#idk it just feels something is missing and rushed

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (9) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael now live parallel lives—close in distance but distant as strangers. After a school field trip to the zoo, you get injured and are rushed to the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, straight to Michaels ER.

Word: 4971

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Bleeding from the ear, and Vomiting

Authors Note: Hello! Thank you for all the love on the last part. Lol I love seeing your guys comments and reactions. They crack me upppp. Couple more parts and this fic with come to a end🥲. Depending on season 2 maybe I'll write a spin off/Continuation of some sort 🤨??? or maybe I'll leave a good thing be. Idk this is all up in the air and just ideas. If I did continue it won't be until next year YIKES. Long way from now. But if you guys want it i'll prob do it lol very much a people pleaser 😭 also determined to finsihed eyes on me lol okay anyway. enjoy!!! - ryn

3 Months Later

Since that day—that morning where it ended—you and Michael had kept your distance. It wasn’t easy. Living across the hall meant you still saw each other constantly. You crossed paths in the elevator, passed in the lobby, caught glimpses through cracked doors. But it was different now. Cautious. Careful. The warmth was gone.

It was like reverting back to how things were in the beginning—only worse. Not acquaintances. Less than that. Strangers.

There were no more lingering glances, no more easy conversations or shared errands. No more moments where he helped you without being asked, like he just knew. Now it was all stiff nods and the occasional muttered “hey” or “hi,” as if everything between never happened or existed.

Your lives—once a single, tangled line—had split. Still running close, still crossing the same thresholds, but no longer connected. Now they moved in parallel. Close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

You missed him. Not just being around him—but him. The version only you knew. The one who stayed late, who looked out for you, who let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Now, it was like he barely looked your way. Just quick hellos, if that. And even those felt heavy.

Still, every time you saw him, you wondered if he missed you too.

And maybe—just maybe—you knew he missed you too.

But neither of you said a word.

Michael had been the first person to remind you what it felt like to be truly cared for. Losing that connection hurt deeply. But even without him, you were learning how to stand on your own. You are in a better place

After years stuck in a toxic, neglectful relationship with Aiden, you finally chose yourself. No more waiting to be seen or heard. You were rebuilding, piece by piece—stronger, quieter, more certain.

It was something Michael said the last time you saw him that stayed with you. His voice was calm but firm: “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

Those words gave you the push you needed to walk away.

After breaking up with Aiden, the silence was deafening at first. No shouting, no blame, no empty promises—just quiet. And for once, that quiet felt like space you could breathe in, not suffocate.

You weren’t completely free yet. There were days when memories clawed at you, when loneliness crept in like a shadow. But with each morning you woke up without him, you felt a little stronger. A little more whole.

And Michael? Seeing him after everything—it wasn’t easy. There was a tension, a distance between you that hadn’t been there before. You still felt guilty for how things ended with him. But beneath it all, you knew one thing: his words had helped you find yourself again. Even if your connection had changed, that truth remained.

—

This morning, you had left your apartments at the same time, walking side by side in silence. No words. No eye contact. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway—too close, too quiet.

He let you step into the elevator first, then slipped into his usual corner—like always. The space between you felt heavier than it should’ve in such a small box.

And every time you rode the elevator with him now, your mind drifted back to that morning. The one where everything shifted. The one where he had looked at you like he couldn’t wait another second. Where his hands trembled on your skin and nothing else existed. That morning where—for a moment—you both stopped pretending.

Now, you only pretended. Pretended not to miss it. Pretended not to look at him out of the corner of your eye. Pretended he wasn’t right there, close enough to touch, but choosing not to.

Then, suddenly—you don’t know why—you turned your head and glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

Michael stood there, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, AirPods in. He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Normally, he’d say hello—or at least acknowledge you—but today wasn’t one of those days.

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

Because the truth was, he missed you. Every time he saw you, felt your presence so close yet unreachable, it tore at something inside him.

But talking—to break the silence—meant opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close. It meant risking everything he’d been trying to hold together.

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

You stepped out first, heart pounding, words caught in your throat. By the time the two of you made it through the lobby and out to the street, you found yourself saying, “Have a good day.”

Still, he ignored you.

Without a word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

—--

It had been a good day.

There was a field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, and the fifth graders had been buzzing with excitement since they got off the bus. They darted from exhibit to exhibit in loose clusters, calling out animal facts they half-remembered from class, pointing at the gorillas, giggling at the flamingos, and dramatically gagging when they passed smelly enclosures. 

You smiled through the chaos, constantly scanning the crowd, reminding them to walk—not run—while answering a steady stream of “Can we go there next?” and “Do we have to stay with our buddy?”

By the time the group began gathering near the exit to prepare for departure, the kids were hot, tired, and still somehow full of energy—trading animal facts, snacks, and complaints about the long walk back to the bus.

You turned to check on one of your students—and your foot caught on a backpack left sprawled across the pavement.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

You passed out for a few minutes before slowly waking up. When your eyes opened, your other 5th grade teachers and your students gathered around you, worried. 

A sharp pain pulsed through your head. When you touched the side of your face, your fingers came away wet—your ear was bleeding.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy and unsteady. Panic flickered in your chest.

“Are you okay, Miss?” a student asked, voice trembling.

You forced a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure.

One of the teachers noticed the blood coming from your ear when you touched it. They knew something was wrong—you needed to get to the hospital.

You tried to protest, insisting you were fine, but the other teachers wouldn’t hear it. Their concern was firm—they knew you needed medical attention. They called an ambulance, and took care of your kids as you headed to the hospital.

“Okay, we’re headed to PTMC,” the driver said to his partner in the back with you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. No. You didn’t want to go there. Michael worked there.

“What? N-no, can’t you take me to Allegheny?” you asked, your voice shaking as you glanced up at the paramedic trying to stem the bleeding from your ear.

“Miss, PTMC is closer. Allegheny is too far,” the paramedic replied, his tone calm but unyielding.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you hard. Before you could stop it, you threw up—your body reacting to the pain and shock.

The paramedics quickly handed you a bag, their expressions gentle but focused. Your head throbbed fiercely, and the thought of seeing Michael at PTMC made the room feel even more overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, gripping the stretcher tightly as the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle started moving. Outside, the world blurred past the windows, but inside, your mind spun with pain, fear, and an ache far deeper than the injury itself.

—-

It was busy in the ER today—loud, chaotic, the usual blur of motion and noise. Monitors beeped steadily in the background, gurneys rolled down hallways, voices called out orders and vitals in clipped tones. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of adrenaline and urgency.

Michael worked hard and efficiently, his hands steady and his voice calm as he checked charts, issued instructions, and answered questions. Every task was precise and practiced. But despite his focused exterior, his heart wasn’t fully in it today. Beneath the surface, his mind drifted elsewhere.

For some reason, you were heavy on his mind—ever since he saw you that morning in the elevator. Though he went about his work with his usual efficiency, every time he glanced up or caught a quiet moment, his thoughts slipped back to you. That brief encounter stirred something beneath his calm exterior, making it harder than usual to focus.

Even as he moved through the chaos of the ER, you lingered in the corners of his mind—a quiet weight he couldn’t shake. Each task felt automatic, mechanical, like he was running on autopilot 

At the nurses’ station, Dana glanced toward Michael as he passed by, pausing briefly. His eyes scanned the triage monitor for a moment before he continued on his rounds.

“What’s his vibe today?” Dana asked, peering over the top of her glasses as she flipped through a stack of charts.

Jack didn’t look up from the computer. “Full-on rain cloud.”

Dana let out a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Jack finally glanced up. “Yeah. Barely talking. Just doing his rounds like a ghost.”

Dana frowned slightly. She hadn’t had a real catch-up with Robby in a while.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything beyond patient loads and charts in weeks,” she murmured.

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. He’s been keeping things tight. You can tell he’s holding something in… and it’s not just stress.”

Dana sighed, looking up from the computer. “It’s been—what? Three months since they stopped talking?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Michael enter an exam room. “He’s doing okay. Better than a few months ago, for sure. But I think today’s one of those days where he’s really missing her.”

Jack added quietly, “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He’s always been good at hiding what’s really going on.”

Dana didn’t respond right away, distracted by the faint sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Looks like a bus just pulled up,” she said, glancing toward the ambulance bay.

Jack turned, following her line of sight. Through the glass doors, he spotted the rig backing in, its lights still flashing. The paramedics moved quickly, unloading a gurney from the back, getting ready to wheel someone inside.

“I got it,” he said, already moving toward the doors.

“Alright, what do we got?” 

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him. 

“Mid-20s female, teacher on a zoo field trip. She tripped over a backpack and hit her head on the pavement. She lost consciousness briefly after the fall. There’s blood coming from her ear. She vomited on the way here and reported dizziness and nausea and is currently somewhat disoriented.”

“Exam Room 13’s open!” Dana called out as she overheard part of the paramedics’ briefing.

The gurney rolled past the nurses’ station in a blur of motion—wheels rattling, footsteps fast. Dana glanced up from her charts and files to get a quick look at the incoming patient… and froze.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face as she stood up straighter, instinctively stepping out onto the floor. Her heart skipped. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

It was you.

You looked pale, out of it—a plastic bag clutched in your hand, vomit on your shirt, and a smear of dried blood trailing from your ear. But it was unmistakably you.

The same woman she’d seen, playing around with Michael in aisle 9 of the grocery store fighting over cookies. 

Jack was already directing the paramedics to Exam Room 13, calling for trauma supplies as he moved alongside the gurney.

Dana stood abruptly, eyes darting around the ER. Looking for Michael.

Shit. Where’s Robby? Which wing did he go? She thought.

“Jack!” she called, rushing after him. She fell into step beside him as they wheeled you. 

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

“It’s her!” she hissed, voice low but urgent.

“Who?”

“The friend-neighbor-almost-something-—her,” Dana said, eyes wide. “Robby’s girl.”

Dana watched as Jack’s head whipped to face her. His expression shifts—from confusion to clarity, then to something dangerously close to dread.

Jack stopped short, turning just in time to see the gurney disappear into Exam Room 13. His expression changed instantly.

He looks at Dana again “That was her? Are you sure?” 

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tell him.”

Dana’s brows knit. “Are you sure? After everything… you know how torn up he was…well still is” she trailed off, uncertain. “I mean, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “He still cares about her, still feels things for you. You know he does.”

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

“He’s not over her, Dana. Not even close. No matter how messy the fallout was, he’d want to know. And if he finds out she was here and we kept it from him…”

“He’d never forgive us,” Dana finished, already nodding.

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

“Look I’ll take care of her, find him as soon as you can and tell him. Okay?” 

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions. 

—

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead felt like too much—too bright, too sharp—cutting through the fog in your skull. Your stomach churned again, sour and unsettled. You’d already thrown up in the ambulance, the evidence smeared across your shirt, and the nausea still clung to you, heavy and unrelenting. It was like your body couldn’t decide if it was in pain or panic.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—helped you onto the exam table from the gurney, guiding you gently as you sat down.

“Let’s get you settled,” she said calmly.

You nodded, though the movement made your head throb and your stomach turn.

Princess moved with calm precision, wrapping a cuff around your arm to check your blood pressure and attaching monitors to track your vitals. She was already prepping the IV, her hands steady, practiced.

“Pressure’s a little low,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You closed your eyes as the needle slid into your arm, trying to focus on her calm voice instead of the pounding in your head.

She grabbed a damp cloth and gently began wiping the vomit from your shirt, doing the best she could to clean you up while keeping you comfortable.

“You’re doing okay,” she said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Princess noticed the shift in your expression—the way your face paled. Without a word, she grabbed a plastic basin and placed it gently in your lap.

“Just in case,” she said softly.

A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped in, wearing navy scrubs and a calm, focused expression.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he said as he approached. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Jack

The name stood out. Michael’s friend—he’d mentioned him a couple of times. Quick stories, casual references. You never met him, but the name stuck.

Now here he was, standing in front of you. And suddenly, it all felt just a little more real.

To Jack, you were more than just another patient. You were her—the neighbor, the teacher, the one Michael couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who shattered him.

He was torn. Part of him wanted to resent you. Another part couldn’t help but feel sorry—for both you and Michael. It hurt watching Michael suffer in silence, burying his feelings under layers of composure. But there was sadness for you too—because Jack knew you were still clinging to something broken. A relationship that should’ve ended long ago.

But none of that mattered now. He needed to take care of you—not only because it was his job, but for Michael. 

You and Jack locked eyes. Neither of you spoke, but something passed between you—an unspoken recognition. You both knew each other through Michael, even if you’d never met before. And in that silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of everything that wasn’t being said.

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said gently.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts.

“I tripped over a student’s backpack. I fell… hit my head on the side,” you said, your voice a little shaky.

Princess, at the computer nearby, typed quickly, capturing every detail.

“You passed out? For how long?”

“I don’t know. No more than 5 minutes?”

“And you feel nauseous?” Jack takes notice of the dried blood from your ear. 

“Yes” He brought his hands up, feeling your head, and then he felt it. A squishy part on the side of your head. 

Shit. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he gently pressed around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. His mind raced—without a CT scan, he knew the injury was serious. How severe, though, remained uncertain.

“Okay, stay still for me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get a CT scan to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He says to the Princess, but also to you.

You nodded, swallowing hard, the dizziness and nausea pressing harder with every breath.

Princess looked up from her computer. “I’m alerting neurology and radiology now.”

Jack forced a steady breath, trying to stay composed though inside, worry tightened its grip.

Your stomach lurched, and you vomited into the plastic basin Princess had handed you earlier. Jack stepped back slightly, giving you room but keeping his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign of worsening condition.

Princess moved quickly to help, she handed you a clean towel and quietly assured you as you wiped your face.

Princess stepped over, grabbing a pair of gloves and a warm saline wipe.

You flinched as she dabbed gently at the dried blood near your ear, trying not to let it sting. 

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

Jack watched closely but because the signs were impossible to ignore. The dried blood near your ear, the squishy spot on the scalp, the nausea and dizziness—they all pointed to something serious. Possibly a skull fracture.

Until the scan came back, there wasn’t much he could confirm. But in his gut, he already knew this wasn’t minor.

He reached for a chart from the counter, flipping it open and beginning to write. His pen scratched quickly across the paper, but he kept looking up every few seconds—checking your breathing, your pallor, the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Princess adjusted the bed slightly, propping it up so you could sit comfortably. She hands you a new plastic basin. She takes the used wipes and throws it in the trash along with her gloves and goes to wash her hands. 

You glanced at him, searching. “Did… did Michael send you?”

Princess moved to gather the extra materials they hadn’t used, placing them neatly on the supply rack. Her movements were quiet, efficient, but her attention never strayed far. She listens closely. 

Jack shook his head. “No. Robby doesn’t know you’re here… at least not yet.”

At that, Princess froze for just a moment. She didn’t know the full story, but it was clear you and Michael were connected. Her eyes flicked to Jack, widening slightly. A silent exchange passed between them—brief, but unmistakable.

Jack sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what she was thinking—the bet she and several other staff had made a few weeks ago at the bar about Michael having a girlfriend. Now was not the time.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, silently warning: Don’t even think about it. He shook his head slightly.

You hadn’t noticed the exchange. Your eyes closed, feeling dizzy, your head throbbing. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Princess gave an innocent, almost playful raise of her eyebrows, but beneath it was something calculating. She grabbed a chart out of Jack's hands and scurried out of the room, leaving a faint echo of footsteps behind her.

Jack remained still, watching her retreat. His jaw tightened, mouth pressed into a hard line. In the ER, whispers traveled faster than code blue alarms—money and rumors would be swirling in less than a few minutes. 

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief second. He’ll deal with it later he tells himslef.

Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you—pale, clearly worn down.

You swallowed hard, the dizziness still buzzing faintly at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“He’ll know,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat with certainty. “He’ll come rushing in here once he finds out—I guarantee it.”

“He likes you—a lot, cares for you deeply” he said, matter-of-fact, like it was the plainest truth in the world. “I’ve seen him talk about people before—patients, colleagues, even exes. But never like this.”

Your eyes flicked open. Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You didn’t interrupt. His words caught you off guard—soft but heavy.

“With you… it’s different,” Jack said. “He’s not the guy who makes big declarations. But his actions? Loud as hell.”

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours—not confrontational, just honest.

“That day—after everything fell apart—he barely said a word.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “He didn’t say much. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. Michael’s the silent type. Shove it down, suffer alone. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t fall easily. And he sure as hell doesn’t bounce back quickly.”

And didn’t you know it—you ruined what you two had. You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said.

Jack finally met your eyes. There wasn’t anger—just a tired kind of clarity. “Maybe not. But it still happened.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

“My instinct is to tell you to continue stay away from him... keep the distance. To protect him.”

A beat.

“But even with all that… there’s a part of me that still hopes it works out between you two.”

He held your gaze.

“If there’s even a small chance you feel the same—don’t waste it.”

Then, firm again, “But don’t show up in his orbit unless you’re sure.”

“I’ll be back to get you for the CT scan. If you need anything, press the call button.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Dana had spent the last several minutes searching—looking for Michael. The constant rush of the ER had kept her moving nonstop, priorities shifting by the second as new cases rolled in. Between the noise, the pages, and the demands of back-to-back emergencies, she hadn’t had a spare moment—until now. Finally able to look, she peeked into each exam room as she passed, also scanning for Michael.

Finally, she spotted him. 

Standing in the doorway, she called out, “Dr. Robby?”

Michael was looking up from the chart he was filling out while Victoria Javadi, the med student currently shadowing him, checked the patient under his supervision.

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

“Hold it down here. I’ll be right back,” he said, giving her a nod before stepping out into the ER floor with Dana.

“What’s up?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

Dana swallowed. “Robby, she’s here. Exam Room 13.”

“Who’s here?” His brow furrowed, clearly not understanding.

“She’s here,” Dana said again, slower this time, her eyes locking onto him.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

“W–what?” he said, hard and sharp, disbelief cutting through his voice.

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

“How long ago?!” His voice rose, sharp.

“Half an hour—she hit her head. Took a fall during the field trip—”

Michael’s heart skipped, then kicked into overdrive. He didn’t wait for the rest.

He turned on his heel and bolted, weaving through the ER, past gurneys, staff, and startled patients.

He barely registered people calling his name.

Didn’t care about the chart he’d left behind, the patient waiting for him at 7 with Victoria, or the conversation he’d been having seconds ago.

All he could hear was Dana’s voice echoing in his head.

She hit her head.

His hands were already trembling. Thoughts circled like vultures—loud, fast, frantic. He didn’t know how bad it was. Was it minor? Maybe. But probably not—Not if the ambulance brought her in.

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Good morning.” Told him to have a good day.

And he hadn’t said anything back.

He’d brushed past you like you didn’t matter. And now—now this.

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

 He rounded the corner too fast, nearly slipped—caught himself—nearly crashing into Jack as he stepped out of Exam Room 13.

“WOAH!” Jack exclaimed, throwing an arm out to steady them both.

“Robby—”

“I gotta get to her—I” Michael said breathlessly, trying to push past him.

Jack grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. “Stop, she’s gone.”

Robby froze. His heart plummeted, eyes going wide as the blood drained from his face. He couldn’t breathe—he just stood there, stunned, like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized. “Oh—shit—no! Gone as in, not in the room! I took her to her CT scan!”

Michael’s breath shuddered out of him. He stumbled back a step, dragging a hand down his face.

“FUCK, Abbot!” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Next time, maybe lead with that!!!”

Jack winced, “Yeah. Okay. Fair. Sorry!” He says quickly.

Michael looked like he was about to break. Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside your exam room, closing the door behind them.

Jack softened. “You want to sit for a second?”

Michael shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He turned away from Jack and leaned heavily against the wall, one hand braced flat against it while the other gripped his thigh. For a long moment, he stayed like that—bent slightly at the waist, eyes squeezed shut—trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

Then, with a trembling hand, he reached under his scrub top and T-shirt and pulled out the gold Star of David necklace he always wore—small, worn, and mostly hidden. He rubbed it between his fingers, clutching it tight in his calloused palm like a lifeline.

With his eyes still closed, he drew in a shaky breath, as if trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside—something steady, unyielding.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched, quiet and still, letting Michael have the space to come back to himself.

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

“She’s okay?” Michael finally forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s conscious. Talking. But I’m pretty sure she has a skull fracture—I just don’t know how severe yet. We’re gonna have ro wait on the CT to tell us more.”

Michael’s face went pale. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Jack softened his tone. “Listen, Robby… I know this sucks. It’s scary, but you’re not alone here. We’re doing everything we can, as fast as we can. She’s tough, and she’s got the best care possible.”

He paused, then added, “It’s us. This team, this hospital—we make it work. You know that. You’ve been part of holding it together more times than I can count.”

Michael’s jaw twitched, but his eyes flicked up—just for a second—as Jack continued.

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” But there was no real conviction in his voice. 

Jack glanced at Michael, his expression firm but not unkind.

“There’s nothing you can do right now, Robby,” he said quietly. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw still tight, hands flexing at his sides.

Jack’s voice softened. “And as much as I hate to say it… you’ve got to pull it together and do your job. For now. Until she comes back from CT. We’ll know more soon.”

Michael closed his eyes for a beat, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he nodded—barely.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Jack glanced around. “It’s busy today. You know how it is—we’ve got to stay on top of everything, keep things moving.”

Michael knew Jack was right. As much as it tore at him, there was nothing more he could do right now.

So he did the only thing he could—he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and began to shift the panic into focus. Into control.

He would see you when you came back from CT. Until then, he’d do his job. Just like he always had.

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Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

[ravs6709]

Personal criticisms of tbhx I have (so far? Maybe this will get updated?) as of ep12

I debated on making this for like 2 weeks now, but the queen arc really got me to do it (spoiler alert I am. Not a great fan of ep12)

Because tumblr loves to piss on the poor, I'm reiterating that these are personal criticisms (possible that not all of them are fully warranted), and fans are allowed to criticize a show (because I've seen people make posts hating on people who remotely criticize something)

Anyways that will all go under the cut

Nice arc

Wish we got to see more of wreck, and xiao yueqing in a sense of what do they think of nice (or wreck as himself without nice)

I dont need full backstory cause I know it's being vague rn on purpose, but I'd at least like to know what it was that drew wreck to nice (and a little more of what xiao yueqing hated about nice, though at least we did get a glimpse of that)

I feel like there should've been like. At least 5 minutes dedicated to lin ling and his feelings of being a hero in between firm man and God eye. We did get a moment or two super minor bits showing the ocd, but i wish they weren't minor

Does lin ling miss his old appearance? Are there habits he had previously that he has to now break because he was nice? Are there new habits that he ordinarily would have hated? How did he feel in the moment, being that popular and in the top 10?

Xiao yueqing. Her whole arc. The way her death was handled. What do you mean here's a woman who was forcibly tied to a man and her letting herself become free was framed as a tragic moment because she got trapped on an island where she needed help? To make her regret leaving lin ling (a man) behind???

Cause when God eye happened, it rushed his arc and while cool and fitting his motivations revolved around xiao yueqing and he said he didn't feel like a hero when he reached top 10, I wanna know *what* made him not feel like it (i mean ig we sorta got that staring into the window moment, but it was such a small amount of time)

Like in general I thought the directon of his growth was good, i just wish there was more of an in between for maximum impact

The fact that she has to be saved by a man on the island. And then her death is treated solely as a shock for lin ling and his arc. Despite everything in her character being about being free, her death was for the sake of a man

Don't get me wrong i like lin ling & xiao yueqing's dynamic. In fact, I view them as growing close and as a qpr. (Aro xyq seems very fitting, though ofc that is an hc, and moonling was very apparent in the show)

E-soul arc

I dont have as many criticisms, but I also don't feel as strongly about this arc as I did with the nice arc

Xia qing seemed pretty... i dont wanna say passive but I do wish she served more of a role than just crush

That being said I'm actually satisfied with the way they ended things off with her

Pomelo didn't play like any role beyond the first ep, which was pretty disappointing, considering he was yang cheng's first supporter)

The actual e-soul fight was... idk. I don't think enough emotional impact was put into it until like the very end with the revelation of yang cheng's hesitation, but that's less about e-soul and the fight

Opening scene with e-soul and yang cheng, e-soul asks yang cheng for his name, which served zero relevance to their fight. What was the purpose in asking for his name, then, if nothing was going to come out of that?

One of the eps had a document that when translated stated what went down with zero (I think), and while I'm cool with hinting at events future or past lore through easter eggs, I don't think giving out an entire situation within an easter egg is good world building. It's a very inorganic way to go about it

Lucky cyan

They did noooot do enough with luo and his bad luck. I thought his bad luck would come into play for the finale, but it wasn't even mentioned iirc? Why did no one at the orphanage blame their literal bad luck kid for shit falling apart?

The media I get why they would, I imagine they don't even know luo. But the Dean???

Middle episode was very. Nothing of an episode. They should've actually added in a scene where cyan went back and she got told luo was dead cause leaving that implied was very. Weak of a writing decision. If just that scene was added in, I could forgive that middle episode to be a nothing transition-er

The Dean & cyan conflict was pretty anticlimactic from an emotional standpoint, the fight was sick though. Also same with cyan & luo ish, but the plane scene is vv good <3

Why does cyan continue to be a hero..? It kinda just feels all go with the flow for her. Entering dos because luo wanted to be a hero + she wanted to save him sure, but what drives her to be more than a singer beyond that..?

This one could still get addressed in the future

Queen arc

Beautiful first episode. Brilliant setup of its themes. Queen did feel more background in her own arc (esp compared to x) but fine. It's setup. Whatever I still loved it

What the fuck was the second episode

Look, the 8 minute queen and bowa fight was gorgeous. Stunning animation, camera work, usage of environment, everything

Why was there no emotion in that. We can't pretend to treat a stunning fight to be inherently equivalent to narrative payoff

Very sparse dialogue (at least with the e-soul fight, the lack of interaction is much more fitting), bowa throws a couple accusations and queen... doesn't respond much?

She says some stuff at the end of the fight that had literally no relevance like okay queen say some cool lines but what the hell are you on about

The moment in the first ep where bowa almost breaks through queen's rules (whether through bowa strength or queen being weak) should've had a second moment in this fight (bowa using loopholes was cool but what I'm suggesting works better from a narrative standpoint)

Why did we never go back to that moment

In fact that second moment should be bowa actually breaking through her rules

And then a third moment where queen finds her resolve

(Actually. Well I didn't time it but why did it take FOREVER for queen to issue her first command. More of the fight should center around her rules)

Cause while they did do bowa's backstory good to setup the effort vs talent idea, there's no reciprocation of it from queen's end. Does her fight prove hard work? I mean maybe vaguely but there's no internal character growth there

They don't have to become friends in the end, but they should've gained a better understanding of each other

0 addressing the blatant manipulation to pin women against each other. Or of the women in male dominated fields. Point is nothing set up from the first ep has payoff in the second. It's actually disappointing ep11 might be my fave ep, but ep12 feels like it spoils it

I feel like it would've been worth actually addressing that while queen is the symbol for women as heroes, she herself never brought up gender. But this one is more okay to leave implicit compared to others idk

While we can get more in the future (likely much of what i ask is tied to the childhood queen waves off), why does queen want to change the world? Even a hint would do. Or better yet—what was her plan if she did change it. Her speech while ambitious is actually really really vague with her plans

[vampyrmar]

initial young royals s3 thoughts after sleeping on it before rewatching!

start off i loved omar and edvins acting so so much this season it was truly something special. also begging and pleading with omar to not wait too long to do another acting project he has such an energy about him.

simons storyline was also so important to me and i felt like we finally dove into him a little. didn’t love how he’s still seeming to always put his own things aside for everyone else’s feelings? linda is better mom more attentive this season but it felt very much like simon didn’t have a single person to lean on and they were all coming at him from every angle.

wille - i get he’s under so much pressure and grief with his family but he was on another level of mean half the season. some of his comments and that shush. girl be serious. good to see him stand up to his parents though.

overall it just felt like a lot. and a lot shoved into so little. a bit like whiplash and so little time for conflict resolution which is wilmons biggest issue. they never really talk it’s just bits and pieces and it’s all wille yelling at simon or simon putting on a brave face until the breaking point. so many external factors built up just to keep them apart. idk felt messy to me but maybe that was the first watch. lots of strings from s2 feel forgotten and idk how they’re going to wrap this up in just one more episode…

wilmon. wilmon when they had the chance to be they were so sweet that’s what makes it heartbreaking. which could be lisa’s point. still unsure if they will end up together bc again. nothing is resolved. i wasn’t expecting pure fluff but it did feel a bit like we were sold more happiness than we got we never had a chance to linger with them feeling free like we did in the pervious seasons

this could change when i rewatch and i’ll update soon! main takeaway is simon will always be my baby

[psilliguykai]

BECAUSE IT’S . 20XX ‼️‼️‼️

I’ve been doing some experimenting and found this style and have honestly grown pretty fond of it! So uhhh . Yeah :3

This was only supposed to be a quick sketch. I wanted to post it somewhere and was like “alright I’ll just clean it up a little bit” and then BAM i blinked and This Thing was here . It’s at the very least funky, I suppose :3

Possibly a little hideous ?? Pan Man version under the cut :D

[crescentrivers]

Realistically I can’t think of a place to add Pokotho himself to TGWDLM that wouldn’t feel forced (maybe there is one though I’m not an expert on this or anything), so I hope they just hint towards his existence a little more and don’t try to actually have him show up outside of being the hive, but if he did show up… what if they got meta with it

Cause TGWDLM is the meta hatchetfield show, it’s the one where the musical numbers are diegetic and characters acknowledge they’re happening, they even acknowledge the audience at the end. And the actor who played Pokey in NPMD is the same guy who plays Bill, you know, Paul’s best friend. And what happens then if Paul has an interaction with the singular voice and he realizes they have the same face…

Actually if blue guy did show up I bet they’d make him a puppet cause I’m sure the kickstarter will get them enough money for one puppet. But please think about the implications if he was a human played by Corey

There are various implications this could have depending on why they look similar. The easy one is that Pokey did it on purpose either to make Paul less freaked out or freak him out more (which it would freak him out more either way, the question is if that was intentional or not). Alternatively if Pokey isn’t actually taking human form it could be explained as Paul’s human brain trying to process whatever he actually looks like, and landing on that, for some reason. But there’s a third option I think could be cool

If Pokotho and Paul interacted in this show I’d assume by this point Paul would be beginning to get infected himself? So he can sort of understand the perspective of this higher being, whether he wants to or not. Maybe it’s not that him and Bill actually look that similar to Paul’s eyes, maybe in his reality they have different face or nose shapes, and they certainly don’t have the same look in their eyes. But from the a perspective of a god so much bigger than humanity, human faces blend together. He can tell them apart, but mentally they’re all the same to him, noisy, annoying, forgettable, erasable. Even someone like Paul, the supposedly special star of this show, doesn’t stand out. Paul realizes that now, to someone like him Paul really doesn’t look that different physically from the camp counselor boy, or the only lawyer in town, or that highschooler with the anime shirts, all people who are in the hive now. Now actually as identical in mentality as they seemed to him.

Would it really matter, if they actually looked the same or not? Him and Bill, Paul and all those people he never really knew. Everyone’s the same now afterall, whatever’s left in Bill’s body is him. Paul is a few seconds from being him too, he’s not special, not anything more than what any of the hive’s victims had been. But he was allowed to get this far, partially because he was that ordinary and unremarkable, partially because he didn’t like musicals.

He shouldn’t be anything more than another indistinguishable face, but if that thing wants a show, he can give it to him by trying (maybe pointlessly) to destroy it.

[iron-sides]

(physically shaking) haha my so my parents know im not rlly on speaking terms with catholic god..... i think that went well all things considered

[pyrriax]

(there's a cat in my garden, she reminds me of you. lying on her back, sunlight catching her fur in the prettiest way, all soft edges and love. i cried over you yesterday. did you know that? why couldn't you stay just a moment longer? now i have to grieve you, and i'll start with letting the cat in the garden inside. she'll sit in your spot, clean her paws of the dirt, and take up the empty space. i'll love her like i loved you. like i love you still.)

[gregmarriage]

thought about having a gf again *sighs*

[britneyshakespeare]

i finished the merry wives of windsor today btw. 4 shakespeare plays left to go

[perilegs]

i miss the era of internet where all we got were anime fansubs made by people who had the time to do what they enjoyed

[bangcakes]

.

[thornescalling]

Playing BG3 just made me miss dragon age, so I put it down and picked up dragon age 2 and I'm having substantially more fun

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[littlejoels]

"sweet treat"

request: so um WTH UR JOEL FIC WAS SO GOOD!! It was. A great mix of serious and smut oml- anyways I wanted to request for him again I see alot of Joel x baker reader ? Gathered this is when they’re in Jackson but you could spin it to where reader was a baker and they meet outside of Jackson etc IDK I just need another fic I beg ty ty word count: ? warnings: +18 minors dni, really sweet sex, joel being flirty and grumpy. please let me know if i have missed anything!

even after the many years you've spent here, jackson still smells like rain-soaked wood and smoke this time of year. you’d been pacing the bakery’s wide-plank floors for ten minutes now, tracing little loops in the flour dust, waiting for him. and he’s late, of course. because joel doesn’t rush for anybody, especially not for something as "unserious" as baking, as he likes to say.

you glance at the tray of eggs you cracked, the mountain of sugar, the softened butter, and the dog-eared recipe cards you scrounged from behind the counter. miss shelley, the older woman who usually runs the place, trusted you to lock up for the night. “just don’t burn the place down, sweetheart,” she said with a wink, and gave you a key.

you weren’t going to do it alone. not for the town’s spring celebration tomorrow. you’d begged him for this—him of all people—joel miller, resident brooder, secretly gifted with his hands in ways most people never got to see, but you had. *wink wink*

“there’s nothin’ complicated about cookies,” he’d grumbled that morning, folding his arms.

“i want them to taste like something, joel,” you’d insisted, poking a finger into his chest. “not like regret and disgust.”

he’d snorted, mouth twitching at the corners, and after a minute, like it physically hurt him, he agreed.

breaking you out of your thoughts, the door creaks open, and you don’t even have to turn. the sound of his boots on wood is enough to make your spine straighten, a ripple of awareness climbing up your back.

“you bakin’ or throwin’ a damn science fair?” he mutters, already peeling off his jacket. his eyes move over the counter, then to you. you pretend not to notice the way they stick to your legs, the hem of the dress barely grazing mid-thigh.

“just tryin’ to impress the town,” you say sweetly. “or you. which ever’s harder.”

his brow arches. “you ain’t got to dress like that to impress me.”

you flash him a fake innocent look. “like what?”

“like trouble,” he says, low, making you glance away with flustered cheeks.

he rolls his sleeves up, exposing those forearms that should to be illegal. thick-veined, tan, dusted with salt and pepper hair.

you hand him the bowl. “start creamin’ the butter and sugar. use the wooden spoon.”

“bossy tonight, huh?” he grumbles, but he does it.

you watch the muscles flex as he works, the way his wrist moves in slow circles.

“did you ever bake with sarah?” you ask, casually. you two have spoken briefly about his relationship with sarah. he was very hesitant to tell you how she died, but after a couple of beers, he poured his heart out.

his jaw tenses, but it’s a soft thing, not offense or sadness.

“yeah...when she was little. she’d make a fuckin’ mess of it, but.... thankfully made the place smell like cake for a week.”

you don’t answer, just let the silence sit between you. it was kinda nice working in silence with his comfortable presence.

he looks at you after a moment. “you know what you’re doin’?”

“not really, it's a new recipe,” you say cheerfully. “that’s why you’re here, to try it with me.”

“should’ve known this was a trap,” he mutters.

you laugh, and you’re leaning over to grab the flour, one foot off the ground, hips tilted just enough that the dress pulls up—and you feel a smack.

a puff of white explodes against your ass cheek. you yelp and whirl around. joel’s holding a fistful of flour, smug as sin.

“did you just—”

“you bent over like that in front of me, ‘course i did.” he shrugs, not even sorry.

you grab your own handful, lob it at his chest. “you’re such a child.”

he lunges, making you squeal and dart around the island, heaving a laugh that feels good echoing in the high ceiling of the bakery.

“you think you’re fast, huh?” he growls.

“i know i’m faster than you, old man.”

“fuckin’—”

he catches you by the waist, spins you, lifts you onto the counter. your thighs part around his hips automatically, your breath caught in your throat. his eyes burn into yours, all the humor gone.

“shouldn’t tease me like that, darlin’,” he says. his voice is grainy and mean.

you stare up at him, pupils blown wide. you whisper, “do something about it, then”

his lips crash into yours too quickly to even comprehend. the kiss was completely savage. no sweet build-up or gentle asking, his hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threaded through your hair, tugging until your mouth opens wider under his. his tongue licks into you like he’s starved for it, like the taste of you is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want in years.

your legs hook around his waist, heels digging into the meat of his ass. he grunts into your mouth, grinding forward, and you feel the thick, heavy line of him through his jeans.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick with gravel. “you planned this, didn’t you? struttin’ around in that little thing—bendin’ over like you wanted my goddamn hands all over you.”

you nod, panting, lips kiss-bitten and tingling.

“yeah?” he hisses, gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. “then you’re gettin’ what you asked for.”

his mouth dips to your neck, licking and biting. his salt and pepper beard scrapes the sensitive skin as he drags his lips lower, working open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts.

“take it off,” he growls, tugging at the hem of your dress.

you lift your arms, and he peels it off slowly, but the second it’s over your head, his control breaks.

“jesus,” he mutters, staring at you in nothing but a lacy bra and matching panties, flour dusted across your hips. “fuckin’ look at you.”

he sinks to his knees.

that's a sight to see, joel miller on his knees.

your hands scramble for something to hold onto as he spreads your thighs, dragging you forward until your ass is barely balanced on the edge of the counter. he kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other.

“you know what’s the best part of bakin’?” he asks, voice dark and close.

you shake your head, too breathless to answer.

“gettin’ to taste what you made.”

his mouth presses against the damp cotton of your panties, tongue laving up the center, making your hips jerk.

“you..fuck—joel—”

he hums against you, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. then he hooks a finger into the waistband and peels your panties down, dragging them over your knees, off your ankles.

he looks up at you from between your legs, eyes firey, lips already wet with you.

“keep your fuckin’ eyes on me.” his tongue slides between your folds, slow at first, savoring you; he licks broad and flat, then teasing, flicking over your clit just to hear you whimper.

your thighs begin to shake.

“more,” you beg, voice breaking.

he gives it to you. sucks your clit into his mouth, rolls his tongue around it like he’s drawing circles on your spine. his fingers join the party—one thick finger sliding into you, crooking just right, then a second stretching you open.

his beard is slick with your arousal. he groans like he needs the taste, like your pussy is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you claw at his hair, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he asks, tongue fucking back in before you can answer.

you cum with a choked cry, thighs clamped around his head, heels drumming against his back.

he doesn’t stop. just continues to lick you through it, makes you ride it out until you’re twitching and whimpering his name like a chant.

he finally stands, face soaked and shining with you. he drags the back of his hand across his mouth, but doesn’t wipe all of it away.

“never tasted anything sweeter,” he mutters.

then his hands are on his belt. the worn leather creaks, and the somewhat rusted zipper hisses. he pulls his cock free and it’s thick, long and heavy with a flushed red tip.

“joel—”

he shoves your knees up, crowding in between them, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

“look at this mess,” he growls, dragging the head through your folds. “so fuckin’ wet for me. you wanted it, now take it.”

he pushes in, instantly. his cock splits you slow, and wide continuing to drag along walls already swollen from his mouth.

you grip his shoulders hard, fingertips digging into muscle. he’s not even all the way in and your pussy’s already fluttering, already trying to squeeze around him like it’s too much—like he built it for you and you’re still not ready.

“joel,” you gasp, voice strangled, “fuck—fuck me—”

he stills, deep enough that your breath catches in your throat.

“you feel that?” he growls, hand cupping your jaw, angling your face up so you have to look him in the eye. “how tight you are around me? like you’re tryin’ to keep me in.”

you whimper as his cock pulses inside you.

“this what you wanted, sugar?” he grits through his teeth. “havin’ me take you right here? bent over flour and cookie dough?”

“yes,” you whine. “wanted it all day, wanted you—”

he starts to move. slow grind, hips rolling, his cock dragging against every single hypersensitive nerve like he’s trying to reprogram your body from the inside out.

“say it again.”

“wanted you,” you cry, fingers fisting in his shirt. “wanted your hands, your mouth—your cock, joel—”

he groans and slams into you, the counter creaking, your breath punched from your lungs.

“that’s it,” he growls, picking up the pace, fucking you deeper now, hard and mean and perfect. “you know how long i been thinkin’ about this? thinkin’ about takin’ this sweet little body—watchin’ that mouth beg me for more while you come all over my fuckin’ face?”

you can’t even answer him. you’re a complete mess, legs trembling, mouth open, just a mess.

he leans down, forehead to yours, panting against your lips.

“you don’t even know, do you?” he says. “how fuckin’ crazy you make me. God, the way you look at me, the way you talk—all that smartass mouth—and i been wantin’ to shut it with my dick since the day you showed up.”

“then do it,” you whimper, dazed and desperate. “joel, please—please—”

he pulls out and grabs your throat. not choking you—just slightly guiding. his cock taps your lips, stil wet with your arousal.

“open up.”

you moan around him as soon as he pushes in, filling your mouth.

“gotdamn,” he groans, head tipped back. “that’s it, baby...suck it like you mean it.”

you swirl your tongue around the tip, lips stretched wide. your hands grip his thighs, your throat working as he fucks your mouth slow.

“look so fuckin’ good like this,” he mutters. “slobberin’ all over me.”

you pull off with a wet pop. “want you back inside me,” you whisper, spit and precome slick on your chin. “please—want you to ruin me, joel.”

his hands are on you in a second—turning you, bending you over the counter, yanking your ass up. he slaps it once, the crack loud in the quiet bakery.

“ask me nice.”

“joel, please—fuck me. hard.... don’t stop till i’m cryin’.”

he drives into you in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

“you asked for it,” he growls, and starts pounding into you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise you. the counter shakes beneath you. something falls off the shelf, shatters on the floor. yet neither of you care.

his balls slap your clit on every thrust, your juices loud and wet and obscene.

“you hear that?” he snarls. “that’s how wet you are for me. so desperate, so fuckin’ needy.” you can't help crying at the immense pleasure—tears dripping off your chin, mouth open on a moan that never ends.

“you gonna come for me again?”

“yes, yes—joel, i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—”

he reaches around, finds your clit, rubs it in tight messy circles. “then do it....cum pretty,”

your whole body spasms, toes curling, back arching, choking on a scream as your pussy clenches tight around him, milking his cock.

joel snarls, fingers digging deeper, hips jerking once, twice—then he comes. spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

you feel the heat of it, dripping out as he keeps fucking into you slow, like he doesn’t want to stop.

you both sag over the counter, chests heaving.

“...still think bakin’s for suckers?” you rasp, voice shot.

he huffs a laugh against your shoulder.

“depends what i’m bakin’ in.”

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @555aturn

[gatorbites-imagines]

Idk if you do n/sfw alphabets or yan! Alphabets but if you do can you do one for remmick?

Remmick Yandere alphabet 

I want to eat this man whole. Sinners had no right being so good and have so many hot people in it, where my Bo lovers at?

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get? 

Remmick seems like the kinda guy who can be like traditionally romantic, like bringing you flowers, gifts, something like kissing the back of your hand. But he also seems like he has moments where he will bite you, feed on you, or hurt you as like “affection”. He can get very intense, like, would break your ribcage open and crawl inside if he could, intense. 

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling? 

Bro, I don't think there's a limit to how bloody he would get when it comes to his darling. Anybody that stands in his way needs to be gotten rid of. 

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them? 

I think it would be something like when you keep a pet mouse or rabbit. He might coo at their struggling or crying, but there's no way he would be scared of them. Maybe mocks them a little bit in an “awww so cute, you want to leave? Adorable” 

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will? 

Honestly? What wouldn't he do against his darling. Hes willing to hurt them, their families, the innocent, so on and so forth. 

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling? 

I think his vulnerability is used for manipulation. Like, Remmick going on about how empty he was before his darling showed up, how they are meant together, etc etc. 

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back? 

He finds it adorable, and just kinda thinks his darling is being silly. When he's turned you, then you'll understand what he feels, don't worry love. 

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape? 

Very much a cat and mouse situation, or maybe more like, lion and mouse. Thinks its endearing. 

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them? 

Probably Remmick killing their entire family, all their loved ones, their entire town, etc, etc. He seems like the kinda weirdo who would turn your loved ones as a manipulation tactic. 

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling? 

Wants to be like, a power couple, super romantic, constant honeymoon phase. You are his other half, his light, his sun when he cant see the real deal, you just need to understand. 

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope? 

Very jealous, very possessive. His darling belongs to him and nobody else. Might hurt you as punishment for making him jealous, but lashes more at the perceived threat. 

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling? 

So charming and manipulative like 90% of the time, always meeting your needs and turning your own mind against you kinda manipulation. The 10% is when he gets angry or you press him just far enough, where you feel true terror. 

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling? 

Stalking, so much stalking. You would feel yourself being watched for like, months, maybe even years. Hes got all the time in the world, so why rush it. You will start finding flowers, gifts, and so on, by your front door. Love letters that start out cute but become so creepy and uncomfortable as time goes on. Any man you might have something with go through accidents or go missing. 

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else? 

I don't know honestly. Part of me believes Remmick would think he's doing the right thing so he doesn't act too different, but he might be a little less all over you around others, mainly because no one else deserves to see you smile or pleased. 

Naughty: How would they punish their darling? 

Does the “I'm not mad, I'm disappointed”. Def a bone breaking yandere. So much psychological warfare, you'll think your own mind is betraying you. 

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling? 

Uses it to manipulate you, allows you more freedoms when you follow the rules and behave, but just as easily takes them away as punishment. 

Patience: How patient are they with their darling? 

Very patient. Hes got all the time in the world, so there's no need to rush. Might even play the extra long game and make you actually fall in love with him before he springs all the yandere tendencies on you. 

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on? 

Ha, bold of you to assume he would ever let you die. You will only die when he kills you to turn you. And escape? I wish. You might think you have escaped, but Remmick is simply lurking in the shadows, letting you enjoy your make belief freedom for now. 

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go? 

No, he would not. You aren't being let go, and he would not feel guilty about it. Maybe feels a little bad when you scream and cry, but you'll understand with time darling. 

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)? 

His known backstory, with him losing everything and being oppressed. And then being a vampire for who knows how many years. 

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? 

Thinks its cute, would wipe your tears away and coo at you even when you try to punch or claw at him. 

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere? 

Would feed on you if he hasn't turned you. Like mentioned earlier, Remmick would turn all your loved ones to push you to accept him quicker, which I feel is very different from the classic yandere. 

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape? 

Honestly? I don't know, I can't think of much outside of normal vampire weaknesses. But you also won't get the chance to have access to any of those things. I think your own escape would be taking your own life if you ever escape long enough to do so. 

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling? 

Yes, but he sees it as a necessary evil for you to behave and understand. It hurts now, but you'll agree with his actions later. 

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over? 

I don't think he worships you the same level as one would a God, but he does make you feel like a king when you do get turned. He would still revere you, but not enough to give you passes or give you access to his weaknesses. 

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap? 

I think he's snapped from the start tbh. Homie has never once been normal since he got turned, what is there to snap? He could stalk you for years though, before he swoops in and takes you. 

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling? 

Oh yeah, no doubt about it. Does the most horrible psychological torture too. Physical too. When he turns you, that also counts as breaking his darling I think, cuz you two just kinda mesh into one being and all that. 

[jaggedamethyst]

easy (bucky barnes x gn!reader)

content: life with bucky is amazing…but it’s easy to feel like you’re not enough when your relationship is a secret.

secret relationship, miscommunication/misunderstanding, angst, self doubt, alpine!!!!! not proofread

notes: fawk tik tok but welcome everyone who is bored and here getting their bucky content now. real as fuck. (no sharon carter slander allowed around me ever btw.)

there will be a part two (possibly more but idk)

main masterlist

part two

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

“I never really understood the appeal of a secret relationship until now,” You glanced over to Bucky, “It’s kinda invigorating.”

He smirked, his lazy smile matching his relaxed figure—sprawled on the bed next to you. “Invigorating, huh?”

He had rushed over the night before, getting back to the compound and waiting for a good time to slyly step out. It became habit; he would say that he was coming back from a run in the mornings. If he ever was caught in the evening, he’d simply went on one of many errand trips.

The truth was, that people didn’t really notice him. Bucky Barnes could sneak out and back in relatively unchecked save for Steve. Even then, Bucky’s elusive nature made it easy for people to stop asking after a while. He knew the underlying issue was that they would never truly separate who he was with who he is now. It was okay, though, because he had you. Thats all that mattered.

Peoples’ concern for Bucky’s wellbeing and whereabouts dwindled—figuring he could handle himself. He loved that when everyone else could simply shut their minds off to the thought of a rehabilitated solider—you accepted him with warmth. That affection would never truly be lost on him.

You turned over in your bed, observing Bucky’s features. You couldn’t help the way your entire face upturned—truly invigorated by the sight.

He noticed your stare in his peripheral, “Like what you see?”

“Oh, please.” A pillow found its way in your grip, playfully smacking Bucky in his face. You quickly moved to leap off of the bed, but the attempt was futile, of course. The man had been able to lean over and grab you before you could even process the movement—pushing you firmly into the mattress. Without missing a beat, he leaned in to kiss you—smiling into it. His metal hand found a grip on your neck, just under your chin, and pulled you up into him. The pressure was delicate—the inherent weight of him using this arm not lost on either of you. The coolness spurred you on. Your arms snaked around his back and tightened at the feeling of his skin on yours; you’d never truly gotten used to the feeling.

It was an honor, truly, to be loved by James Barnes. It was even more so to love him. When you were able to bask in the morning sun like this, to kiss him like he could disappear, you never took it for granted.

The kiss quickly became overwhelming. Thoughts of the man filled your mind—mostly of how lucky you felt. Even more common at times like these was to feel as if you weren’t deserving…despite him constantly saying otherwise. He made sure to tell you daily, if not more often, that being a secret was to keep you safe. He couldn’t chance losing you, he’d say. He couldn’t live without you.

But something else clawed at your skull, telling you that maybe you just weren’t enough—that you didn’t look the way you should.

You pulled away, looking between his eyes. He was completely in a daze—lips reddened and swollen so quickly. A blush feathered its way over his cheeks, then, watching you look at him so intensely.

He swallowed, “What?” He pecked your lips quickly. “Am I just that good at kissing that you’re mesmerized by my talents?”

An involuntary huff escaped you and you quickly forgot that fleeting thought of inadequacy. You mirrored his smile before playfully pushing him off of you, finally moving off of the bed and toward the kitchen.

Bucky had a charismatic way about him that could be mistaken for immature. You knew better, though. In his new life he adopted optimism—a way to combat the thoughts he had. Feelings of his still being a horrible man. That he would never escape being an assassin. So when he looked at you and saw a growing somber look on your face, he didn’t expect the worst. He should’ve.

After some time passed, Bucky emerged from your bedroom. You gave him a quick look over the brim of your cup, sipping on your tea. You made a show of observing how he’d freshened up and changed into his signature dark clothing. The sight of Alpine snuggling up to his boot had you cheesing then.

He stalked over to you, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Gonna go stop by my place and get a few things…figured she would like the trip.” He leaned down to scoop up his cat. “Should probably also grab more of her food.” He motioned toward the now empty tupperware he had made into a makeshift transport for when the both of them would stay at your place.

“No worries. I should be tidying up around here anyways.” You reached up to hug him, leaving space for Alpine between you.

“I’ll be seeing ya, doll.”

You pushed into his shoulder at his silly remark, but decided to play along. “Be seeing ya, too, Sarge.”

With that he turned to leave—the white cat perched comfortably on his shoulder now.

The sound of the door closing immediately made you turn to survey your apartment. It wasn’t too bad—but could easily take a few hours to freshen up if you made a day of it. With a nod, you began tidying and cleaning to pass the time—occasionally checking your phone for a text or call from Bucky.

It was only way into the night that you began to get anxious. You knew about his job; at one moment there could be nothing and the next a universal threat they had to combat. You tried not to jump to worry, but it was so unlike him. There’d been times like this, where he would disappear. You would take the time, giving him space he probably needed—only to find him holed up in his apartment in the worst condition he’d ever been in. Images of him contracted in on himself and shoved into a dark corner played in your mind. You had to go check, to be sure.

Throwing on a matching sweat set, you shoved your phone and keys into your pocket, quickly making the trek to his place. It wasn’t far, but it wasn’t exactly close. For some reason you made the decision to walk there—the franticness and burn in your legs making the distance seem even larger.

Your chest burned, heaving as you turned the corner. The building came into view, finally. You quickly swiped the extra card he’d given you to enter the building. Every step felt like a march toward complete devastation. Your hands opened and shut, grasping at your hoodie. The elevator ride was torturous. You weren’t sure how you’d find him—the thought alone was driving you up a wall.

As you approached his door, your pace slowed. You dug into your pocket again, reaching for his key on your keychain. Just above the gasps of your breath you heard shuffling in his place—causing you to still. You were sure the expression on your face was one of confusion, wondering why he’d not let you know he got here at least. Just as you went to call his name, a voice spoke, muffled by the closed door. Without a thought, you leaned in at the sound—growing more cautious and remembering just how much Bucky told you to stay aware of your surroundings. With a tilt, you steadied your breathing. None of the words were coming clear to you. It was certain, though, that there was a woman in his place.

You took a long and drawn inhale before swiftly pushing in and turning the key to Bucky’s apartment.

The woman paused the call she’d been on, now looking at you. “I’ll call you back.” She pushed the phone into her pocket, looking at you expectantly. “Hi.”

“Hi?” You gave her a quizzical look, “Who are you?” You hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly.

The woman across from you didn’t move, clearly aware of the fact that you didn’t let the door close. Either you were really dumb…or someone taught you that. She stepped toward you, then, a hand outstretched. “I’m Sharon.” She observed your lack of motion except for a brow that arched at the introduction. “You must know Barnes, he sent me here to check on Alpine…can’t seem to find him.”

“Her.”

“Sorry?”

“Her…Alpine’s…a her.”

Sharon lowered her hand. “Didn’t know, sorry.”

Your grip on the door’s knob loosened a bit at the mention of Bucky and Alpine. Finally, you let the door swing closed behind you—stepping into his living room but keeping a distance.

You cleared your throat, “So where is he? That he couldn’t check on Alpine himself, I mean…”

“I um…” She paused, teetering on her feet. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to say-“

“I’m his friend,” you interrupted. You groaned internally at the attempt to make your presence at his place seem legitimate. “We’ve been friends for a while. Haven’t heard from him and wanted to see if he was okay.”

“So you just walked in?”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

The woman smiled, chuckling to herself. “Got a point there.” Silence filled the room again before she spoke again, “So…you’re a friend…with a key?”

“I watch Alpine when he’s out of town…he figured I should have one just in case he’s ever gone longer than expected.”

You surveyed the woman, looking for any questioning of your rehearsed reply. It was somewhat true…not entirely, though.

You chose to repeat your question, concern still sitting within you. “Where’s Bucky?”

The woman reached in her pocket, causing you to step away from her. She raised her arm—motioning for you to wait. Reflected back at you was her ID and badge. She worked with him.

“You should come with me.”

Just then, Alpine strolled around the corner, approaching you in recognition. You scooped her up the same as Bucky had, watching Sharon move toward the door. You inched back, allowing her the space to exit and for you to follow.

The car ride was uncomfortably silent. No words were exchanged between you and the only sound that resonated between the both of you being Alpines sweet purrs into your lap. Eventually you approached the compound. Bucky had never bought you here—thinking better of it. You followed Sharons swift motions, keeping a somewhat close distance on her trail. Looking around as you walked, you were overwhelmed. There were so many people, all of which Bucky didn’t want to know about you. There were so many weapons, so casually strewn about and waved around.

A shake of your head was inadvertent. You pulled Alpine in closer to you, sniffing in the lingering scent of Bucky on her.

The two of you rounded a corner, a few sectioned off rooms coming into view. Sharon quickly stepped into one, ushering you in.

She leaned down and clicked on a keyboard, speaking while looking at the computer screen. “Barnes was called up.” She clicked away, “We needed some undercover done and they had to be able to speak Russian…possibly other languages.” She side eyed you, making sure you were looking. “We have feeds on them at all times.”

She stood then, backing up to stand in line with you. You surveyed the screen, confused by the atmosphere, “Where is this?”

“Some arts gala…few hours away. We got word of illegal dealings happening a few weeks out so they’re doing recon.”

You nodded, watching the zoomed out view of the ballroom. A quick scan came up empty—no signs of Bucky at all. You saw Sharon in your side view, watching the various emotions littering your face.

She crossed her arms, “Barnes isn’t your friend.”

“No.” It wasn’t a question. You figured this would happen, Bucky said as much, that anyone he worked with would see right through you. You kicked yourself for how obvious you’d been, even when trying to be subtle.

“There they are.”

You looked over to her suddenly, “They?”

She moved to zoom in on the screen. “Yup, Barnes and Romanoff.” Sharon resumed her stance next to you. “See? He’s alright…figured this would ease your mind. I know how he can get.”

There was nothing out of the ordinary and you reasoned that you were just being overly cautious. Admittedly, you jumped to so many conclusions in such a small time.

The sound of Sharon’s phone going off filled the room. “I have to take this, but feel free to stay. I can take you back in a sec, okay?”

“Thank you, Sharon.”

She nodded before stepping out to take the call.

You sat down, allowing Alpine to observe the screen as well. “He’s doing just fine. That’s good, right?”

You looked down at Alpine for a second, amused by your own love for the cat—seeing as you weren’t fond of them as a whole. Generally, you were more of a dog person, but you compromised because Bucky loved her. You smiled at the thought of them, your own little family.

The absentminded circling on Alpine’s back stopped abruptly as you looked up at the screen again. You whispered to yourself, “What the fuck…”

In what seemed to be an average recon mission, seemed to linger a hint of something you didn’t quite like. The distance between Bucky and the woman was closing. His grip found her back, a secure hand there while the other held hers firmly. They were talking. You turned to look for Sharon, hoping there were mics on them. The smiles exchanged back and forth had your chest in pain—the same lazy smile he’d shown you just hours ago. Your body started to shake, pulsing at a frequency that left you feeling unstable. A hand secured you in the chair; you urged yourself to keep watching, even if to your own detriment.

He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. They moved apart, then, searching in one another’s gaze. In a split second, the pair’s lips met one another’s. You felt your eyes blink away a sting that approached you quickly. An immediate pain welled up in you. You couldn’t believe it. Clenching down on your teeth, you stood up quickly, moving closer to the monitor. Your finger trailed his face, looking for any sign that this was just an act—an elaborate ruse for the task at hand. Yet, there was nothing.

You couldn’t help but let the feelings of inadequacy cloud your judgement. You couldn’t help but doubt everything he’d ever said. You couldn’t help but cower away from yourself—scared of your own reflection now. It had to be true…you just simply weren’t enough. Someone else was better.

Feeling Alpine in your hands, you pressed a firm hug and kiss into her fur. You rubbed her reassuringly before setting her down in the chair. “I’ll see you later…okay?”

The cat seemed to look at you longingly—but you couldn’t let that stop your path. You had to get out of here. Swinging the door open, you stepped out into the hall and looked around for Sharon. She seemed to have disappear—of course. You took a few steps, unsure of which direction to go. To anyone watching, you seemed to stutter step. You’d move in one direction and question the next. Suddenly, a man came into view, towering over you.

He leaned down to meet your eyeline, “Hey.” He waved a hand in an attempt to break you from your trance. “You okay? You seem lost.”

“I just need to get out of here.” You move to step around him, “Excuse me.”

Your quick footsteps carried you toward the outside—the familiar burn of your legs reminding you of the feeling just an hour ago. How concerned you’d been, you thought, only for him to be hours away having the time of his life…without you.

Within a few minutes, you were able to find a ride and head home. Opening your apartment door hit you in a way you didn’t expect. You had cleaned everything, yes, but you had accidentally removed all traces of Bucky in your attempt to straighten up. The lack of him felt too real—hitting your chest with a force you couldn’t take.

In all your time together you hadn’t felt more connected to Bucky than right now. You empathized with him—sinking to the floor came easy. Letting yourself waste away in an effort to not acknowledge the pain was… easy. Sitting in the dark, ignoring calls, letting your mind run rampant.

I can do this, you thought. Reveling in the feeling of sadness was much easier than facing Bucky. So you simply…wouldn’t.

part two