducked beneath them, rolled forward, and drove the blade deep into its abdomen. Thick, black blood sprayed across the frozen platform in thick, oily ropes.

The creature shrieked and thrashed, claws tearing through the air. One struck his shoulder, ripping the fabric clean and exposing the skin beneath. Its wings flared again, dust bursting across him in a glittering veil.

Bucky hissed as the powder kissed his neck and collarbone, shoulder jerking back.

He yanked the blade free and, in one clean movement, rammed it up beneath the creature’s jaw, right into the base of its skull. The Ignivorae gave one final, horrible twitch, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and curling wings.

You scrambled to your feet as Bucky staggered back, breath visible in the frigid air. The bloodied knife remained clenched in his grip. His chest heaved, and an angry rash had already bloomed across the bare skin of his throat and collarbone.

Without a word, he shook himself off, using his gloved hands to swipe the lingering powder from his coat and pants. He moved carefully, methodically, ensuring no dust remained on the fabric before lowering the knife.

Behind him, the platform was chaos. Passengers sprinted for the station, some rolling and shrieking in pain as the dust settled, others throwing themselves aboard with panicked shouts.

Bucky’s eyes met yours. His jaw was tight, temple flecked with black blood.

“Come on,” he growled. He gave his gloves one final shake, checked the backs of his hands, and then reached for you. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the waiting train.

You stumbled after him, breath hitching, heart racing. “Bucky, are you okay? Are you hurt?” You couldn’t stop looking at the rash blooming angry red across his throat, the skin raw where the powder had settled. “Your skin—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, dragging you onto the train as the doors hissed open. He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were inside, pushing past confused passengers and frantic attendants. “It’s just the dust. Burns like hell.”

You followed him down the narrow corridor, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have…God, you could’ve died—”

“I didn’t,” he said, leading you into your sleeper compartment and shutting the door behind you. The sounds of panic outside muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of the train and your uneven breath. “This is my job, Princess.”

The rash on his neck looked worse, creeping like vines toward his collarbone.

“You’re not fine,” you said, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see it—”

Bucky caught your wrist again, gentler this time. His eyes, still alert from the fight, softened just a little. “I’ll live.”

You were both breathing hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The cabin was just like the last train, with tight quarters and iron fixtures with the same thin, cream-coloured walls and dark wood panelling. Leather seating with overhead luggage storage lined one side, while two narrow bunks lined the other, the lower mattress already creaking under Bucky as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Let me help you.” You argued, holding his gaze with a determination that, deep down, even surprised you.

He exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall.

“Check my bag. There’s a jar.” His voice was quieter now but steady. “There's a woman in Glenwyck, a healer. She makes ‘em up for the Wardens. Helps with the rash. This ain’t the first time I’ve been covered in that dust. Won’t be the last.”

You turned to the leather satchel he’d tossed carelessly on the seat opposite. The zipper resisted at first, stiff with cold, but inside was a mess of folded shirts, a canteen, a few loose rolling papers, and the jar he’d mentioned.

“How did the Ignivorae get past the Wardens? I thought we would’ve been safe so far away.” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you fished the jar from his bag.

“Sometimes they get past, probably saw the sparks from the breaks and saw an easy target.” Bucky replied through grit teeth. You tossed a look over at him, noting how sweat misted his brow, wincing in pain as the train began to rumble to life once more. You unscrewed the jar lid, and sure enough, a pungent pine scent hit your nose, sharp and earthy, undercut with something vaguely medicinal.

Outside the window, the night blurred by in streaks of white snow and distant firelight. You moved toward him carefully, the jar in one hand.

“Collar,” you instructed, and he tugged the neck of his torn shirt loose without protest, baring the angry red rash that bloomed along his collarbone and crept up his throat.

When your fingers touched his skin, his eyes flicked up to yours.

You dipped your index finger into the salve and dragged it gently along the inflamed skin, spreading it in careful strokes, watching as it sank in with a faint sheen. The silence between you grew thicker with every slow motion. You tried not to notice how close you were now, standing between his knees, your breath shallow and uneven.

“How long does it take to kick in?” You questioned, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers smoothed up his neck, muscle and tendons shifting under your touch. You swept a thumb across his jugular, and he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“The pain fades first,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Rash’ll stick around for a day or two.”

You were the first to look away.

You screwed the lid back on with a quiet click and stepped toward the bag resting on the seat. The train lurched under your feet, and you reached for the bunk rail to steady yourself—only to find Bucky already there, his hands catching your waist, steadying you like it was second nature.

His bag slid off the seat behind you, spilling its contents across the cabin floor.

You hid the flush rising to your cheeks, brushing his hands away gently as you crouched to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

“Princess—” he muttered, shifting like he might kneel down too.

“Sit still,” you cut in, already scooping up his belongings. He let out a sound—half a sigh, half a grumble—but obeyed, leaning back against the wall as you stuffed shirts and supplies back into the leather pack.

It was only as you blindly grasped a stack of thick paper that you hesitated, eyes glancing up. In your hand, you held a bundle of letters wrapped in twine. At least a dozen, maybe more, none of them opened. The edges were worn, some water-stained, others wrinkled from being carried too long. A few still had wax seals, cracked from travel but untouched.

“Bucky…” you said, turning them over slowly. “What are these?”

He didn’t look at you. “Letters.”

“I can see that.” You cut back, exasperated, peeking up at him. “You haven’t opened any of them.”

“I know.” He responded, and for a moment, you thought that was all he would give you. But after what appeared to be a lengthy internal deliberation, he sighed through his nose and offered you a further explanation. “They’re from my friend. Steve.”

“And you haven’t read them?” Your thumb ran down the corner of the stack, the paper flicking against your nail. “These must go back months.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just leaned back against the wall with a straight face. He was watching you with that same vigilant calm, like he was already bracing for whatever reaction he was worried you might give.

“I can’t read,” he confessed finally.

You stilled. “You can’t… what?”

Your voice caught in surprise as you turned toward him fully. “But you’ve been reading the tickets, the signs—why would your friend keep sending letters if—?”

“I can read a bit,” he interrupted.

“I know enough words to get by. Basics. Just not enough to keep up with letters like that.” His tone was slightly irritated as if he was unsure if your questions were mocking or genuine confusion. “The letters were for me and a friend, Sam. He could read. That’s why Steve would send ‘em.”

“Sam’s been dead about a year now, so…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the dark panelling opposite. “I had no way to tell Steve. So I just… held onto the letters. I figured I’d read them eventually. Once I learned.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Your gaze dropped to the stack again, fingers gently brushing over one of the names penned in Steve’s neat, looping script. Sam must have died working in Glenwyck. You could blame your brother for drawing him to that place, but Glenwyck was no crueller than any other firepost. The Firewardens knew the risks. It didn’t make it any less tragic.

Bucky only grunted in response. From your place on the floor, you studied him quietly. Maybe you’d misread him. Maybe he wasn’t gruff for the sake of being difficult or to scare you. Maybe there really was a weight he carried, something heavy and damaged beneath the sharp edges. Had sorrow or bitterness carved itself into him after everything he’d seen?

And against your better judgment, you offered something small. “I could read them for you. Teach you how to read. If… if that’s something you’d want?”

His brows knit together, jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. Then it set hard. “I don’t want to be another one of your charity cases, Princess—”

You cut him off. “It’s not charity, remember? It’s foundation.”

He stared down at you, lips set in a fine line as he contemplated.

“...Okay.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself up onto the mattress beside him. He blinked at your sudden movement, instinctively leaning back as you settled next to him, letters in hand. For a moment, his guarded expression cracked, just long enough for surprise to flicker in his eyes.

Reading mystery letters for your sullen escort would be the perfect temporary distraction, and the bonus was that maybe you’d learn something new about him. Something he wouldn’t explicitly tell you himself unless sufficiently prompted.

You held up the bundle with a teasing smile. “Maybe, if you behave, I’ll even help you write back.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smirk. “Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You laughed, light and genuine. “Worth a shot.”

—

A few hours had passed, marked only by the clack of wheels over frozen tracks and the steady glow of the oil lamp overhead. Letters were strewn across the bunk and spilt onto the floor like fallen leaves, pages soft and yellowing, ink curling in elegant loops. To your mild disappointment, you’d discovered that the mysterious ‘Steve’ wasn’t the author of those elegant words. It was his wife, Peggy, who had penned most of the letters in his stead while he worked the pyres. You were curled into the corner of the bottom bunk, your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s as you read another aloud.

“‘—and then Steve nearly broke his own nose trying to prove to Dugan that he could knock a pinecone off the fence post from thirty paces. It was like watching two puppies try to arm wrestle. I had to bribe the store clerk with liquorice just to get him to hand over an ice pack.’” You snorted a laugh, eyes dancing as you glanced up at Bucky.

He was grinning—really grinning—for the first time all day. “Dugan always gets him so wound up. It’s a miracle the two of them haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And Peggy bribed someone with liquorice for him?”

“Of course she did. They’ve been together for years, but she still acts like the exasperated schoolteacher, and he’s the scrappy kid with skinned knees and dirt on his chin.”

You smiled softly, letting the letter drift onto the growing pile between you.

“Why didn’t Steve and Peggy go with you and Sam to Glenwyck?” you asked, hesitantly glancing over at Bucky.

He shifted slightly, gaze distant. “He considered it. The pay was better, no doubt. But they’d just got married, and they were trying for a baby… didn’t want to raise a kid in that kind of place. It’s hard enough just surviving it.”

“I get it.” You hummed, selecting the next letter on the pile. You were about halfway through now, around six months deep. “Probably why my brother didn’t want me out there with him.”

“Did he write you much?” Bucky asked. “While he was out there?”

“No.” You replied, being careful not to meet his eye as you frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again, to be honest.”

“You thought he abandoned you?” You could feel the heat of his gaze on your cheek as you refused to meet his eye.

“Kind of… I—” You were cut off as the door slid open with a rattling clang, and a uniformed attendant stepped into the frame. He peaked around the side, down to where you and Bucky sat on the bottom bunk, knees and shoulders touching.

“We’re entering blackout protocol,” he said briskly. “There’s been a report of a swarm of Ignivorae sighted along the pass ahead. All windows must be shut, and metal shutters secured. No lights. All lamps and candles extinguished until morning.”

You sat up straighter, a chill slicing through your earlier comfort.

“How long until we reach them?” Bucky asked, already rising to his feet.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. Best to be ready.” The attendant gave a curt nod, then slid the door shut with a decisive snap.

Before you could fully register what was happening, Bucky moved. He crossed the compartment in two strides and dragged the heavy metal shutter down over the window with a grinding creak, locking it in place.

You remained on the bunk, gathering the scattered letters into your lap with slow, distracted movements. Your gaze drifted toward the sealed window, then the door. Already, your imagination filled in the silence, the scrape of claws against the glass, the dry whisper of wings brushing steel.

Bucky reached for the oil lamp mounted near the door.

“Wait—” you blurted, your voice small and unsure.

He hesitated, eyes finding yours. “It’s okay.”

And then, with a twist of his hand, the flame vanished.

Darkness swept in like a wave.

The only sound left was the soft rumble of the train, the occasional jostle of the carriage, and the muffled shuffle of other passengers beyond your door. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear sit too heavy in your chest.

The mattress shifted. You felt Bucky’s hand brush your arm gently, guiding, not pulling.

“You wanna head up top to sleep?” he asked quietly. “Best to get some rest before we hit Norcross. Won’t be much shuteye once we’re in the carriage.”

You didn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted in place as something old and cold took hold of your limbs. Without thinking, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails catching in the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t… I—”

Bucky stilled. “You alright, Princess?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” The words came out in a rush, and Bucky paused. You could feel him hovering above, silence stretched between you. “I’m afraid—”

“Hell, Princess. After what you just heard, I think anyone would be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not of the Ignivorae.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m scared of the dark.”

A pause.

“…What?”

“See?” you muttered, already curling in on yourself. “I knew you’d laugh—”

“You hear me laughing?” Bucky said flatly. You heard the soft rustle of his collar. He was shaking his head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand. You’ve done blackouts before, haven’t you?”

“Not true blackouts,” you whispered. “I’ve always lived where there are Wardens. Never fully dark. There would always be the glow from the fires, even at night. I just got used to it, I suppose.”

“I get it. I do.” Bucky replied, though it was accompanied by a long sigh. “We can’t have any light, though, you understand?”

“I know, I just…”

“C’mere.”

You blinked as his arm eased around you, gently pulling you back. In the dark, it was a clumsy tangle of elbows and whispered apologies as he shifted onto the mattress beside you, legs stretched out. He found the wall and leaned against it, adjusting you with him until your side pressed to his, and his arm was warm and firm around your shoulders, guiding you into the curve of his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You let yourself settle there, head resting against the soft thrum of his heartbeat, the faint scent of pine and smoke on his shirt. His thumb brushed against your upper arm in slow, grounding circles.

“If there’s one thing I can promise, Princess,” Bucky murmured, voice low near your ear, “it never gets properly dark in Glenwyck. Wardens keep the pyres lit all through the night. You’ll feel right at home.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting yourself drift, allowing the tingling sparks in your spine and the butterflies in your stomach to drown out the shadow that had gripped you moments before.

“Thank you—” you began to whisper, but the words died on your lips as a loud bang cracked through the carriage.

It echoed like a thunderclap against hollow steel. Somewhere further down the train, a woman cried out. A muffled yelp, cut off just as quickly. You jolted upright, heart slamming into your throat.

“What was that?” you gasped, voice trembling.

Bucky’s hand found your waist again, pulling you back against him. “The start of the swarm.”

Your body stiffened. “There’s nothing we can do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, his voice was calm but firm. “No. Safest thing is to ride it out. We’re sealed in tight. Metals thick, train’s fast. They won’t get in.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your head whipped toward him in the dark. Even with your faces just inches apart, you couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything.

“Then what was that noise?”

"One of ‘em. Hit the side of the train. Likely died on impact." His voice was clear and deliberate like he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of it. As if he knew that if you could just understand, truly believe the train was too fast, too strong, too sealed for them to breach, you might be able to quiet the fear clawing its way up your chest.

But, as if summoned by his words, another bang, closer this time, rang out. Then another. A few passengers gasped. Someone down the car stifled a scream. The train rocked slightly under the force of the impacts. You clung to Bucky’s shirt now, the fabric balled in your fists.

The air felt too thin, like this train of death was suddenly headed up a steep mountain where your lungs could never truly be full.

The next strike was louder like something bigger had collided with the carriage. You flinched hard, pressing your face into Bucky’s shoulder. His arm tightened around you, his other hand bracing against the wall behind.

Then, the real storm began.

Bang—bang—bang!

A rapid succession of impacts, like hailstones the size of skulls, hammering against the train’s body. The metal groaned, wheels screeching beneath you as the train barreled forward, but the sounds of the Ignivorae overpowered everything else. The shrieks and shouts of other passengers mixed in, panicked, pleading, praying.

Something scraped along the roof.

You let out a choked sob, the noise strangled in your throat. You buried yourself deeper into Bucky’s chest, the darkness pressing in on all sides. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t breathe. Every bang sounded like the end.

The screams got louder.

The sound grew. Deafening. Hundreds of bodies, maybe more, slamming against the train, shrieking past the windows like banshees in flight. You were shaking violently now, your hands trembling as they clutched at him. A cry tore out of you, high-pitched and helpless, and you didn’t care anymore if anyone heard.

You were sobbing into his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably as the sounds swelled into a relentless cacophony.

And still, Bucky held you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, his voice the only thing not swallowed by the chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hold onto me.”

And in the dark, with hell crashing against the walls around you, you did.

Your chest heaved in shallow bursts. The darkness felt thicker now—suffocating, alive. Each blow from outside rattled the walls and echoed through your bones like war drums. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Couldn’t think at all.

Your fingers clutched blindly at Bucky’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tight your knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t feel your hands. Couldn’t feel your face. The air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, too hot, too thin, too sharp.

“Hey…hey, Princess—”

His voice sounded far away like it was coming from underwater. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your whole body had turned to ice and fire at once. You shook your head wildly, gasping now, sobs hitching through clenched teeth.

“Princess.” Bucky’s hands framed your face now, gentle but firm, thumbs brushing just below your eyes. “You’re panickin’. I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Another bang rocked the train, louder than before. You flinched violently, trying to curl in on yourself, but Bucky didn’t let you. He held you steady, close.

“Look at me.” His voice was still soft, but it cut through the noise. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe. Just breathe with me.”

You were shaking so hard now your teeth chattered. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t get enough air.

“In through your nose,” Bucky coached, his forehead pressing gently to yours, “out through your mouth. You don’t have to get it perfect. Just follow me.”

You tried.

Tried to match the rhythm of his voice, the slow inhale, the deliberate exhale. But your lungs wouldn’t cooperate. A strangled noise tore from your throat instead, a fresh wave of sobs threatening to overtake you.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice unwavering even as the train screamed around you. “You’re right here with me. There’s nothin’ in this room ‘cept you and me. Hold onto that.”

You clung to his words, desperate.

And slowly, painfully, your breathing started to stutter into some kind of rhythm, still shaky, still uneven, but present. You could feel the heat of him against you, solid, real. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his breath brushing your temple.

“That’s it. There you go. Just keep doing that. With me.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your body jolted, instinct still screaming, but Bucky was already grounding you again. His hands rubbed slow circles down your back. One of them moved to rest over your chest, right above your racing heart, like he could steady it with his palm alone.

“You’re doin’ good. I’ve got you.”

The shrieking from outside started to change. The tempo of the blows against the train shifted, less frequent, less violent, like the worst of the swarm was beginning to pass. The wails of the passengers faded, tapering off into soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It was still dark, but the sounds were thinning.

Your breath, still ragged, wasn’t choking you anymore.

You pressed your forehead to Bucky’s collarbone and let the tears come, quieter this time, not from panic but from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, just kept holding you, hand never stopping its soothing rhythm across your back.

Eventually, the last of the banging faded into the distance, swallowed by the speed of the train. A tense silence settled over the carriage, broken only by the muted sobs of a child somewhere and the faint clatter of wheels against rail.

And in the black stillness of that bunk, pressed close to Bucky’s chest, you finally breathed in fully and let it out in a slow, trembling sigh.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you until sleep finally took you.

—

You stirred slowly. Your cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. His arm was heavy over your back, warm and protective, like it had stayed there all night. You breathed in, taking the scent of him.

You didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

“Mornin’,” came his voice, rough with sleep. You felt the vibration of it beneath your ear.

You hummed back softly, not quite trusting your voice yet.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, still tucked into his side. “Yeah… I think so.”

Your voice was quiet but true. You shifted a little, your hand brushing across his ribs, and tilted your head just enough to glance up at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He gave a lazy smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that charming, crooked way of his.

“We’re close to Norcross now,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Train’s slowin’ already. You slept right through the breakfast call.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Like the dead.” He grinned. “Figured you needed it.”

“I must’ve…” You hesitated, glancing around the bunk before finally, reluctantly, beginning to peel yourself away from him. Your limbs were stiff with sleep and the lingering tension of last night, but the moment was already slipping from you. Duty waited beyond the window.

Still, you paused.

Hovering just above him.

He looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, unreadable as ever, though the corners had softened.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you said again, with a faint smile this time.

He made a pleased sound, something deep and amused in his chest, and before you could shift away completely, his hand caught your waist.

“Not done,” he muttered.

And with that, he pulled you back in. His other hand came to the side of your face, and he kissed you—properly, this time. No hesitation. Just the soft crush of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his palm, the rough edge of stubble beneath your fingertips. You melted into it, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the train swayed gently beneath you.

A knock at the door startled you both, you jerked back slightly as it slid open with a clatter.

“Passengers, we’re making our final approach to Norc—”

Bucky didn’t even look.

He reached out with one hand and slammed the door shut again.

A stunned silence followed outside the compartment, but Bucky was already turning back to you, eyes glinting with mischief as you giggled in disbelief.

“Now, where were we?” he murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back as he tugged you in again.

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #alpine #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel #fantasy au

805 notes · View notes

holylulusworld · 2 months ago

Text

Alpine, the heartbreaker

Summary: Your cat fell for a charming heartbreaker.

Pairing: Domestic!Bucky Barnes x Neighbor!Reader; Alpine Barnes x Tinker Bell Y/L/N

Written for @avengers-assemble-bingo “Spring Bingo” – Square filled: Gardening

Warnings: naughty cats doing naughty things, cat pregnancy, fluff, general cuteness, cats in love, flirty Bucky

A/N: For my story, Alpine is a tomcat.

“The weather is hot today, isn’t it, Tinker Bell?” You wipe your sweaty forehead, sighing as your cat disappears from sight once more. You huff because the last thing you want is for your beloved cat to get lost. “Tink? I told you not to stray too far from the garden.”

You sigh and go back to tending your roses. Tinker Bell usually never strays and stays by your side, but for the last few weeks, she has tended to disappear for an hour or two.

Gardening is your second favorite hobby since you moved into your house four months ago; crocheting is another. Your life has become more grounded and peaceful since you quit your job and decided to settle down and live a domestic life.

A noise catches your attention. It sounds like a wounded cat, and your heart thunders in your chest. You grab the pruning shears and sprint toward the noise. If anyone tries to hurt your cat, you’ll not let them live.

Chasing after the noise, you call your cat’s name. You must look like a lunatic running along the sidewalk, screaming, Tinker Bell.

“Tink! I’m coming!” You pant, not used to running so much anymore. “Leave my cat alone!”

Tink gets louder, and you run a little faster to reach your cat. Whoever hurts your beloved cat will suffer a slow death.

“Tink!” Stopping in your tracks, you watch a white cat do unspeakable things to your beloved Tinker Bell. Tink mewls like a cat in heat, enjoying the white cat’s attention a little too much for your liking. “You pervert!”

“Alpine!” A man runs toward you and your cat… “Punk, what are you doing!” He snorts as his cat is having a blast. “Uh—I didn’t think you had it in you. I thought the vet said you’re sterile.”

“Yeah, well.” You huff and glare at the man. “He’s capable of doing …” You're making air quotes, “it.”

“It looks like she’s enjoying it,” he grins, blue eyes sparkling as you glare at him. He looks familiar to you, but you can’t remember where you have seen the man before. “I think we should give them some privacy.”

“What? No, he can’t just…and then,” you try to argue, but the man guides you away from your cat and her lover. You can’t believe your cat has a more active sex life than you. “If she gets pregnant, you’ll pay child support. You and your naughty cat!”

You exclaim before storming off, cursing the man and his white devil.

“Lady, it’s not Alpine’s fault your cat is a naughty one,” he snickers as you turn around to glare in his direction. “Just saying, it takes two to have fun. Your cat is a naughty girl.”

“Irresponsible,” you scold the man and walk away. “How dare he call my cat a naughty girl!”

“Tink, we need to talk,” you say as your cat stretches on your bed. She’s meowing loudly when you run your hand over her belly. “You got knocked up by a punk. A naughty white heartbreaker. This can never happen again.”

She ignores your speech and rolls to the other side, purring.

“Young lady, I’m talking to you!” Pacing in your living room, you sigh. Having kittens wasn’t in your plans. “It’s not only your fault, though. I shouldn’t have trusted the shelter telling me you’re sterile. Now we will have babies to take care of.”

Watching your cat get comfortable, you plan on giving the owner of the devil seducing your innocent Tink a piece of your mind. You already have found out where he’s living. He bought the house just down the street.

“Ah, the naughty cat owner,” the man says, leaning on his door frame as you stand in front of his door, an ultrasound of your cat in your hands. “Does she want more of Alpine?”

“Your cat is going to be a father soon,” you grunt and push the ultrasound into his hands. “You should tell him not to stray. We don’t like a womanizer!”

“Whoa, punk!” He laughs when his cat runs out of the door to sit in front of you. Alpine meows and looks up at you. “He’s missing his lady cat.”

“He did enough!” You mutter under your breath.

“Hey, they are cats.” He shrugs. "Alpine won’t be a deadbeat father. We’ll take care of the young lady he made love to.”

You don’t know if you want to laugh or slap the cocky smirk off his face. “You should tell your cat to…” You frown. The situation is more than strange, and you don’t know what to tell him.

“I’ll tell Alpine not to stray,” he leans closer and says, “but I think this is not necessary. He lost his heart to your beauty.”

You snort. “Just…don’t let him knock more cats up.”

“He wouldn’t dream of straying,” he smirks. “Now that our kids are going to have kids, we should introduce each other, don’t you think?”

“Uh—Y/N,” you splutter.

“Bucky,” he replies, holding out his hand. You shake it, suddenly aware of where you have seen him and his metal arm before.

Great—the Winter Soldier’s cat knocked Tink up. What the hell…

One day later, you answer the door, only to find Bucky and his cat in front of your door. Alpine is wearing a tiny bow bowtie, and Bucky holds a basket filled with cat products in his arms.

“What is all this?” You ask, glancing at the basket.

“Uh—child support,” Bucky replies. “I told you Alpine will be a good father and partner. Can he now see your cat? He’s crawling up the walls.”

“I—” You look at the basket again, laughing. “Okay, come on in. She’s in the living room, sleeping. Her belly is growing fast.”

“How are the kittens?” Bucky asks when you allow him inside. “Can…can Alpine come with you next time to see the babies?”

You’d laugh at his words, but he looks so serious and determined that you don’t have it in you to make fun of Bucky.

“Sure, if my vet is okay with it, Alpine can come around.”

You walk into the living room, watching Alpine run toward the couch. He jumps onto the couch, immediately starting to groom Tinker Bell.

“I think they are in love,” Bucky whispers in your ear.

“Young love, huh?” You laugh because your cat is rolling over to cuddle with Alpine. They meow and purr, having a not-so-silent conversation.

“Should we…uh…leave them alone?” Bucky looks unsure when you take the basket out of his hands. “We shouldn’t watch them, right?”

“We can have coffee in my kitchen and leave them to…uh…their reunion.” You grab Bucky’s hand to guide him toward your kitchen. “Just so you know, the kittens are alright.”

“What are we going to do with them?” He asks, worriedly looking at you. “We cannot abandon them. They’re Alpine’s kids.”

“I think we should talk about shared custody.”

“Maybe, we can…uh…find a better solution,” he says, looking you deep in the eyes. “You know, my cat loves your cat and all.”

You laugh at his poor attempt to flirt with you. “How about you invite me for dinner before we plan on having a family of cats?”

“It’s a date!” He hurriedly says, hoping he’ll get lucky in love too…

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #alpine barnes #aaspring #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #domestic au #neighbor reader #bucky barnes fluff

431 notes · View notes

bluetimeombre · 3 months ago

Text

⤑ ★ Getting along,

You and Bucky are dating, when Bucky adopts a cat of a mission the cat and you can’t seem to get along until you do.

[if you show me Bucky and Alpine, I will show you my heart crying- I love them so much] Bucky x reader. Cat scratches. Making out but not smut. Sam is featured. Enjoy!!

You loved Bucky.

You loved Bucky more than you loved anything in the world. Your heart was completely and utterly captured by that metal hand of his. You'd do anything for him, and he would you. The both of you knew that your love went beyond any stereotype that could be created.

However...

Bucky never usually did anything without consulting you first. Although there was only the two of you in your small apartment, you were the boss- and he wouldn't have it any other way.

So when he returned from a three day long mission you wanted nothing more than to jump in his arms, smother him in kisses and assure he was well rested and un-scathed.

In fact you were a leap away from him when you noticed the white fluffy thing cradled in his arms.

"Hey Doll," Bucky sighed, dropping his bag on the ground at his feet. With the arm that wasn't clutching the white live thing, he opened it for an embrace.

You stopped and stared. "Bucky, there's a cat under your arm."

"Yeah, I guess there is," he chuckled. His arm was still raised, still waiting for you.

You were staring at the cat and you were sure the cat was staring at you. No- glaring at you. "Do you know there's a cat under your arm?"

Bucky- getting the hint you weren't going to fall into his arms- dropped it down to the cats head and started to pet behind its ear. "The thing was stuck in that warehouse I couldn't leave it. I know I should've said something but I just thought," he trailed off, looking down at the cat. "And look at her face."

"It's a she?" suddenly you were feeling very replaced. Especially as the cat- she- was still curled up in his arms where you usually were.

"I've called her Alpine, suits her you think?" and Bucky was smiling, he seemed so genuinely happy to have a small animal curl into him as if it was a safe place. The only other person who treated him as such was you.

You tilted your head at the cat and watched it blink.

Bucky slowly set her on the ground. The cat- or as you should have got acquainted, Alpine- walked around his legs, wrapping a tail around him. "I've checked the lease, we're allowed pets. Sure, we'll have to get her some bowls and cat food, tuna's fine, right? And maybe some toys."

Still, you were silent, only watching the cat as it purred against Bucky. You couldn't be getting jealous over a stray... could you.

Bucky saw you weren't talking, saw that you were looking at the cat like trying to calculate its next move. He walked over, his hands cold from the night air holding your arms. "If there's a problem we can- we can look for a foster home."

But that little light in his eyes dimmed at the very thought of giving her up already. You had no idea, this cat could have been his soul companion on that mission. She could have saved his life, so maybe you'd have to allow the way Alpine curled against his boot and looked up at you as a way of claiming.

"The cat can stay," you agreed, begrudgingly.

Just for his grin you would have agreed again and again. "You are an angel," he said.

You smile, throwing your arms around his neck as his hands fall to your hips, delighted to be pulling you in. "Does an angel get a kiss from her returned lover?"

"Hmm, only when they're good." Bucky's lips were as soft as always as he pressed them against yours slowly. There would be no mission to rush off to. No awaiting call either of you would have to flea away for. There was just you, Bucky and all the time in the world to savour the way his lips traced yours, how his tongue dared to taste-

Then came the first meow that pulled you and Bucky away from your moment. It was the first but it would in no way shape or form to be the last.

You'd never thought to box yourself in as a 'cat' or 'dog' person, but after Alpine, you were starting to wish Bucky had just found a fish.

It started with the small things, like the two of you having breakfast only for Alpine to jump up and steal Bucky’s attention.

But then Alpine got a spot in the bed- specifically- right between the two of you.

You were coming home late one night from work and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with Bucky and sleep. So when you kicked off your shoes and peeled off your jacket, lazily making your way to the bedroom. You were about to fall down next to Bucky who was already sleeping, and arm out to your empty side, when you spotted what was under his arm.

Alpine.

"Oh no you don’t buddy," you scoffed.

She blinked up at you.

"Move." You were being as quiet as possible- you knew Bucky was a light sleeper.

Alpine meowed in defiance.

You tried to tug on the blanket, tried to get her to move it but she only showed your her fangs. "Oh that’s how you want to play it?"

Bucky grumbled. "Doll? What are you doing?"

"Fighting with your cat."

There was a lazy smile on his face. "Our cat."

"If she was our cat, she’d move so I could be with my man," you grumbled, perching on the edge of the bed.

His brows wriggled. "Your man."

Alpine still refused to move.

"Well-" he pushed himself up. "There’s an easy way to fix that."

Before you ask if it was putting the cat up for adoption, his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you in until you were held in his chest and he’d pushed you onto the bed with him. He attacked you with kisses and rolled along the bed until you were stuck under him.

Of course, Alpine moved when he wanted it.

But it wasn't just sleeping Alpine was cagey about, it was anything in the bedroom. Specifically, what was reserved for the bedroom.

You and Bucky had had a very busy week, and it had only dragged. So when the two of you finally had some time alone, you only wanted to use it wrapped up in each other.

Bucky was leaning on the headboard, his hands roaming your back and squeezing your hips as you moved atop him. Both of you were still clothed, only your lips and your tongue bare against each other. The motion of cloth between the two of you only built the frenzy.

You were in no rush to be quick. Although hard and fast was fun, nothing felt better to Bucky than softly caressing your body, squeezing and rubbing all his favourite spots.

"You feel so good, baby," he mused against your lips.

You moan, tilting your head back as his lips trail down your neck. "Bucky." Your hands tangle in his hair.

"Want you so badly," he said, marking the words against your neck as his teeth pressed into the skin. "Wanna throw you on this bed and-"

There was the faintest of scratches on the door could be heard from outside. If he weren't a super soldier it might have slipped past him.

He stilled.

"No, no, no," you groaned, grabbing his cheeks and making him look at you. "You want me. You need me."

"I do, I do," he nodded, pecking your lips. "But-"

As if she knew she was winning him over, Alpine meowed.

"She's fine," you say and wriggle on his lap to get his attention. It works as his eyes close and a guttural groan rips through his throat. "Let's keep going, keep going-" you smash your lips on his and make the slow movements fast.

He groans into your lips, gently nipping your bottom lip.

Alpine meowed louder and louder.

"She sounds so sad," said Bucky.

She scratched again.

Bucky lifted you from his lap and rolled, getting out from under you and you flopped on the bed. "I'm sorry, baby, i'm sorry, I just can't hear her like that." Bucky opened the door and Alpine wondered in casually. She climbed up her cat tree that Bucky kept in the corner.

You complain into the cushion.

"Look, hey, come on doll," Bucky crawls up the edge of the bed, turning you onto your back. He pressed kisses against your clothed stomach as he worked up. "She'll see what we're up to, she'll understand and she'll leave. Then it's just you and me."

His hands slipped under you shirt, feeling you and working you up. His lips kissed you sweetly along your neck but you watched Alpine, sit upon her tower and watch the two of you, her tail going side to side.

"No," you said, hands on his shoulders. He sighed and laid flat atop you. "No, can't do it, she's staring."

Bucky's grumble vibrated your whole body. "Alpine!"

"I'm gonna have a shower," you get out from under him but his hand still held yours.

Bucky was smirking. "Can I join you?"

But the decider came at the worst time.

Bucky had gone on a mission. It was supposed to be easy, nothing big, nothing serious, just a sweep of some odd movements at a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. It had left you and Alpine for two days to try to bond. Both of you seemed to have something in common while he was gone: you both missed him.

While you slept in his clothes, Alpine slept on his cushion and there was peace for forty-eight hours.

Then Sam called, Bucky had got hurt and was in a bad way.

You'd rushed to his side, Alpine had followed you as if she understood the phone call too.

He was out cold, a blow to his head. Part of his metal arm had been damaged in the fight and there was a bandage wrapped around his other shoulder. While his eyes were closed he just looked tired, like he was sleeping it off.

But you knew better.

"Oh my god," you gasp as Alpine jumps on the bed.

"He's stable, they got most the scrap metal out his other shoulder," Sam said, lingering with you. "It's just his choice when he wakes."

It took a lot to bring down the Winter Soldier. You were terrified that his 'when' he woke would be a while.

You walk to his side, going for his metal hand when Alpine screeched and her claws quickly dragged along your skin. You pulled away with a yelp at the angry claw marks down your hand. "Alpine!"

"Woah, ok!" Sam took your hand to check the cuts.

Alpine sat on the bed, looking as if she hadn't done anything wrong.

In anger, you tried for him again but Alpine warned you with her claws.

"Damn, that cat means business," said Sam, holding you back.... from a cat.

"Get down," you try to order her, tears in your eyes. Not because her claws hurt- they did, but because Bucky, your love, was lying in bed and she wouldn't let you near him.

She didn't move.

"Why won't you let me near him!"

"Ok, ok," Sam calmed you. "I have an idea." He disappeared, hoping you wouldn't get in a physical fight with the cat while he was gone.

Your chest rose and fell with harsh breaths. You wouldn't stand for it. It was one thing having Bucky's attention, it was another interrupting your alone time but your heart was breaking and you were scared. You wanted Bucky.

"I know you love him, I do to," you hold up your hands, to show how innocent you were as you stepped closer carefully. "I know he helped you out of a rough spot, he did with me to. But he's hurting, and I just want to hold his hand."

Alpine's eyes softened.

"I love him. I love him, Alpine. He's hurting and it hurts me. I just want to be at his side, like you are."

She wasn't going for an attack as you sank into the seat. She was still listening.

You gently take his metal fingers and wrap them around your hand until it's a weight. "We can both protect him now," you tell her. Maybe it would be nice to actually have some company. "Maybe if we both team up we can stop him from going on missions all together."

Her tail swished at the idea.

You smile as a little tear fell down your cheek. "You know, I didn't like you at first, stealing him from me. But maybe you're a little like me. Would do anything for him."

She meowed in agreement.

"Can we share?"

Her agreement came in form of her giving you space. She gently padded down the bed and curled at the end next to his boot.

When Sam came in with a can of tuna to lure Alpine away, he found both you and Alpine curled into Bucky, sleeping. He smiled to himself and left the can next to you- just in case Alpine wanted to dawn the Solider title.

You didn't remember falling asleep, you only remembered fingers running through your hair softly waking you.

You smile at the feeling, hiding your face in the covers when you realised the only hands to caress you like that were Bucky's and if Bucky was caressing you, he must be awake.

"Hey, baby," he greeted with a sleepy smile when you looked up.

"Buck-" you gasp and sit up, getting as close to the bed as you could. "You're awake? Are you ok? Should I get Sam?"

He smiled at your worry, his hand cupping your cheek and running his thumb over the red in your cheeks. "Leave birdbrain out there- i've got my favourites right here."

You kissed the palm of his metal hand. "I was so worried."

"I'm ok, doll." He took your hands, holding them. Bucky intended to bring them to his lips, to kiss them when he spotted the three angry lines of red. "Are you? What the hell happened?"

Only he could be in bed, injured after a mission gone wrong and worry about a couple scratches on your body.

You smiled, confusing him further. "Alpine and I had some things to sort out."

There was a flash of annoyance in his eyes and his foot nudged the cat still asleep at the edge of the bed. "Alpine!" he hissed.

"Leave her- leave her," you tell him, holding his arm and assuring him. "We worked out her differences and realized we have more in common."

With your words, Bucky settled down on the bed again, shifting slightly so he could gaze at you. "And what's that?"

"We love you."

426 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 6 days ago

Text

THE WING DOWN THE HALL | FC43

an: the third installment in this universe! ladies and gentlemen, theys and gays, please give it up for paramedic!franco. i'm not sure if you'll be able to tell, but i slightly lost inspo for this halfway through lol, i'm super excited to get through the others in this universe

wc: 12k

summary: a paramedic who hides soft worry behind loud grins & teasing words. a quiet nurse who forgot the sound of her own voice. a golden labrador who watches it all with knowing eyes. and the slow, patient kind of love that feels safe enough to stay. not a story of grand gestures. just one of small kindnesses, shared silences, and learning, gently, that you are not a burden to the right person.

uniformed hearts masterlist

Franco hadn’t meant to stay. It was meant to be a year, maybe two, enough time to study, to practise his English, to live in a place where the sky changed colours more often than the menu in the cantine did. London had been too much, all noise and elbows, but here it was manageable. Grey mornings, decent bread, strangers who didn’t ask too many questions. He’d blinked, and five years had gone by.

He still missed the heat sometimes. The dry, humming kind that stuck to your skin and made everything taste like salt and sun. Here, even the summers felt like apologies, tepid days with hesitant skies, quick to fold into drizzle. But there was a kind of softness in the air too. In the streets that held memories he hadn’t made yet. In the language that still caught him out when he was tired. In the job, most of all.

Being a paramedic made sense to him in a way nothing else had. Not at school, not at uni, not in the flat he shared with two mates who still lived like they were nineteen. But out in the van, with the lights low and the radio humming, it felt like something. Like purpose. Like clarity. It wasn’t just about saving people, though that was the part everyone asked about. It was about being there when it mattered. Showing up. Doing what you could.

And he was good at showing up. Good at quick smiles and quicker hands. Good at defusing tension with a joke, even if half of them were terrible. He flirted like it was breathing, light, constant, mostly harmless. Patients, coworkers, the woman at the corner shop who sold him lucozade on the way to a shift. It wasn’t about anything, not really. Just connection. Just warmth. Just something to fill the space.

The hospital was a blur of harsh lights and tired voices, and Franco moved through it like a spark. He knew which vending machine still had decent chocolate, which doors jammed if you didn’t kick them just right, which nurses were up for a laugh and which ones would tell him to bugger off before he finished his sentence.

And she didn’t do either.

She was quiet, not the cold kind, just soft. Like silence that asked nothing of you. Always in pale scrubs, hair tucked away, voice low and even. She never rolled her eyes at his flirting, but never played into it either. Just looked at him like she saw right through the act, and didn’t mind it, but didn’t buy it.

He found himself looking for her between calls. Not in a big way. Just noticing. Wondering if she was on shift. Wondering if she’d say his name in that voice that was gentle no matter how tired she sounded. Wondering what it might take to make her laugh.

She liked the early shifts best. The hospital was quieter then, not silent, but softer around the edges. Fewer footsteps. Fewer raised voices. Just the low hum of monitors and the rustle of bedsheets as the night began to fade. Sometimes, if the timing was right, she could make a cup of tea and drink half of it while it was still hot. That was enough, most mornings.

Nursing hadn’t been a childhood dream. She wasn’t the type who played doctor with dolls or bandaged up pets. It came later, slow and steady, like most of her choices. Sixth form had been a blur of pressure and personal statements, and nursing had felt useful. Like something you could carry with you. Something solid. Something she could return. She liked knowing things, remembering things, how long a cannula had been in, which patients couldn’t tolerate codeine, which porter liked ginger biscuits. She liked being someone people could rely on.

The job had changed her, in ways she hadn’t expected. Not hardened her. But sharpened, maybe. She could handle blood now, and shouting, and grief so thick it turned the air sour. What still got to her were the quiet ones. The ones who didn’t make a fuss. The ones who said sorry for being in the way, even as they clutched their chests or shook with pain.

That was what Franco never seemed to understand. He swept in like a breeze, all charm and colour and easy smiles. Always with some joke on his lips, some wink for whoever happened to be looking. He was good at his job, she’d give him that. Quick on his feet, calm under pressure. But loud, always loud. Like the silence made him itch.

He called her nurse sometimes, even though he knew her name. Said it with that grin like he was trying to be cheeky. She never corrected him. Just let it hang between them, like most things.

She didn’t dislike him. Not at all. But he unsettled something in her, a quiet part, the bit that liked going unnoticed. He made people laugh in corridors and flirted with receptionists and knew exactly how to charm his way past triage delays. And yet. He held old ladies’ hands when they were frightened. He remembered which patients liked to be spoken to slowly, which ones needed someone to listen more than fix. Spotted out the nervous Spanish speakers who’d ease at the sound of their mother tongue. She’d seen it, even if he thought she hadn’t.

She never quite knew what to say to him. He was all noise and light. She was made of quieter things. Tea that didn’t go cold. Clean sheets. A steady hand on a shaking shoulder. They didn’t move at the same pace.

But sometimes, she’d find herself glancing towards the double doors when she heard the wheels of a stretcher coming in. Just in case it was him.

It was just past half four that morning when he walked in, not with a patient, this time, just a clipboard and a half-eaten flapjack in one hand.

“Thought I’d drop this off,” he said, lifting the clipboard as though it were a peace offering. “Before I forget. Again.”

She didn’t look up straight away, focused on double-checking a set of obs. Quiet murmurs drifted from the bay behind her, the ward still wrapped in that early-morning haze where everything felt a bit too warm and a bit too slow.

When she finally turned, it was with that same unreadable calm. “You could’ve handed it in at reception.”

“I could’ve,” he agreed, smiling like he’d done it on purpose. “But then I wouldn’t get to see your face, would I?”

She didn’t blush. But there was the smallest shift in her expression, something close to amusement, or maybe disbelief. Her pen paused mid-air.

“You know that doesn’t work on me,” she said mildly.

“Doesn’t it?” He leaned his elbows on the counter, shameless. “I thought I saw the corner of a smile there. Almost.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Probably. Sleep-deprived. Could be hallucinating. Or maybe you just don’t want to admit you like me.”

She looked at him then and for a second, the usual noise of the ward seemed to dim. He wasn’t wearing his usual grin. Not quite. Something in his eyes had softened, just for a moment. Like he wasn’t teasing so much as hoping.

But she only said, “I think you like hearing yourself talk more than anything.”

He laughed, bright and easy, like she’d handed him a gift.

“Guilty,” he said. “But you do bring out my best material.”

She turned back to her notes, lips twitching despite herself.

“Go hand in your paperwork, Franco.”

“Aye aye, nurse,” he said, and gave her a little mock salute before heading off, flapjack still in hand.

She didn’t watch him go. Just glanced at the clock, then back at the vitals in front of her. But there was a warmth in her chest that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Barely noticeable. Like the first flicker of heat before the kettle boils.

She’d smiled at him. Not a big one, not even really a smile, if he was being honest. But something had shifted in her face, just for a second. And it had landed in his chest like a dropped pebble, sending out ripples he was still feeling three corridors later.

Franco tossed the clipboard onto the admin desk and made a vague attempt at finishing his flapjack, though it had gone a bit dry and crumbly now. He wasn’t really hungry anymore.

He didn’t know what it was about her. It wasn’t like he hadn’t met quiet ones before. Hospitals were full of them, tired eyes, steady hands, people who kept everything locked up behind calm expressions and neat uniforms. But there was something in the way she moved through the world. Like she wasn’t just quiet, she was still. Unbothered. Like nothing rushed her, not even time.

He liked the challenge of it, maybe. Or he told himself that, anyway. The way she never gave him an inch. Never flustered, never snapped, never flirted back. He couldn’t quite tell if she disliked him or just didn’t think about him much at all.

But then again, she hadn’t told him to piss off, either. That counted for something.

Still. He wasn’t in a rush. These things either unfolded or they didn’t. He could wait.

And for a little while, that was all there was.

A week later he saw her in the corridor, half a step ahead, walking beside a consultant who was talking too fast and too loud. She nodded at the right moments, but her eyes were tired. He thought about catching up, saying something, even just a quick hello, but the corridor narrowed where the gurney trolleys lined the wall, and by the time he caught up, she’d already turned left into the side ward.

Three days after that, she passed him in the car park, hood up, hands in her coat pockets. It was raining, that thin, misty kind that made everything damp without looking dramatic. Franco had just finished nights and was blinking against the dull light, head fuzzy.

She didn’t see him. Or maybe she did and didn’t say anything. He thought about calling out, waving, maybe, but she had that look about her. The closed-off one. The one that said today’s not the day.

He let her walk on.

The following Wednesday, he brought in a teenager with a panic attack. The kid was shaking so badly he couldn’t hold a cup of water. Franco stayed longer than he had to, just until the boy’s breathing evened out. She was there too, calm, efficient, offering reassurances in that quiet voice that made people believe her.

She didn’t look at Franco once. But when the lad finally managed a shaky nod, her eyes flicked over to him, just for a second, and that was enough.

Somewhere between the shifting rotas and the half-said things, Franco realised he’d stopped trying to flirt. Not because he’d lost interest, quite the opposite. It just didn’t feel right anymore. Not with her.

He didn’t want to be another joke to her. Another loud voice in a noisy room. He wanted her to know that he’d seen her, not just the soft words and the kindness, but the steel underneath it too.

But he didn’t know how to say that.

So instead, he waited.

It had been a long night when she’d let herself in with her shoulder, the door sticking like it always did when it rained. The flat smelled like fabric softener and dog biscuits, faint, familiar. Safe.

Bruno came padding down the hall before she’d even taken her shoes off, tail already thumping, head tilted like he was checking her face for signs of a good or bad day.

“Hi, you,” she said softly, crouching to greet him. “Sorry I’m late.”

He huffed in response and nudged her arm until she gave in and sat on the floor. She buried her fingers in the warm gold of his fur, let her forehead rest against the top of his head. He was patient, always. Unbothered by the hours or the silence or the fact she came home in bits sometimes, worn thin and too quiet to reach.

Eventually, she stood, fed him, had a shower that didn’t quite rinse the day away, and made tea she forgot to drink. It sat cooling on the kitchen side while she changed into joggers and an old hoodie, Bruno already sprawled across the bed like he’d paid rent.

She joined him, tugging the duvet over her legs. The silence in the flat wasn’t lonely, not usually. Just deep. Something you could sink into. Something that didn’t ask for anything back.

Sometimes she was so quiet she forgot the sound of her own voice.

It wasn’t intentional. She just didn’t always have the energy to speak if it wasn’t necessary. The job took a lot out of her, more than she let on. And when she wasn’t working, she needed the world to hush. Just for a while.

She reached out and scratched behind Bruno’s ear.

“I saw Franco today,” she murmured, like it mattered. Like it needed saying aloud. Bruno made a soft, content sound in response and shifted closer.

“He’s still him,” she went on. “Loud. Charming. Thinks he’s funny.”

She paused. Frowned a little.

“He is, though. Funny.”

Bruno blinked at her with that steady, knowing look only dogs seemed capable of. She huffed out a quiet breath and let her head fall back against the pillows.

“I don’t know what to do with people like him,” she admitted. “Ones who talk like the silence might swallow them whole if they stop.”

Another pause.

“I think he’s being careful now. With me. Like he’s waiting.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. She wasn’t used to being waited for.

There was a warmth in her chest she didn’t quite trust.

She closed her eyes, one hand still resting lightly on the soft rise and fall of Bruno’s side.

The tea went cold in the kitchen. She didn’t get up.

When Franco got home, he kicked the front door shut with his heel, dropped his rucksack in the hall, and sighed like he’d just aged ten years.

The flat was warm, a bit too bright, and smelled faintly of whatever disaster Lando had made for dinner. Something involving garlic, definitely. And possibly regret.

“Oi,” came a voice from the living room. “Don’t stomp. You sound like my nan.”

Franco ignored him and toed off his boots with a grunt. “Your abuela wishes she had my ankles.”

“You wish my nan fancied you,” Lando called back.

Franco shuffled into the kitchen first, opened the fridge, stared into it like something inspiring might appear. It didn’t. Just half a tin of beans, oat milk that wasn’t his, and a bottle of beer with someone else’s name written on the cap in Sharpie.

He took the beer anyway and wandered into the living room, where Lando was spread across one end of the sofa like a man wronged by the world.

Isack was perched at the dining table with a stack of textbooks and a face that said he hadn’t seen the sun in two days. Med school looked good on him in the same way sleep deprivation looked good on no one.

Franco flopped into the armchair, beer still unopened in his hand. “I still don’t know what to do with her.”

Isack didn’t look up. “Which ‘her’ is this?”

“The quiet nurse,” Franco muttered. “From A&E.”

Lando groaned. Loudly. “Oh my God. Not again. Between Oscar all moony over his neighbour and Max acting like a bloody Victorian poet every time he talks about that girl in the office, I do not need a third one of you.”

“She’s different,” Franco said, like that explained anything.

“They’re all different, mate. That’s how falling for someone works.”

Isack finally glanced up, pen tucked behind his ear. “What’s the problem, anyway? She married? In a cult? Secretly your sister?”

“No,” Franco scowled. “She’s just, quiet. Like, properly quiet. She doesn’t rise to it. All my best lines, nothing. She just looks at me. Calm. Like she’s got me figured out before I’ve even finished talking.”

“So basically,” Lando said, stretching, “you’re being held accountable for the first time in your life.”

Franco threw a cushion at him, which Lando dodged with veteran skill.

“I’m serious,” Franco said. “She gets to me.”

Isack offered a small, knowing smile. “Then you’ve got two choices. Keep being loud until she tunes you out completely or shut up long enough to listen.”

Franco made a face. “Shutting up’s not really my brand.”

“No,” Lando muttered. “Your brand is emotional chaos in a nice shirt.”

But Franco didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, beer forgotten, something pensive pulling at his features.

Eventually, he said, quieter this time, “She looked tired today. Not the kind you can sleep off.”

And for once, neither of them took the piss.

The following morning, Franco arrived just before the shift change, early enough to grab a lukewarm tea from the staff room and pretend he wasn’t waiting to see if she was in.

She was.

He clocked her by the nurse’s station, hair half tucked behind one ear, reading something on the screen with that familiar calm like nothing could touch her unless she allowed it. He didn’t say anything straight away, just leaned on the counter a few feet away and sipped his terrible tea.

She noticed him. Of course she did.

“You’re early,” she said, eyes still on the screen.

“You’re observant,” he replied, grinning.

This time, her lips curved just slightly. Enough to count.

“Trying out a new approach,” he added, a little more softly.

“Oh?” she glanced at him. “Which is?”

“Shutting up,” he said. “Listening. Seeing what happens.”

She tilted her head, like she didn’t quite believe him. “That’ll be a first.”

Before he could come up with something clever, the radio crackled. Voices, urgent. One incoming from a road traffic accident. Mid-twenties male, head injury, possible spinal trauma. ETA two minutes.

Franco straightened as Liam’s voice followed over the system.

They were already moving before the second line came through.

“Another one inbound, abdominal wound, unstable. Twenty-three-year-old female. Following right behind.”

“Got it,” Franco said, looking over at her. “I’ll take the second.”

She didn’t argue, didn’t even nod. Just turned and moved, brisk and focused, already pulling gloves on by the time the first trolley was wheeled in.

For a second, the world slowed.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, just that split second of awareness. Of watching someone you liked slip into their element. She looked small next to the patient, but solid. Unshakable. And he felt, absurdly, a kind of pride.

Then Liam burst in with the second patient and the noise came rushing back.

Franco grabbed gloves, snapped into motion.

The girl on the trolley was pale, shaking, her eyes wide and full of something that cut right through the clinical lighting and sterile smell of A&E. Panic. Real, raw panic.

Franco had done what he could, vitals logged, history taken, lines in, and now he stood at the edge of the room, gloves peeled off, quietly observing as she stepped in.

She didn’t say much at first. Just moved with a kind of purposeful ease, like her body already knew what to do before her mind had caught up. She checked the chart, adjusted the IV, and then crouched slightly so she was eye-level with the girl.

“Hi,” she said gently, and her voice, it was barely above a whisper. But it landed.

The girl blinked at her, chest still rising and falling too fast.

“I know it’s a lot. And it hurts. And you’re scared,” she went on, still crouched, still soft. “But you’re here now. You’re safe. And we’re going to look after you, alright?”

The girl nodded once, tears spilling, not from pain this time, but from the fragile relief that comes when someone sees you.

Franco felt something in his chest shift. It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks, no blinding revelation. Just a quiet realisation:

He really didn’t want to flirt with her anymore. He wanted to learn her.

He stepped back, one slow pace at a time, until he was out of the room. His boots squeaked slightly on the polished floor, but she didn’t look up.

Didn’t need to.

She was still with the patient. Still present. Still steady.

He lingered for a moment in the corridor, just long enough to see the girl’s breathing start to settle, her fingers unclench from the sheet. Then he turned and walked away.

Heart a little fuller than it had been twenty minutes ago.

It was nearing five by the time Franco found her again.

A&E had quietened, not completely, but enough that the chaos had thinned into tired murmurs and the beep of machines rather than the earlier storm. The air felt heavy in that particular way hospital air always did at this hour: stale coffee, sweat, something metallic under the surface.

She was by the side station, head bowed over the paperwork she probably didn’t want to be doing, pen resting against her bottom lip in thought.

But there was something else.

A weight in her shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier. The quiet she always carried had deepened, not peaceful now, but inward. Sad, maybe.

He hesitated, remembering what Isack had said.

“Shut up long enough to listen.”

So he approached, slow, careful, no big grin this time.

“You alright?” he asked softly, voice low so it didn’t startle.

She glanced up, startled anyway, but didn’t hide it quickly enough. There was tiredness in her eyes, and something behind it.

She considered, for a breath, not answering. Then sighed.

“Had a patient,” she said quietly, “a bit too close to home.” Her fingers toyed with the corner of the paper, folding it, unfolding it. “Didn’t feel good. Still doesn’t, really.”

Franco nodded, not filling the silence. Letting her have space, the way she always left space for others.

Then he reached into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, holding something out.

A little sweet, wrapped in crinkly paper. Red and white. Cheap, the kind given out in corner shops.

She frowned faintly, confused.

“I keep them for the kids,” Franco said, offering a soft half-smile. “The ones that come in the ambulance with their mums or brothers or whoever. Distracted hands, distracted mouths. Stops the panic for a minute or two.”

She looked at it. Then at him.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Small, but real.

“Sweet for a sweet nurse,” he added gently, a hint of tease now, but nothing sharp. Careful. Testing.

“Thank you,” she murmured, tucking it into the pocket of her scrub top. Her fingertips brushed the wrapper like it mattered. “That’s kind.”

He glanced at the clock behind her.

“When do you finish?” he asked, almost casually.

“Half six,” she replied softly.

Franco made a face. “Dangerous time, that. Still plenty of room for someone to say the ‘Q word’ and curse your last hour.”

She gave him a look. Almost a warning, but her mouth twitched like she might laugh if she weren’t so tired.

“I will say it,” he threatened lightly. “Or worse, the ‘S word’. You’ll never get home. Your pup’ll think you’ve left him for good.”

Her eyes widened, mock horror creeping in. But the smile stayed.

“Don’t you dare.”

“There she is,” he grinned. “Knew there was a proper person under all that quiet.”

She ducked her head, but the warmth on her face betrayed her. Just a little pink in the cheeks, just enough to be noticed.

“Careful, Franco,” she said softly. “I might actually start talking.”

He stepped back, holding up both hands in surrender.

“God forbid. I wouldn’t stand a chance if you did.”

And with that, he gave her one last wink, softer than usual, not his usual theatre, and turned down the corridor, whistling under his breath.

She watched him go, fingers still resting lightly on the little sweet in her pocket.

By the time she’d finished handover, it was almost nearing seven.

The sky outside was the pale, washed-out grey of early morning, the sort that promised drizzle later, but for now held quiet and stillness. Bank Holiday Monday meant the buses weren’t running this early, and the usual hum of traffic was oddly absent, the world not quite awake yet.

She pulled out her phone by the hospital doors, thumb hovering over the rideshare app. No cars nearby. None even close. Apparently no one drove Ubers on Bank Holiday mornings either.

Typical.

She stuffed her phone back into her pocket, slinging her bag over her shoulder with a tired sigh. Walking wasn’t ideal, twenty-five minutes to her flat, maybe thirty if she dragged her feet, but what choice did she have?

She’d just stepped off the pavement when a voice called behind her.

“Querida, where do you think you’re going?”

She turned.

Franco, in his civvies now, jeans, plain grey hoodie, hair pushed back carelessly from his face. Still grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

“Home,” she said simply.

“Not on foot, you’re not. Let me give you a lift.”

“I’m fine,” she protested, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I can walk—”

“Not a chance,” he cut in, already shaking his head. “Come on. Car’s this way.”

“You can’t afford a car,” she blurted, the words out before she could soften them. “Not on a paramedic salary.”

He gave her a scandalised look over his shoulder. “Rude. But fair.”

She bit back a smile as he carried on, waving a hand. “It’s not mine. Lando’s sister gave him her old car. We’re all on the insurance. You know how it is, flat full of public servants, no one can afford a proper vehicle on their own. Communal suffering.”

“That explains it,” she murmured, following despite herself.

“Wait ‘til you see what she left us,” Franco grinned. “You’re gonna think I’m secretly rich.”

They turned the corner to the staff car park.

There, gleaming faintly under the car park lights, sat a very clean, very out-of-place black Mercedes.

She stopped dead.

“You’re joking.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket and gave them a jangle. “I told you.”

“That’s not an old car,” she said, suspicious.

He shrugged. “Apparently she got a brand new car. This one got left behind, can you imagine what her new car is?”

She shook her head, smiling properly now, amused despite the tiredness weighing on her.

“Bet you tell all the girls you own it.”

“Only the ones I offer lifts to at seven in the morning on Bank Holidays,” he said, holding the passenger door open with a little bow.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then sighed, and slipped into the seat.

“Good choice,” he grinned, shutting the door behind her.

She gave him the address as he started the engine, a quiet road just outside town, not far from the little park she walked Bruno in. Franco nodded without comment, easing the Mercedes out of the car park and onto the near-empty street.

For a while, they drove in silence.

The city was quiet at this hour. Shop shutters down, only the odd lorry or early milk van passing them by. The radio stayed off. Franco didn’t fill the space with chatter like he usually did. It was peaceful, in a way. Comfortable.

Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket. The distinct, quiet chime of a notification she knew too well.

Franco glanced sideways. Just once. Not nosy, just curious.

“Is that a LibreLink?” he asked.

She blinked, caught off guard.

“Uhh yeah.” She shifted slightly in her seat, hand resting over the phone. “Bit low. Not bad. Just a warning.”

He nodded, eyes still on the road. Like it wasn’t strange. Like it was nothing to be embarrassed about.

“I’ve seen the scanners before,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “One of the paramedics back at station’s Type 1. Wears his on his arm like a badge of honour. Shows it off to all the new recruits like a medal.”

She smiled faintly. “I don’t really talk about it.”

Franco glanced at her again, this time for a little longer. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Don’t like the fuss. People make it a thing. Like suddenly I’m fragile or need looking after. I hate that.”

He hummed in understanding. “Makes sense.”

There was a pause. Then she added, softer, “That’s why I have Bruno.”

Franco frowned lightly, glancing sideways again. “Your lab? He’s a service dog?”

She gave a little wince. “Yeah. Well. He’s trained for alerts. I just don’t call him that. To me he’s just Bruno. Not a working dog or anything official. Feels less strange that way.”

Franco smiled, eyes flicking back to the road. “Bet he’s better company than most people.”

She let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “He is.”

Another soft silence settled between them. Comfortable. No questions. No fuss.

He drummed his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “You need anything now? Juice or something? There’s a 24 hour corner shop on the way.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay. It’s only dipped a little. Bruno’ll probably sulk at me when I get home though. He always knows.”

“Smart lad.”

“The best.”

He grinned at that, and for a moment the tiredness in her chest eased.

“Bruno the secret medic,” Franco murmured, like it was a private joke just for them. “Keeping you in line when the rest of us don’t even know we should be worried.”

She smiled properly now. Quiet, warm. The first time all shift she’d felt like herself.

It was nearly a week before she saw him again.

Another quiet morning in A&E, the shift dragging slow and dull as they waited for the usual early rush to begin. The sky outside was heavy with rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet, and the smell of cheap coffee clung to the nurses’ station like damp.

She was scribbling notes when she felt him arrive before she even looked up, that quiet shift in the air, like the world tilted slightly to make room.

“Morning,” Franco said softly, setting a cup down beside her.

She blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Proper coffee,” he grinned. “None of that machine sludge they serve you lot. Black, two sugars. Figured you might need it.”

She eyed him warily but with the beginnings of a smile. “How do you know how I take it?”

“Lucky guess,” he said with a wink. “And because I watched you make one last week.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself, wrapping her hands round the warm paper cup. “Stalker.”

“Observer,” he corrected, still grinning.

Before she could reply, a familiar voice broke in.

“Franco. You’re actually here early for once. Did someone threaten your life?”

Isack.

He was in scrubs today, badge clipped crookedly to his chest, hair slightly too long for hospital standards. His placement rotation had landed him in A&E this fortnight, much to his amusement and Franco’s suffering.

Isack glanced between them, grinning. “Well, this is nice. Haven’t seen you this quiet in... ever.”

Franco rolled his eyes. “I’m always quiet. I’m thoughtful.”

“You’re never quiet,” Isack said, laughing. He looked at her, smiling warmly. “I think you’re the only one who’s managed to keep him quiet this long. Congratulations.”

She felt her cheeks warm slightly, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Isack’s pager buzzed suddenly. He glanced down, sighing. “Ugh. They need me in resus. I’d best go before they send someone to drag me.”

A voice, a bright, clear girl’s voice, called across the corridor. “Isack! You’re late!”

He winced dramatically. “There we go. Wish me luck.”

He jogged off, leaving her frowning after him. “Who’s that?” she asked, glancing at Franco.

Franco grinned, leaning against the counter. “Ahh. Listen to this.”

She waited, sipping her coffee.

“Isack got a concussion last month. Rec uni football game, flirted with the first aider the entire time which is not like him at all.”

She raised a brow. “You’re joking.”

“Not even. She stitched him up, let him babble, and he thought he’d never see her again. Turns out she’s a final-year med student doing her placement here. Six weeks together, whether he likes it or not.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

“Serves him right,” Franco grinned. “Flirt first, think later. That’s Isack.”

She smiled into her coffee, glancing at Franco over the rim. “Sounds familiar.”

He gasped, hand to his chest in mock offence. “I am a professional, I’ll have you know.”

“Hmm.”

“Mostly.”

They stood like that a moment longer, the hum of the ward around them. For once, no hurry. No alarms. Just this strange, warm ease between them.

Then Franco pushed off the counter, nodding towards the exit.

“Better get back. Someone might actually need me today.”

She gave a small smile. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

He flashed her that grin, the one that had no right being so easy, so disarming at six in the morning, and was gone down the corridor.

The moment stretched in the space he left behind, warm and strange.

“Someone call the press,” came a voice behind her, full of wry amusement. “She’s letting someone talk to her and make her smile. Thought I’d never live to see it.”

She turned, unsurprised, to find Zeynep watching her with a knowing look, arms folded across her scrubs.

Zeynep, same year, same stubborn streak. They’d grown up two streets apart, survived secondary school and sixth form together by sheer luck and whispered back-row conspiracies. By some miracle, or curse, they’d both landed jobs here after uni, two nurses from the same tiny bit of South of England, somehow still tangled together in the same place.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, sipping her coffee.

“I’m just saying,” Zeynep grinned, stepping beside her. “It’s been, what, seven years since you let anyone get that close without shutting the door?”

She frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Zeynep’s teasing was gentle, but the truth sat quietly beneath it. She knew why. Had been there when it all cracked and broke.

Sixteen. Too young, too soft, and far too trusting. First love that had turned sharp and cruel before the summer ended, leaving splinters that never quite smoothed out. It had taken her years to feel whole again. Years to stop flinching when someone looked too long or spoke too softly.

And since then… nothing. No dates. No flings. No awkward flatmate setups. She’d made peace with it. Her own little life, her job, her quiet flat, Bruno’s steady warmth at the foot of the bed. Simple. Safe.

Lonely, sometimes. She wouldn’t lie to herself about that.

Especially in winter, when the flat felt too big. When Bruno, good as he was, refused to stay curled against her all night, padding off to his own bed with a huff. When she woke in the cold grey light of morning with an empty pillow beside her and silence stretching wide and endless.

But she’d made her choice. It was better this way.

Still.

Franco’s smile had lingered longer than she meant it to. His warmth, his ease. The gentle way he’d noticed her without making her small.

Zeynep nudged her, breaking the quiet. “He’s not bad looking, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s a flirt.”

“So? Might be good for you.”

“I’m fine.”

Zeynep raised a brow. “Bruno can’t cuddle all night. You said yourself he buggers off halfway through.”

She huffed softly, but her smile tugged anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“Someone has to be. You’ve gone feral, living alone with your dog, refusing joy. Honestly.”

She shook her head, but there was no heat in it.

Behind her coffee, behind her small smile, a quiet thought curled low and secret.

Maybe this time things could be different.

But not yet.

Slow. Careful.

Just like the rest of her quiet life.

By the time she’d finished her shift, she was pretty much spent. Bone-tired, heavy-limbed, ready to knock out the moment her head touched the pillow.

The ward was quiet as she passed back by the nurses' station, tugging her hoodie on, hair loose and messy from a long shift. She was reaching for her bag when she noticed something small resting on top.

A little wrapped sweet.

And beneath it, a note scribbled in quick handwriting.

“Keep these close? No more dropping low on shift. Can’t have you collapsing before you beat me to the coffee machine”

She stared for a moment, warmth curling low in her chest, before tucking both carefully into her pocket.

When she stepped out into the fresh air, grey and sharp with morning damp, she nearly jumped to see him there, leaning against the wall by the main entrance, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” Franco said, straightening up as she approached.

“Thank you,” she said softly, unable to help the small smile pulling at her lips.

He blinked, mock confusion written all over his face. “For what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know what.”

“No idea.”

She squinted at him, amused despite herself. “The sweet. The note. You heard the Librelink in the car, Franco.”

He held up both hands, grinning. “What? You’re diabetic? Never would’ve guessed.”

And then she realised, why he was pretending not to know.

Because in the car that day, when he’d asked, she’d mumbled that she didn’t like telling people. That she didn’t want to make a fuss. Didn’t like being that person.

Her heart warmed unexpectedly.

He remembered. And more than that, he respected it, gently keeping the quiet she’d asked for, letting her decide who knew and when.

“Idiot,” she muttered, but softly. Fond.

He grinned wider.

“Are you walking?” he asked after a beat, glancing down the street. “Because Isack nicked the car. Drove off without me. Didn’t even wait to see if I needed a lift.”

She hesitated, surprised. “Oh. Erm yeah. I was going to.”

“Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was easy, gentle. No pressure. Just a question hung lightly between them.

She blinked. “You want to walk?”

“Bit of fresh air. Company. You know. Besides—” he smiled, soft and teasing, “—someone’s got to make sure you don’t faint dramatically in the street. Can’t have you dropping like that on my watch.”

She rolled her eyes but felt the flicker of something warm. Care.

“Alright then,” she said quietly. “If you want.”

“I do.” He smiled, falling into step beside her as they set off down the pavement, the early morning light grey and gentle around them.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence between her and someone else felt easy. Comfortable. Like breathing.

Like maybe, this quiet life of hers could make room for something more.

They walked side by side, the quiet stretching comfortably between them as they made their way down the street. The town was still half-asleep; the occasional distant hum of a lorry, birds beginning to stir in the hedges. Pavements damp from the night’s rain.

“So,” Franco said after a while, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. “Do you ever actually do anything outside of work? Or is saving lives and hoarding coffee for emergencies your whole personality?”

She glanced at him, amused. “That’s rich coming from you. I seem to remember someone saying they don’t do anything but shifts and sleep.”

“True,” he grinned. “But I’ve been told I need a hobby. Something to ‘ground me’. Apparently winding up Isack and Lando doesn’t count.”

She smiled faintly. “I walk Bruno. Read a bit, when I can keep my eyes open. That’s about it.”

“Wild life you’ve got there.”

“I know. Try not to get jealous.”

He laughed, warm and soft. “No danger of that. Though Bruno does sound like my kind of flatmate. Doesn’t steal food, doesn’t use up the hot water.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “You want to swap him for Lando?”

He pretended to think. “Hmm. Bruno probably sheds less. And smells better.”

She let out a quiet laugh, surprised at how easy this was.

They reached the end of her road, where his block sat just across the street. Franco slowed, rocking back on his heels slightly.

“So, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking for once a little less smooth, a little more hesitant. “What are you doing next weekend?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Next weekend? Probably working. I usually pick up an extra shift if I’ve got nothing else.”

He made a face. “Tragic. Well, if you fancy doing something that isn’t dragging yourself through another twelve hours in A&E…” He cleared his throat. “There’s this food and craft market in the park. Real one, stalls, coffee vans, live music, the works. Thought it might be nice to go. Y’know. If you wanted. Dogs are welcome too, so Bruno’s invited.”

She glanced at him, uncertain, but there was no pressure in his voice. Just easy warmth. Like a quiet offer held out in an open hand.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly.

He smiled, wide and genuine, no teasing this time. “Good. Here—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, handing it to her. “Put your number in. Just in case you decide you want to brave the outside world.”

She hesitated a moment, then took it, tapping in her number carefully.

When she handed it back, he grinned. “There. Now I’ve got no excuse not to pester you about it.”

“You didn’t need my number for that,” she murmured, but her lips curved anyway.

“True. But now it’s official.” He tucked the phone away with a wink.

They stood there a moment longer, quiet and soft in the early morning light, before she nodded toward her door.

“I should go. Bruno’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Tell him I said hi,” Franco smiled. “And think about the market, yeah?”

“I will,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.

Then she turned, heading toward her flat, and couldn’t quite stop the small smile that stayed with her all the way upstairs.

Saturday came quicker than she’d expected.

She stood in front of the wardrobe for longer than she cared to admit, staring blankly at the hangers.

It was stupid. She knew that. It wasn’t a date. Not really. Just a market. Two colleagues. Two people who worked in the same hospital. With dogs allowed. That was all.

Still.

She tugged out a soft jumper, the cream one she hardly wore because it felt too nice for night shifts, and a pair of well-worn jeans that fit just right. Comfortable. Not trying too hard. Casual.

Bruno sat patiently by the door, tail thudding against the floor, watching her every move with quiet interest.

“What d’you think?” she asked softly, glancing at him. “Not too much? Not like I’m trying to look nice or anything?”

He huffed, resting his chin on his paws. Utterly unhelpful.

She slipped her trainers on, grabbed Bruno’s lead, and with a quiet breath, just a market, they set off.

The park was only a ten-minute walk away. The morning was crisp, the air bright and edged with the smell of coffee and damp grass. Stalls stretched along the path, their canopies flapping gently in the breeze. People wandered between them with paper cups and canvas bags, laughter and chatter weaving through the air.

And then she saw him.

Franco stood near the gate, hands tucked in his coat pockets, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning the moment he caught sight of her.

“You clean up nice,” he said easily, eyes warm as they flicked over her.

She raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “So do you.”

And he did. Jeans, a grey jumper, coat open over it, casual and simple, but he looked good. Less like the cheeky, flirty paramedic in green and more like someone real. Someone she might have passed in the street and noticed anyway.

Bruno gave a soft chuff of greeting, and Franco crouched instantly, rubbing behind the dog’s ears.

“Hello, mate. Glad you talked her into coming.”

“Don’t give him credit. I made up my own mind,” she murmured.

He grinned as he straightened. “Even better.”

They wandered slowly through the market, the crowd gentle, the pace easy. Franco didn’t rush, didn’t drag her along or fill the silence with endless chatter. When she paused at the handmade soaps stall, he waited without a word. When she eyed the coffee van, he quietly bought two cups, hers exactly how she liked it, and handed one over without asking.

As they passed a stall selling plants in tiny pots, an old man dropped his bag and Franco stooped without hesitation, helping him gather the loose apples rolling across the path, murmuring something soft in Spanish that made the old man smile.

She watched him quietly. And something shifted.

He wasn’t the loud, flirty, cheeky boy she’d thought he was. Well, he was those things. But there was more. A softness in the way he moved. The way he noticed things. Kept pace with her. Waited without fuss. Cared, in small, quiet ways that didn’t need announcing.

She’d misjudged him.

“Hey.” His voice pulled her gently from her thoughts. He nodded toward a stall selling pastries. “Hungry? I’ve been eyeing that pain au chocolat since we got here.”

She smiled, soft. “Sounds good.”

They sat on a bench with warm pastries, Bruno resting at her feet, the sounds of the market curling around them. No rush. No pressure. Just quiet comfort.

And for the first time in a long time, she realised she wasn’t counting the minutes until she could go home.

She was happy, here. With him.

They sat in easy quiet for a while, the warmth of the pastries in their hands, Bruno snuffling at fallen crumbs by her feet. The market around them had started to thin, the early morning bustle softening into lazy late-morning wandering.

She glanced at Franco from the corner of her eye.

“I owe you an apology,” she said softly.

He turned to her, brow raised. “For what?”

“For misjudging you. I thought you were all talk, you know. Flirty, cocky, all charm and no real substance.” Her thumb ran nervously along the rim of her coffee cup. “But you’re not like that. Not really.”

To her surprise, he smiled and shrugged.

“It’s fine. It’s a front, half the time. You have to be in this job. Keeps the mood light. Stops people asking questions I don’t feel like answering.” He paused, then glanced sideways at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Want to hear a piece of gossip about me? The kind the tabloids would probably lose their minds over?”

She blinked. “Go on, then.”

He leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out.

“I’ve never had a girlfriend. Not properly. Not once.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Never done the whole long-term, serious thing.” His grin softened. “They always think I have, probably because of how I am. Bit flirty. Bit loud. But I’ve never, I don’t know. Never wanted to do it halfway. Never wanted to give anyone only bits of me when they deserved all of me. So I just haven’t.”

She stared at him, thrown. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“What about you?” he asked gently, turning the question back to her.

She hesitated. But something about him, the quiet patience, the way he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t expecting, made it feel okay to say the truth.

“There was someone,” she murmured. “When I was sixteen. Thought he was it, you know? First love, all that. It was awful. Really awful.” She stared at the cobblestones in front of them. “I’m diabetic, right. Have been since I was little. And he always made me feel like a nuisance for it. Like I was difficult. A problem he had to manage.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “If my sugars spiked, he’d call me fat. If they dropped, he’d say I was being dramatic. Like I could’ve controlled it if I just tried harder.”

“Coño,” Franco breathed, his voice low and soft with something like anger beneath it. Not at her. But at whoever had done this.

“I haven’t been with anyone since,” she admitted quietly. “It’s easier. Quieter. Just me and Bruno. No one to make me feel small for something I can’t change.”

She felt the warmth of his gaze before she dared to meet it.

“You’re not a nuisance,” he said softly. “You’re not difficult. You’re brilliant. Stronger than anyone I’ve met. And what that bloke did? That’s on him. Not you. Never you.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, glancing down at the coffee cup in his hands, “I think you’re the least dramatic person I’ve ever met. Honestly. Sometimes I reckon you forget to make noise at all.”

A smile pulled at her mouth, despite herself. “Sometimes I’m so quiet I forget the sound of my own voice.”

He grinned, soft, fond. “Good thing I talk enough for two, then.”

For the first time in a long, long while, something uncurled gently in her chest. A warmth that wasn’t fear or dread or loneliness.

Maybe this didn’t have to be hard.

Maybe it could be easy. Gentle. Like this.

“You’ve been really sweet,” she said softly, glancing at him. “But not in a way that makes me feel small. Thank you for that.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sweet? Careful. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

She laughed, the sound quiet and genuine.

“I promise I won’t tell,” she teased.

And for the rest of the morning, the world felt a little less sharp. A little less lonely.

Just soft.

After that day, she felt like she was floating. Like something warm and weightless had tucked itself behind her ribs and made itself comfortable.

Cloud nine, as Zeynep would probably put it with a knowing grin.

Even the hospital’s fluorescent lights seemed less harsh, the endless patient charts less soul-draining. Bruno padded beside her in the quiet of her flat that evening, watching as she shuffled around, tidying things she didn’t usually bother with after a long shift.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Made it home from the gym without crashing. Thought you’d want to know.

She smiled to herself, thumb hovering for a moment before replying.

Good. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not certified for rescue work if you’d wrapped your car round a lamppost.

A minute later.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Shame. I was hoping you’d patch me up. Heard you’re good with hopeless cases.

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

You are a hopeless case. But apparently not beyond saving.

A typing bubble appeared. Paused. Started again.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Rude, querida. But I’ll allow it. You smiled today. I count that as a win.

Her stomach flipped in that odd, not-unpleasant way.

I might’ve smiled once or twice before today, you know.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Maybe. But this one was at me. Feels special.

She bit her lip to keep the grin from spreading too wide. Bruno nosed at her knee, as if sensing the change in her mood.

Don’t let it go to your head.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Too late. Massive ego incoming.

She laughed softly, the sound echoing through her quiet kitchen. Usually, these moments before bed felt still. Sometimes too still. The silence curling in the corners, heavy and lonely.

But not tonight.

Tonight she felt oddly light. Like for once, she wasn’t waiting for something to fall apart.

She padded to the bedroom, Bruno flopping onto the bed as usual, and sat on the edge, phone in hand, thumb lingering over the screen.

One more message.

Goodnight, Franco. Don’t crash your car tomorrow either, yeah?

A moment later.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Can’t make promises. But I’ll try extra hard if you promise to smile at me again tomorrow.

A small giggle escaped her.

Usually this would’ve made her panic. Overthink. Wonder if she was leading him on or if he’d expect something she couldn’t give.

But not tonight.

Tonight she let herself enjoy it.

She slid under the covers beside Bruno, who huffed contentedly, and let the quiet wrap round her like a blanket.

For the first time in a long while it didn’t feel empty.

It felt soft.

And maybe, just a tiny bit safe.

Franco couldn’t stop grinning.

He’d chucked his keys in the little bowl by the door, kicked off his trainers, and was now sprawled across the sofa in the lounge, phone still in hand, screen glowing softly in the dark room.

He let out a quiet, content sigh, thumb brushing the edge of the phone case.

“Uh oh,” came Lando’s voice from the hallway, full of suspicion and doom. “I know that sound.”

Franco glanced up as his flatmate appeared, damp-haired and holding a half-eaten packet of biscuits.

“What sound?” Franco asked, still smiling, still far too warm for his own good.

Lando pointed a custard cream at him like it was damning evidence.

“That” sound. The sigh of a man who’s gone soft. Don’t tell me. Is this about Nurse Mystery Girl again?"

Franco pulled a cushion over his face and groaned.

Lando cackled. “I knew it. You’re gone, mate. Completely gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Franco muttered from under the cushion. “I’m fine.”

Lando plopped down in the armchair opposite, feet up on the coffee table, grinning like Christmas had come early.

“Oh no, no, no. Don’t give me that. You’ve got that stupid smile. The ‘I met someone and now my life is sunshine and daisies’ smile. Oscar had it. Max had it. And now you’ve got it.”

Franco peeked out from the cushion. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that.” Lando crunched his biscuit dramatically. “You’ve got feelings. Real ones. Actual human emotions. Someone call the papers.”

Franco let the cushion drop and scrubbed a hand through his hair, still grinning despite himself. “She’s just different.”

Lando raised a brow. “Different how?”

“She’s quiet. Really quiet. But not boring-quiet. She listens. Like properly listens. And when she does talk it matters. None of that endless small talk crap.”

Lando smirked. “So basically the opposite of you.”

“Tonto,” Franco threw a cushion at him. “Rude.”

“True, though.” Lando caught the cushion easily. “You’re all mouth and charm until someone like her comes along and shuts you right up.”

Franco smiled again, softer this time. “She’s...I don’t know. There’s something about her. The way she smiled today. And she giggled when I gave her a treat to bring home for Bruno. Like...really giggled. I made her laugh.”

Lando let out a long, low whistle. “You’re doomed, mate. Properly doomed.”

“I don’t care,” Franco said simply, leaning his head back against the sofa. “She’s brilliant. And gentle. And funny, when she lets it slip. And she thinks I’m a hopeless case but still smiles at me anyway.”

Lando studied him for a moment, the grin slipping into something closer to fondness.

“You’ve got it bad, Francesca."

“Maybe,” Franco admitted. “But you know what? I don’t mind. Feels nice. Like something good, for once. And that’s not my name.”

Lando laughed softly, shaking his head. “Look at you. All lovey-dovey in the lounge. What’s next? Writing poetry? Flowers? Little love notes tucked in her locker?”

Franco grinned wider. “Maybe.”

Lando groaned. “Max and Oscar are already unbearable. Now you?”

“Better get used to it, mate,” Franco said, stretching with a satisfied sigh. “This isn’t going anywhere.”

And it wasn’t. He could feel it, low and certain in his chest.

She was special.

And for the first time in a long time, so was this.

A few days later, A&E was its usual cocktail of chaos and caffeine. Zeynep was half-leaning over the nurses' station, fiddling with a broken biro, while she stood beside her, chewing the inside of her cheek like it might offer answers.

“But you have to ask,” Zeynep said, voice low but firm. “You’ve already called me useless twice and I live in a shoebox flat that doesn’t even allow houseplants, let alone dogs.”

She sighed, arms crossed tight over her chest. “I know. It’s just, it feels weird. Asking him.”

Zeynep snorted. “Barely know? You’ve been texting him every night for a week and he makes you giggle like a sixth former. He’d probably say yes to kidney donation if you smiled at him long enough.”

“Zeynep.”

“What? I’m just saying. Use your powers.”

She shook her head, cheeks warm, and was mid-way through groaning when a familiar voice floated into the space beside them.

“All right, ladies?” Franco appeared, looking far too cheerful for someone on a double shift, lanyard swinging loosely around his neck, hair still damp from the drizzle outside.

Zeynep looked between the two of them like she was watching a live-action romance series. “Maybe he can be your knight in shining armour.”

Franco raised a brow. “Bit early for declarations of chivalry, but go on.”

Her face flushed immediately. “Ignore her.”

He looked amused. “Tempting, but now I’m intrigued.”

She hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I need someone to look after Bruno. Just for a day.”

Franco blinked. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, then added, “Well. Sort of. My mum’s not been well. Nothing life-threatening, just stubborn and full of complaints as usual. I said I’d come check in, but she’s allergic to dogs, and none of my perfect siblings who live ten minutes away want to help her.”

Her jaw clicked slightly as she tensed, clearly hating the words even as she said them.

“And I can’t leave him alone that long,” she added. “He’s not just a dog.”

“I’ll do it,” Franco said, without a beat.

She blinked. “You can’t. You’ve got work. Or other plans. Or a life.”

Franco tilted his head. “You think my life’s more exciting than it is.”

“You don’t have to say yes out of pity.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Text me what day and what time you need me at yours. I’ll be there.”

She opened her mouth to argue again, but he raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

“And before you call yourself a nuisance,” he said, “I’m doing it for Bruno, not you.”

That earned a startled little laugh, the kind that bubbled up before she could suppress it. Her cheeks warmed, eyes soft.

He smiled. “Although if you want to say thank you with a coffee, I won’t say no.”

She gave him a look somewhere between fond and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “Text me.”

Then he turned and walked off, whistling under his breath, as though the whole thing hadn’t just made her entire face burn.

Zeynep leaned in again. “You so owe me.”

She shook her head slowly. “He just volunteered. I didn’t even ask.”

“Exactly,” Zeynep grinned. “That’s when you know.”

She sighed and glanced down at her phone, thumb hovering over his contact name.

Bruno was going to love him, she was sure of it.

But the part that scared her more, was that she already kind of did too.

On the day itself, Franco wasn’t just on time. He was early.

She’d barely finished tying the laces on her battered trainers when she heard the knock, soft, three taps, at the door. Bruno padded over before she did, tail wagging, already familiar with the scent that came with the man standing outside.

“Morning,” Franco greeted, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, hair. “Ready for your big day of family drama?”

She smiled, tired but honest. “As I’ll ever be.”

His eyes flicked down to Bruno, who sat loyally by her feet, big golden eyes glancing between the two humans as if waiting for instructions.

“I drove,” Franco said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Thought I’d offer you a lift to the station. No point wrestling with buses when you’ve got me for free.”

She hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re very persistent, you know.”

“Part of my charm.”

In the end, she agreed. Because for once, it felt easy to say yes. Bruno trotted out happily, tail swaying like a banner as she locked the door behind them.

Franco held the passenger door open for her, and Bruno, who leapt straight into the back seat without hesitation, tongue lolling.

“You’re sure you’re fine with him all day?” she asked, glancing back at Bruno, who’d already made himself at home on the back seat like he ruled the place.

Franco threw her a sideways glance. “Please. He’s the best company I’ve had in weeks. Better conversationalist than Lando, that’s for sure.”

That pulled a laugh from her, small but real. The kind of laugh she hadn’t felt properly in a while.

Maybe, she thought as she buckled her seatbelt, today might actually be, good.

The drive was quiet, Bruno snoozing in the back. Franco humming along to something on the radio, nothing loud or obnoxious, just soft background sound, like company that didn’t press.

When they reached the station, he helped her out with the bag of things she’d packed, handing it over without fuss.

“Text me when you want me to pick you up,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

She shook her head, smiling. “Don’t tempt me with free taxis.”

He gave a low laugh and stepped back, giving her space to go, but not before tossing her a final grin.

“I’ve got him. Go do what you need to do. No rush.”

And just like that, no pressure, no fuss, she turned and headed to the front door, feeling oddly lighter. Like maybe this wasn’t going to be such a horrible day after all.

The visit started well enough.

Her mum had always been stubborn, and age hadn’t softened that. The flat smelled of lavender and old radiators, and the heating was turned up far too high, a typical habit she never quite gave up, even when the weather outside was warm.

“I don’t need fussing over,” her mum said the moment she stepped through the door, sitting with her dressing gown pulled tight and her feet up. “I’ve told you. It’s not as bad as they all made out.”

But she fussed anyway. Made tea. Checked the tablets were in their organiser. Topped up the fridge with the things she’d brought in her bag. Cleaned the kitchen while her mum complained that she’d “make herself old before her time, looking after everyone else like this.”

It was meant with love, but it grated. Like sand under the skin.

Somewhere between folding washing and changing the sheets, the real digging started.

“You know,” her mum said lightly, sipping her tea as she watched from the armchair, “you really should think about finding someone. A nice man. Settle down. You’re not getting younger, love.”

She stiffened. Kept folding. A shirt. A pair of pyjama bottoms.

“I’m fine as I am.”

Her mum clicked her tongue. “That’s what you say. But I don’t want you ending up lonely. You’ve got your nice little flat, and that dog, but dogs don’t keep you warm in bed when you’re seventy, do they? Your sister’s got her husband. Your brother’s got Sarah and the baby—”

“And I’m fine,” she said, sharper than she meant to, turning to face her. “Maybe I like my life. Maybe I like quiet. Maybe I don’t want to end up tied to someone who makes me feel small just so you can tell your friends I’ve settled down.”

Silence. The kind that filled the whole room, thick and slow.

Her mum set the mug down. “I didn’t mean—”

But something in her cracked, brittle from the weight of the day.

“If you want to pick on me all day,” she said, voice tight, “why don’t you get one of your perfect other children to look after you with their perfect little husbands and wives and kids?”

It dropped like a stone.

Her mum stared. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. The guilt came in fast and hot.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just—” She opened her eyes. “I think I’m going to go. Get the train back. You’ve got the neighbours if you need anything.”

Her mum sighed, softer this time. “I just want you to be happy, love.”

“I know. But right now I just need to go home.”

She picked up her bag, heart tight in her chest. The familiar ache of old arguments. Of trying to smile and let it slide. But today it stuck fast, and she was too tired to smooth it over.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” she said gently, slipping out before the tears could sting.

The platform was half-empty when she arrived at the station, Bruno’s lead absent in her hand, her bag feeling heavier than it was. She checked the train times. Next one in fifteen minutes. Fine. She could make it. She just wanted to get home.

To quiet. To space.

To Bruno.

And maybe... to Franco.

By the time she pushed her front door open, the world felt oddly distant, like her head was full of cotton wool, everything just a little too slow, a little too far away.

Bruno was on her in a flash.

His big golden weight bounced up, paws against her thighs, tail wagging fast, but his head tipped sideways, nudging insistently against her stomach, the way he only did when he sensed something was off.

She managed a faint smile, fingers brushing over his soft ears. “Someone missed me…” she murmured, but her voice came out thinner than she meant. Weak. She blinked hard, trying to clear the fog creeping into her eyes.

“Hey—” Franco’s voice came from the kitchen, soft but quick. He appeared in the doorway, tea forgotten on the side. One look at her face and he was there, crossing the room in three long strides. “You alright?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, but the room tilted, just slightly, and she swayed against the doorframe.

Franco reached out immediately, steadying her with gentle hands on her elbows. His brow knit in quiet worry.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. But even as she said it, the tremble in her hands betrayed her.

Franco gave a tiny shake of his head. No panic. No fuss. Just calm. “Sit down, cariño. Now. Come on.”

He guided her gently towards the sofa, Bruno padding anxiously at her heels. When she sat, her fingers curled weakly in the fabric of her trousers, breath coming shallow and fast.

“Did you miss the notification?” Franco crouched in front of her, pulling her bag round from where it hung on her shoulder. “I thought I heard it.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slow. “Forgot to check. On the train…”

“I know. Happens.” His voice was warm, low, steady as his hands found the zipped side pocket where he knew she kept her glucose tabs. No rummaging. No asking. Like he’d paid attention every time she’d pulled them out before.

He pressed two into her palm. “Here. No arguing.”

She obeyed without thinking, sharp sweetness dissolving on her tongue, blinking slowly as the world came back into focus, colours sharpening, sounds lifting, the fog clearing.

When she looked at him again, Franco’s face was close, gentle and full of quiet patience.

“You could’ve called me from the station, idiota,” he said softly, smiling. “I’d have come straight away. Why didn’t you?”

She gave a weak huff of laughter. “Didn’t want to be a nuisance.”

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“You’re not. Not ever.” His hand found hers, warm and solid against her fingers. “This isn’t a nuisance. It’s you. You’re not a nuisance. And I like all of it. Even the part that lets Bruno tell on you before you realise something’s wrong.”

She smiled, for real this time, small and crooked.

“Even Bruno agrees,” he added with a chuckle, glancing down at the dog who was watching them intently from the rug.

A slow warmth bloomed in her chest. All the years she’d spent hiding this part of herself, making it small, keeping it quiet, afraid of being ‘too much’ felt a little lighter now. Like the weight of it wasn’t just hers anymore.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel like it wasn’t a burden,” she murmured.

“Then they were idiots,” Franco said softly, eyes bright. “Every single one of them.”

She let her head tip back against the sofa, a smile curving her mouth. The fog was lifting. And in its place, something warm and easy settled.

“Stay for dinner?” she asked gently.

His grin was bright, boyish, utterly full of joy.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

By the time her blood sugar had settled and the shaky edge of the hypo had faded, she felt something else creeping in, the familiar, creeping ache of tiredness. But Franco was still there, hovering in the kitchen like he belonged, sleeves shoved up, hair a little mussed. Bruno was stretched out across the rug, head on paws, watching the world with soft eyes.

She smiled faintly as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Gotta make you tea,” she said quietly, padding barefoot into the kitchen.

Franco glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “Only if you let me make dinner. I don’t trust you not to pass out in the middle of a microwave ready meal.”

She gave him a look, half amusement, half mock-scolding. “I can feed myself, you know.”

“I know. But I’m already here. And you’re knackered.” He turned back to the fridge. “Let me look after you a little bit, por favor.”

There was something in the way he said it, not pity, not fussing, just simple care. Warm, gentle. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to want to make someone dinner because you liked them.

So she let him.

They made pasta, nothing fancy, just penne with roasted peppers and garlic, and far too much cheese grated over the top. She leaned against the counter, barefoot, tired in that soft, loose way that didn’t feel so heavy anymore. He moved easily beside her, sleeves still pushed up, humming some quiet tune under his breath.

Bruno curled up by the door, snoring gently.

“I could get used to this,” Franco said after a while, tossing a pepper strip into his mouth.

“What, raiding my kitchen?”

“Cooking for you,” he said simply, flashing her a smile. “Being here. Feels easy.”

She felt the warmth creep into her cheeks, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled low in her chest, quiet and sweet.

They ate curled on the sofa with plates balanced on knees, Bruno snuffling by their feet. And when the plates were cleared and the quiet of the flat settled over them like soft dusk, Franco didn’t reach for his keys.

He turned towards her instead, sitting cross-legged on the cushion beside her.

“Can I say something?” he asked gently.

She looked at him, heart soft and slow. “Of course.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little boyish, a little shy.

“I like this. You. Bruno. Even the hypo alarms and the way you pretend you’re not tired when you are. I like all of it.” His dark eyes met hers, steady and honest. “And I know you’ve spent a long time thinking you had to do everything alone. But you don’t. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat felt thick. She swallowed.

“Franco…”

He smiled. Small. Quiet. And then, softly, carefully, so slowly she could’ve stopped him a hundred times, he leaned in.

His hand came to rest on her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye, feather-light.

“Can I?” he whispered.

Her breath caught.

“Yes,” she said, voice barely more than a breath.

And then he kissed her, soft, gentle, like the world had slowed to this single moment. No hurry. No heat. Just warmth, and sweetness, and the quiet promise of something that could be safe and steady and real.

When he pulled back, she found herself smiling without meaning to. A proper, easy smile that made her chest ache in the best way.

“See?” he murmured. “Easy.”

She laughed softly, leaning her forehead against his.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Easy.”

Bruno gave a little snuffing sigh from the floor.

“And you,” Franco said, glancing down at the dog. “Best wingman in the world.”

She chuckled, warmth blooming quietly in her chest.

For the first time in a very long time, her little flat didn’t feel quite so quiet. Or quite so empty.

Following that night, Franco spent almost every evening in her bed, grumbling, as predicted, that Bruno took up far more space than any dog rightfully should.

“He’s small,” she’d argue sleepily, curled under the covers as Franco tried to shove the labrador’s hefty backside out of the way.

“He’s massive, cariño. And he’s doing this on purpose. Look at him, smug as anything.”

But he never made him move. And in the quiet that followed, with the soft hum of the city outside and Bruno’s gentle snores filling the dark, she’d sometimes lie awake for a moment longer, smiling into the pillow.

Franco introduced her properly to Lando and Isack not long after.

“About bloody time,” Lando had said, grinning as he handed her a beer at the barbecue they’d dragged her to one sunny Sunday. “He never shuts up about you, you know. Never. You’ve saved us, now he spends the nights at yours instead of waking us up at stupid o’clock singing in the kitchen.”

And she liked them, she liked the way they fit around Franco, noisy and teasing and full of warmth. She liked, even more, that they thanked her sincerely for ‘taking him off their hands’, and when she mentioned, half-joking, that they had a spare room if they ever missed Franco, they did exactly that six months later, and stayed for a week when their boiler exploded.

Life moved gently after that. Sweet and slow.

They chose, together, never to get engaged, not out of fear or hesitation, but as a quiet rebellion against the noise of expectation. Against the pressure that had hung, for so many years, in the background of her life, her mother’s endless sighing wishes for the white dress, the ring, the photographs on the mantelpiece.

“No rings?” Franco had asked softly, tracing her bare hand with his thumb.

“No rings,” she’d smiled. “Not for us.”

And he’d kissed her for it, slow and sweet and sure.

A few years on, one cold January, he’d come home from a long shift, cheeks pink with cold, and said, quite suddenly:

“Come to Argentina with me. I want you to meet my parents.”

She’d gone, of course, flown halfway across the world with Bruno stuffed in his travel carrier and her hand tight in Franco’s as they stepped out into the warmth of Buenos Aires. She’d eaten empanadas in the garden while his mother fussed over her and his father taught her the names of the birds in the trees.

“I could live here, you know,” Franco had grinned one late evening as they wandered by the sea, barefoot in the warm sand. “Open a little clinic. You could work at the hospital in the city. Bruno would love the beaches.”

She’d laughed, called him a dreamer, but six years later, that was exactly what they did.

A quiet little house by the coast, sea breezes and sun-warmed tiles and the smell of salt and lemons in the air.

He worked with the emergency services there, still grumbling when he got woken for the early shift, still flashing that warm grin as he tugged on his boots.

And she found a place in the local hospital, gentle and slow, with patients who called her mi amor and left baskets of fruit by her desk.

Bruno grew old by the sea, greyer around the muzzle, slower on the sand, but always with them. Always part of the quiet life they’d built, steady and real and soft.

And in the quiet of warm evenings, with the sea sighing outside and Franco’s hand tucked in hers on the sofa, she sometimes thought, maybe this was the ending she’d never dared to hope for.

No rings. No noise. Just love. Just them.

And that was enough.

Always enough.

the end.

comment if you'd like to be on the taglist for this universe, next up firefighter!lando

taglist: @rebelatbay @fictionalfanatic123 @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

flat next door/station down the road taglist: @f1enthusiastsstuff @luminouskalopsia @f1boistrash @pandora108 @obxstiles @cinderellawithashoe @breiiology @sunshinesafteycar @coffeebeforewater @taetae-armyyyyy @capricornito @ravenrage27 @bowielovesyou @adalynneva @hreader7 @ladyliberty6 @isotopemylove @scarsoncherryglass @samanthaw16 @lauvender-bolter @oxforce @padwanoftheyear @fangirlmusicbiashoe @papayainsectorone @le-le-lea

377 notes · View notes