Work Text:
It was edging past four in the afternoon, and the sky outside had turned the color of old porcelain—pale and moody, the sun filtering through in thin, reluctant streaks. Spring in Chicago still fought with itself; the wind cut sharp through the streets like it hadn't yet gotten the message that winter was over. But there were signs of the season shifting—the way sunlight touched the roofs, the green starting to creep up through cracks in sidewalks, and the vague promise of warmth hiding in the air.
County General stood like it always did: unmovable, weathered, a little grim around the edges but still beating at the heart of the city like something too stubborn to die. Inside, the ER pulsed with its usual chaos, layered in overlapping voices and clipped orders, the wheels of stretchers rattling across scuffed floors, and the ever-present drone of phones ringing somewhere behind glass. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that flat, white glow that never changed no matter the time or season, and the scent of antiseptic clung thick in the halls—familiar, institutional, almost comforting in its consistency.
Y/N walked through the ambulance bay doors like she owned the place—or at least like she was used to not apologizing for taking up space in it. She moved with the lazy precision of someone used to chaos, shoulders squared, jaw tight, her heavy boots thudding against tile with the weight of the day behind them. A patient was wheeled beside her—mid-40s, conscious, complaining more than he was bleeding, but still clutching his side like the pain might crawl up and steal his breath.
Nothing dramatic.
A workplace injury from a South Side mechanic's garage, some twisted metal and bad timing, but enough to warrant an ER visit and a ride from CFD.
Her partner, Clark, was already chattering to Malik about vitals and intake, slipping easily into the controlled buzz of the room. The woman barely glanced back—she trusted him to handle it.
She always did.
She peeled off her gloves as she walked, tucking them into her back pocket and raking a hand through wind-tousled hair that still smelled faintly of diesel and city dust. Her jacket was unzipped halfway, sleeves pushed up, the fabric streaked with grime from the call, but her posture stayed straight, head held high. She wasn't there for the patient anymore.
The front desk rose like a checkpoint between the noise and the rhythm of the ER, and the medic headed for it with the tired purpose of someone who's filled out the same forms a hundred times before. The clipboard sat waiting, half-filled paperwork beside it, and as she reached for the pen, the low hum of conversation at the desk sharpened into something pointed. Jerry didn't even try to hide his grin—broad and slow, like he'd been waiting for this all afternoon.
—Well, well, he said, voice dipped in that rich, teasing cadence he reserved for moments like this. If it isn't our favorite firefighter-turned-heartthrob.
Y/N didn't look up.
—Don't start, Jerry, she muttered, scrawling the patient's name across the top of the form in her steady, looping print. I've been on my feet since 6 a.m.
That only made Randi snort, leaning forward from her chair with her chin in her hand, eyes glinting behind her cat-eye frames.
—Please. You're barely breaking a sweat. Besides, she added, her smile wicked, we all know why you're really here. I saw you come in. You didn't even look at the patient. You looked left.
—I looked at the chart, the uniformed woman shot back, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the ghost of a smirk.
She didn't look up, but her ears were pink. Damn it.
—Uh-huh, the man drawled. The chart named Hathaway, maybe.
The words hung in the air like smoke—light and playful, but thick enough to catch in her throat. She didn't answer, didn't rise to the bait. Not because she couldn't, but because she knew better. One spark from her and the receptionist would fan it into a bonfire.
Instead, she just raised her eyebrows and exhaled slowly through her nose, the edges of her mouth tight in that half-smile that never quite reached her eyes when she was playing it cool. Her hand moved down the form, slow and deliberate, pretending to care about the spelling of the patient's last name, though her pulse had already kicked up a notch.
She could feel it now—that shift in air pressure, that invisible pull like a current under the surface. She didn't have to look to know why.
Behind her, heels clicked against tile with a rhythm she'd come to recognize before sight or speech. It was always the same: deliberate, efficient, but never rushed. Carol walked like someone who didn't have to hurry to take control of a room. And this time was no different.
She passed behind the front desk with a chart in hand, brows slightly drawn, mouth set in that focused line she wore whenever she was between patients and too caffeinated to breathe properly. She didn't look at Y/N, not directly—but she didn't have to. Her gaze skimmed past, a subtle flicker of acknowledgment, but her posture told the real story. The way her spine stiffened just slightly, the way her hand tightened faintly on the folder—controlled, calculated, but charged. The medic felt it like static along her skin. A slow burn just beneath the surface.
The other receptionist caught it too, eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she leaned toward her colleague, stage-whispering with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
—There she goes. And you know she saw you.
Jerry chuckled, low and knowing, drumming his fingers against the desk like he was timing it all.
—She didn't even blink. That's how you really know.
—Uh-huh. She's trying not to set the place on fire with her eyes. That's restraint, Randi murmured, eyes never leaving the nurse's retreating figure. Then she looked back at Y/N with a mock-serious expression, head tilted, voice full of mock warning. You better go after her, firefighter. That woman's gonna combust if you leave her simmering much longer.
The medic scoffed under her breath, shaking her head—but the warmth in her cheeks gave her away. She capped the pen, tossed the clipboard down with a touch more force than necessary, and muttered:
—You two are insufferable.
—And you're predictable, the brunette sang after her, already laughing. Go get your nurse!
The woman didn't answer. She didn't have to. She was already walking away, threading through the hallway like it was muscle memory. Her boots hit the floor with more urgency now, shoulders tighter, spine straight, but her steps slowed as she neared the staff lounge. The door stood half-shut, light bleeding out under its frame like a promise she didn't fully trust. She pushed it open gently, her hand lingering on the handle, breath catching in the space between what she wanted and what she still wasn't sure she was allowed to have.
Then she stepped inside.
And that's when it hit her—before she could even close the door fully, before she could turn or speak or take stock of the empty couches and blinking vending machine light, Carol was already there. Already moving. Like she'd been pacing, waiting, ready the second she heard the sound of boots and breath and intention.
Her fingers curled in the collar of Y/N's shirt and yanked her forward with a roughness that startled something deep in the firefighter's chest—not fear, not surprise, but a kind of visceral relief. A hunger that had been gnawing at her ribs for days now, ever since the last time they'd tried this and gotten interrupted by a crash cart outside the damn stairwell.
Hathaway didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her mouth was already on the woman's, full and bruising, her hands pressed flat against her chest like she was trying to pin her heart in place. She shoved her back against the door, and it closed with a dull thunk behind them, sealing the space like a secret.
The kiss wasn't careful—it was months of almosts and never-enoughs, all teeth and breath and the soft noise Carol made when Y/N gripped her hips like she was afraid she might disappear. The medic groaned into her mouth, her hands sliding beneath the hem of the brunette's scrubs like they'd done this a thousand times—but never here. Never this reckless. Never this real.
The nurse's fingers threaded into her hair, tugging just enough to make her sweetheart hiss, to make her press harder into the kiss, to make her forget the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee and remember instead the way she tasted like mint and adrenaline and something maddeningly sweet beneath it. Their bodies moved together like a reflex, like a rhythm they didn't even have to find anymore.
Y/N's hands trembled at Carol's waist—not from nerves, but from restraint. Because here, in this tiny, fluorescent-lit room with its cracked leather couch and forgotten mugs, it wasn't just lust clawing at her. It was something deeper. Something that frightened her more than she'd ever admit. Something that curled low in her stomach and sparked behind her ribs, something that made her want to both run and stay, kiss and kneel, speak and never say a word.
Carol's hands weren't just pulling her closer—they were grounding her, gripping her like she was trying to memorize the shape of Y/N's bones through her clothes. Her breath came in soft, shaky exhalations, like even she didn't quite understand how this thing between them had gotten so big, so fast, and so terrifyingly real. And still, her mouth didn't stop. It moved over the medic's like it belonged there, like it had missed her for hours when it had only been twenty minutes, like it needed this to breathe properly again.
Y/N tilted her head back just a little, lips still grazing the brunette's, her smirk curling slowly, teasingly, even as her heart thudded hard enough to rattle her.
—Hi, she murmured, voice low and wrecked, playful in a way that barely covered the emotion brimming just beneath it.
She said it like a secret and a challenge all at once—like they hadn't just skipped five steps to get here. Like this was the first normal moment in a day full of pretending they didn't want to crawl inside each other's skin.
But Hathaway didn't pull back. She didn't even flinch. She just kissed her again, harder this time, hands sliding up beneath the woman's shirt like she was daring her to speak again.
—Hi, she whispered back between kisses, but there was nothing casual about it.
Her voice was breathless, her smile trembling as she kissed the corner of the medic's mouth, then lower, trailing heat along her jaw.
—Shut up, she murmured next, not unkindly, her hands moving with purpose now, sliding over the lean muscle of her lover's back, nails grazing the edge of her spine. You talk too much.
Y/N's laugh came out as a quiet groan, hands moving of their own accord, fingers slipping under the waistband of Carol's scrubs, palms splayed against her hips like she was staking a claim.
—You started it, she rasped, voice breaking in the middle of the sentence as the nurse's mouth found the hollow of her throat. Her head tipped back against the door, eyes fluttering shut as warmth pulsed through her, low and constant. You practically tackled me.
Carol pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, lips red, breath unsteady.
—You looked at me like that, she said simply, and there was something raw in her voice—something unguarded that made Y/N go still for half a heartbeat. Like maybe the young woman had been holding this in longer than she'd let on. Then she surged forward again, mouth brushing hers, her words hot against the firefighter's lips. Like you needed me.
Y/N swallowed hard. She could've said something clever then, something sarcastic or flirty to level the playing field—but she didn't. She couldn't. Because Carol was right. And they both knew it.
The door jolted behind them with a sudden rattle, followed by a knock—quick, firm, and unmistakably impatient. A voice followed, muffled but clear.
—Carol? You in there? Another tug on the handle. Nothing moved. It's stuck or something— A pause. Then, more pointedly: Are you leaning on it?
Y/N's eyes widened, but the nurse didn't move. Her forehead rested against the medic's chest now, shoulders shaking with barely-suppressed laughter. Her fingers were still under her girl's shirt, still curved possessively around her sides. The woman pressed her lips together, biting back a groan as Carol looked up at her with flushed cheeks and mischief in her eyes.
—Shit, she murmured, shifting slightly—but not away. Her hands were still very much under Carol's scrubs, palms warm against bare skin, and she didn't seem to be moving any time soon. That's Chuny, isn't it?
The brunette nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip.
—Yep.
There was that glint in her eye again—something just this side of reckless, threaded with mischief and a glimmer of intent that made Y/N's pulse thrum low in her belly. Carol didn't move immediately, didn't bolt for the door, but her body leaned just close enough to brush against the woman's again, like contact had become second nature between them—like being apart, even for the span of a breath, had started to feel like absence. And then, after another beat, she murmured with that familiar sly curl to her voice:
—I know a place. Better door. Less traffic.
Her eyes lifted toward the medic's, meaning layered behind the suggestion, but there was a gentleness there too—something warm, almost shy, like she was letting Y/N in on a secret she didn't share often.
—Old linen room near the peds wing. No one uses it anymore. You in?
The medic's grin curled slow and deliberate, her hand brushing against Carol's wrist like she was grounding herself in the decision she'd already made.
—Lead the way, Nightingale, she said under her breath, voice rough with something unspoken and raw. Before Chuny comes back with security.
They slipped out like teenagers sneaking from a high school dance—half-laughing, half-serious, their footsteps light but pulsing with that electric urgency that always lived in the spaces between them. They didn't speak on the way there, not really. Just teasing glances, the occasional bump of shoulders, fingers grazing in the empty stretch of corridor like an unfinished promise. Carol glanced back once with a smirk when they passed an open patient curtain, and Y/N raised both brows in mock innocence, her mouth twitching.
—You sure you know where you're going? she whispered as they took a turn past a darkened nurses' station. This place is starting to feel like Narnia.
The brunette didn't even slow down.
—You're stalling.
—No, Y/N murmured, catching up beside her, their arms brushing again. I'm savoring.
That earned her a look—half-teasing, half-affectionate—that made her chest ache. There was always that edge between them: the biting humor, the ease, the way they could knock each other off balance without ever saying the thing they were really dancing around. That this wasn't just need. That it was want, and pull, and possibly—God help them—love. But neither of them said that word out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It was too big, too fragile, and too dangerous to name here in these hallways where people never stopped dying.
The room was small, windowless, and quiet in the way forgotten rooms always are. The hum of old fluorescent lights and the faint scent of cotton and alcohol lingered in the air like a memory. Carol barely got the door closed behind them before the woman had her, pressing her back into it, mouth already searching, tasting, devouring with a kind of breathless hunger that spoke louder than anything either of them had said in weeks. It wasn't rushed—not really—but it wasn't careful, either. It was the kind of kiss that said I missed you and I need you now in equal measure. The kind that tasted like longing and belonging and something desperate caught between.
Hathaway's hands slid up, threading into Y/N's hair, her fingers tightening as she angled her head and kissed her deeper. One hand slid to her cheek, cupping her face with a reverence that didn't match the urgency of her mouth. She held her like she needed to remember every inch of her skin, like she was carving her into memory, just in case. Her thumb traced the line of the firefighter's jaw, slow and gentle, a contrast to the way their hips bumped and collided as they kissed like the world was ending and this was the only way to survive it.
Y/N's hands moved with equal heat, sliding down Carol's sides, firm and sure, before slipping under her scrubs—those soft pink scrubs that had been driving her insane since she walked in—and then beneath the ribbed tank top underneath. Her palms found warm skin, the soft dip of her waist, the curve of her back. She groaned into the brunette's mouth at the feel of her, grounding herself there, as if trying to memorize every inch of her by touch alone.
The nurse gasped against her lips, breath catching as Y/N's thumbs grazed her spine, and then she turned them with quiet control, guiding her lover toward the metal table against the back wall. It was cold and impersonal and barely the right height—but none of that mattered. Carol's back hit the edge, and the woman lifted her in one easy motion, setting her on the table like she'd done it a hundred times, like this was the only thing she'd been thinking about since sunrise.
Hathaway's knees parted instinctively, drawing Y/N in between her thighs, and the heat of her radiated through the thin cotton layers between them. The kiss slowed for just a moment as they caught their breath, foreheads resting together, their noses brushing. It was quiet, still, but it crackled with tension—one heartbeat away from something that might not be safe to say aloud.
—You're always this bossy? Carol whispered, her voice hoarse with want, but smiling.
—Only when you let me be, the youngest rasped, fingers tracing the tops of the woman's thighs, skimming under the hem of her scrub pants with aching care.
Carol's reply was a shaky laugh, but her hands didn't pause—they were already working at the buttons of her girl's shirt, fumbling slightly from the way her fingers trembled, from how hard it was to focus when every inch of her skin was lighting up like a live wire. Each button undone revealed more warmth, more breathless promise, and Y/N's chest rose and fell in time with Carol's, their rhythms matching without even trying. There was a tenderness in how the nurse touched her, even in her need. A kind of reverence wrapped in heat, like every inch of the woman was sacred and hers to worship.
The medic felt it in her chest, in the press of the brunette's thighs around her hips, in the soft gasps she gave when their foreheads touched again and Y/N whispered something she didn't even register as words—just breath, just feeling, just need. The room buzzed around them in a way that had nothing to do with the old light overhead and everything to do with the tension suspended between their bodies, that impossible mix of restraint and desire.
Carol's hands, delicate and determined, worked another button free, exposing warm skin beneath Y/N's shirt, and her lips followed the trail like she was tasting every inch. And for a suspended second, it felt like the world had narrowed down to this: fingers trembling with want, the scrape of breath against collarbones, hearts beating out confessions they weren't brave enough to say out loud.
But the door cracked open.
It wasn't dramatic. No crashing sound, no shouting, just the squeak of an old hinge giving way to bad timing and worse luck. A quiet gasp followed—more startled than angry—and the unmistakable shape of a lab coat appeared in the doorway. Dr. Deraad. Psychiatry, of all departments. Not exactly someone who patrolled the halls looking to bust anyone, but still—a doctor, and worse, awake enough to notice things.
His eyes went wide, hand still gripping the edge of the door he'd just opened, and then flicked immediately down—just in time to see the nurse leap off the table like she'd been scalded, her cheeks already flushing a deep rose that climbed to her ears. She reached to yank her scrub top down with one hand while the other clutched the waistband of her pants, which had clearly been pulled just a little too low in the last minute or so.
Y/N didn't move. Or rather—she moved only enough to step sideways, slotting herself between Carol and the door in a single fluid motion. Not frantic, not panicked—protective. Calm in the way people only were when they were used to stepping between chaos and the people they loved. Her arms stayed loose at her sides, but her body language said everything: Yeah, you saw it. But no, you don't get to make her feel small for it. And then, to seal it, she offered a tight-lipped smile. Not smug. Not challenging. Just... apologetic. A flicker of something human, awkward, and real.
—Sorry, Doc. Just checking the linen supply, she said with only the faintest irony.
Dr. Deraad looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. He blinked, nodded, and said—bless him—: Right. Uh... carry on, before gently, mercifully, backing out and closing the door without another word.
The silence afterward was suffocating and hilarious all at once. Carol let out a long breath through her nose, cheeks still flushed, as she fixed the hem of her shirt and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with the same hand that had been in Y/N's collar thirty seconds ago. She didn't meet her eyes right away—too busy breathing, recovering, cooling off—but her mouth twisted into a sheepish smile as she finally glanced over.
—We're cursed.
The medic laughed under her breath, the sound low and full of disbelief, dragging a hand through her hair as she leaned her back against the now thoroughly compromised table.
—That's two. Two rooms. Two times. She raised her brows. Is this a hospital-wide conspiracy or just your version of foreplay?
Carol crossed her arms over her chest, but it didn't quite stick—her smile betrayed her, even as she tried to look serious.
—Don't flatter yourself.
—Oh, I wouldn't dare. Y/N stepped close again, not enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth still radiating off the nurse's skin. She tilted her head and lowered her voice just enough to be dangerous. You want to give up?
Carol didn't answer. She stared at her for a long moment, then closed the distance with a kiss—quick and rough, like a punctuation mark.
—Follow me, she whispered against her lips. And this time, if anyone walks in, I'm taking someone's shift for a week as punishment.
They didn't run, but they didn't exactly walk either. It was something in between—hurried, determined, ducking down lesser-used hallways like ghosts on a mission. Hathaway led with purpose, glancing over her shoulder just once to make sure her lover was still close. There was a crooked grin on her face that made Y/N's heart lurch in her chest—a look that said I want this but also I want you, and the difference between the two felt like everything.
The third room was tucked behind a rarely used conference hallway, half-forgotten and unassuming, still marked with an outdated staff schedule from 1995 on the corkboard outside. It smelled faintly of dust and carpet cleaner, and the blinds were drawn, casting the space in dusky amber light. Carol locked the door behind them without a word this time, and the medic turned to face her slowly, already smiling.
—This one? she asked, voice low.
The brunette stepped into her without hesitation, hands already on the woman's shirt, finishing what she'd started.
—This one, she said, mouth hovering just above hers, breath hot.
Y/N didn't even have time to smile before Carol kissed her again—deeper this time, hungrier, like the weight of restraint had finally slipped off her shoulders and now it was just them, flesh to flesh, breath to breath, no interruptions, no apologies. The nurse kissed with intent now, with purpose. Not the shy teasing of their first stolen minutes, but something that reached lower—something laced with urgency, with the exhaustion of longing too long ignored.
She stepped into her fully and drove the medic backward with nothing more than the press of her body, her palms already skating down the open front of Y/N's shirt, fingertips fumbling with buttons, catching on the hem. She didn't stop when they hit the edge of an old filing cabinet half-draped in forgotten charts—Y/N's back bumped it with a dull thud, metal against spine, but she didn't flinch. She didn't care. Not with Carol's hands moving like that, all decisive and shaking and wild with need.
Hathaway's mouth dragged down her jaw as she pushed the shirt from the firefighter's shoulders, every movement both reverent and impatient. Her breath was ragged against the woman's neck, lips leaving behind a trail of heat that sent electricity down to her toes. Her knuckles brushed bare skin now, searching, mapping the line of her ribs, the dip of her waist. The sounds she made—soft, breathless exhalations against skin—spoke of the kind of desire that had turned quiet ache into fever.
And Y/N—God, Y/N just let herself feel it.
Her head tilted back against the cabinet, one hand gripping the edge of it for balance, the other threading itself into Carol's hair, guiding her mouth back up to hers. Her voice was a low, wrecked thing when she finally spoke, broken between kisses, thick with the weight of everything she felt.
—I swear, she murmured, lips grazing Carol's as her fingers tightened in the fabric of her scrubs, I could make love to you right here.
The words didn't land like a joke. They weren't tossed out to make her flinch or retreat. They were soft. Honest. A confession pressed into the heat between them. And it was the way she said it—like it wasn't about sex, not really—that made Carol pause for the briefest second. Her eyes flicked up, and for just a breath, she looked undone by something other than want. Like maybe she'd heard that same yearning echoing in her own chest and hadn't quite known how to name it.
But Y/N didn't give her time to answer. Her hands found Carol's hips, pulled her in tighter until there wasn't even air left between them, and kissed her again—this time with something slow and searching threaded through the urgency, like she wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth, the rhythm of her breath, the weight of her trust.
The brunette moaned quietly against her lips, a sound half-swallowed between them as her fingers slid beneath the edge of Y/N's undershirt, palms finally meeting warm skin. And the medic's stomach flexed in response, her own hands sliding lower, bunching up the back of Carol's scrub top, dragging it higher inch by inch. It wasn't about rushing now. It wasn't even about getting away with something. It was about the way Carol's body fit against hers like it had always belonged there, like they'd wasted too much time already pretending it didn't.
Outside, the hospital groaned and murmured—PA announcements, rolling carts, someone laughing too loud down a hallway—but here, in this little pocket of stolen time, it all blurred into static. Nothing mattered but the heat of skin beneath fingertips, the rhythm of hips meeting, the way Carol whispered her lover's name like a secret only she was allowed to keep.
For once, the door stayed shut.
Hathway wasn't sure how her fingers had gotten so clumsy. Maybe it was the heat of the room—or the heat of Y/N's mouth dragging slow kisses down her jaw. Maybe it was the way the woman's hands had found the dip of her lower back again, anchoring her with a grip that said stay, stay, please stay. Either way, her fingertips were shaking now, fumbling with the brass buckle of the medic's belt like the damn thing had turned to a puzzle meant to keep them apart.
But Carol didn't give up.
Her breath came short and shallow, her lips parted in concentration, in want, in a low growl of frustration as the leather finally slipped free and she tugged it loose with a small, triumphant gasp. Her hands stayed there—tensed on the waistband, warm against the cotton of the woman's slacks, her thumbs brushing bare skin beneath her shirt. She looked up once, just to see the effect of it, and found Y/N watching her with the kind of hunger that made her feel stripped bare, the kind of gaze that burned.
—You're gonna be the death of me, Carol whispered against the line of her collarbone, voice hoarse.
Y/N laughed—low and rough—and leaned back against the table, inviting.
—Then I'll make it worth it.
It should've been the moment they finally let go. Let the rest of the hospital keep spinning while they gave into the gravity pulling them toward each other. But the universe—maddening, cruel—had other plans.
The door burst open like it had been kicked, slamming against the wall with the sharp crack of wood meeting concrete, and the room dropped ten degrees all at once. Carol jumped like she'd been shot. Her fingers froze—still curled around her girl's open belt. Y/N stiffened beneath her, breath caught mid-laugh, head snapping toward the door just in time to see the unmistakable silhouette of Kerry Weaver standing there, crutch tucked under one arm, clipboard in the other, eyebrows already halfway to her hairline.
—Oh for God's sake, Kerry barked, eyes narrowing with lethal precision as they scanned the scene—Carol half-collapsed against Y/N, her cheeks flushed a bright pink that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with arousal; the medic's belt dangling open, shirt untucked, her own jaw tense like she was trying not to smile; Carol's hair mussed, lips kiss-bitten, hands still very much frozen on the woman's waistband.
It was a tableau of chaos disguised as passion, or passion disguised as chaos—it didn't matter which. Kerry looked like she might combust.
—I've had to mop the goddamn trauma room myself because the entire cleaning staff called in sick or vanished into thin air, the doctor snapped, stepping further into the room with the force of someone who had lost all patience three shifts ago and was running on sheer fury now. And this is what I walk in on? A nurse and a paramedic playing grab-ass in what is supposed to be a supply room?
Carol scrambled backward like a teenager caught behind the bleachers, muttering something that might've been an apology but sounded more like a squeak. She tried to yank her scrub top down over her hips, her fingers trembling now for entirely different reasons. Y/N, to her credit—or perhaps just out of unshakable calm—merely straightened, adjusted her belt with unhurried hands, and stood slightly in front of Carol, blocking her from full view like it was instinct. Protective. Bold. Stupid.
It didn't save them.
Kerry's glare was already cutting through layers of denim, cotton, and decency, eyes snapping between them with surgical precision. Her grip on the clipboard was tight enough to leave fingerprints in the hard plastic, and for a moment it looked like she might throw it—not out of loss of control, but as punctuation.
—This better be a joke, she hissed, her voice lowering in volume but gaining that razor-edge that meant danger. That meant she was past fury and into something colder. Because if it isn't, I swear to God—
—We locked the door, Y/N said. Calm. Measured. Still standing between Carol and the storm. It wasn't defiant, but it wasn't apologetic either. Her voice didn't waver. It was locked.
The doctor's mouth twisted.
—Apparently not well enough. She stepped closer, close enough that her words hit the medic's chest like small, sharp darts. You think that's going to fly when I report this? When I tell your supervisor at the station that one of their medics was caught with their pants undone and a nurse's hands in places they absolutely should not have been during working hours?
Carol flinched behind her, more from the specificity of it than the threat itself. The words were brutal in their accuracy. God, this wasn't high school. This wasn't a stolen locker room kiss or a back-of-the-car mistake. She was a professional. They both were. And now they looked like a couple of teenagers who couldn't keep it together for five minutes between trauma codes.
—I'll deal with my supervisor, Y/N said evenly. You don't have to do that.
—I'm not here to coddle grown adults who can't keep it in their pants, Weaver snapped, pivoting hard on her crutch, rage trailing behind her like smoke. I don't care how many shifts you've pulled this week or how noble your intentions might've felt in the moment. This is a hospital. Not a damn motel.
And then she was gone. Gone in a blaze of fury, crutch tapping angrily down the hall, her voice echoing faintly around the corner as she shouted for someone to clean the goddamn trauma bay.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence closed in too quickly, too heavily. The door still stood wide open, the room still half-lit and heavy with the air of what almost was. Carol stood frozen, her hands hanging at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them now, like they'd betrayed her. Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the tiles that suddenly seemed miles away.
—I— she started, but the word stuck. Her throat worked around something thick. That was...
—Yeah, the woman murmured, softer now, the defiant tilt to her jaw melting into something gentler, warmer. She turned around fully, no longer shielding, just facing her. It was.
Carol looked up at her finally—cheeks still pink, lashes low, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth like she was trying to chew the moment into submission.
—I didn't mean for you to get in trouble. I wasn't—God, I wasn't thinking.
—Neither was I. Y/N reached for her, slow and without expectation, her fingers brushing against Carol's forearm, featherlight. It's okay.
—But your Captain—
—I'll talk to them, she said, tilting her head until Carol looked at her again. I'll handle it.
It wasn't just the words. It was the way she said them, like it was nothing. Like it was already handled. Like she was used to walking into rooms with fires already lit and still managing to find the calm center in the middle of it all. And somehow, she always offered that center to Carol, like it belonged to her first.
—You don't have to protect me, the nurse said, quieter, the embarrassment still lingering around her like a fog she couldn't shake.
Her hair was still a mess, her shirt slightly wrinkled, and she looked—beautiful. Disarmed. Human in the way people only are when they're caught too far outside their carefully curated version of themselves.
—I know, Y/N replied, fingers curling more firmly around her wrist, thumb sweeping a lazy line along the pulse point there. I want to.
Carol looked away again, but not far. Just a shift of her eyes, like she couldn't stand the way the woman was looking at her and couldn't stand to lose it either. Her shoulders had dropped, but the tension was still there, coiled beneath the surface.
The medic waited a breath, then another. Then, gently—
—Let me take you to dinner.
Carol blinked.
—What?
—Tonight. At my place. Just us. Real food. A locked door that actually locks. She grinned, coaxing the ghost of a smile from Carol with it. I'll even light a candle if that's what it takes to get you to relax.
Carol laughed, short and caught off guard, like the sound had ambushed her from the inside. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth like it might stop the flood, but it didn't. It cracked something open instead. Because she was tired—tired of feeling like she always had to brace herself, tired of unfinished things and unspoken wants and the way the day never really let her breathe. And here was Y/N, standing like a shelter, calm in the eye of every storm, still offering something soft when she had every right to be cold.
—You're unbelievable, Carol murmured, still laughing softly as she dropped her forehead briefly to the medic's shoulder, the adrenaline finally fading. Dinner sounds really, really good.
—Yeah? Y/N asked, dipping her chin to press a kiss into her hair, like sealing the deal.
Carol nodded.
—Yeah. But next time we lock the door...
—I bring a chair to wedge under it, Y/N finished, smirking.
Carol snorted.
—Exactly.
And with that, they stepped back into the hall together, hand brushing hand—not quite holding, but not letting go. Not now. Not tonight.