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McCoy hadn’t meant to take Y/N’s sweater.
He’d shrugged it on without thinking when Y/N offered it—some offhand “You’re freezing, Doctor, just take it”—and he’d been too busy complaining about the temperature regulation on Deck Five to bother giving it back.
It fit him almost perfectly, given his small, lean figure.
It wasn’t until he was finally in his quarters that he noticed he was still wearing it.
“Dammit,” he muttered to himself, tugging it off. It smelled like Y/N, clean, warm, just a little sweet.
He told himself that wasn’t the reason he hesitated before folding it.
When he shook the sweater out, something small and metallic hit his bunk.
Her PADD.
Of course Y/N had tucked it in the pocket. Of course he would be the one to find it.
McCoy sighed and picked it up, thumb brushing across the slightly worn screen.
“I’ll just make sure it didn’t break,” he rationalized to absolutely no one.
He clicked it on.
Her playlists popped up immediately. They were organized, titled, and all neat and intentional.
Cute.
Very cute.
And then he saw one labeled with his name.
“Bones’ Mix <3”
“Oh, for the love of…” he whispered, ears already getting hot.
Why in God’s name is there a heart? Did people still use hearts? He wasn’t prepared for hearts.
He hovered for half a second.
Then opened it.
The first song was soft—gentle guitar, warm vocals, lyrics about wanting someone to feel safe with you. The second was even worse—talking about hands brushing, shared smiles, and unspoken feelings.
By the fourth, McCoy had to sit down, elbows on his knees, PADD balanced between his fingers as if it might combust.
“These are… this is…” He swallowed.
“Lord help me.”
Because the thing was—these weren’t breakup songs, or lust songs, or chaotic-stress-energy songs like Jim would have.
They were tender.
They were hopeful.
They were the kind of songs people picked when they liked someone more than they wanted to admit.
And they were for him.
He replayed the first song. Then the second.
By the third time, he was smiling.
Actually smiling.
Like an idiot.
A little laugh escaped him—soft, disbelieving.
“You sentimental little… I knew you were sweet on me.”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting shut, listening through the entire playlist from start to finish. Every single track made his chest ache in that warm, familiar way he only got when someone surprised him with genuine affection.
By the end of it, he let out a long breath.
“Well. Guess I’ve got a sweater to return,” he murmured, setting the PADD gently beside him.
“And a confession to make.”
He stood, pulled the sweater back on—because hell yes, he was going to show up wearing it—and headed for Y/N’s quarters, playlist still echoing in his head.
“Hope you’re awake,” he muttered, heart thudding as he hit the door chime.
“Because we’re gonna have a talk about these damn love songs she’s been hiding.”
Her console beeped. Once. Twice.
Y/N blinked up from her bunk, where she’d been half-asleep, half-stressing over the fact that McCoy still had her sweater.
And her PADD.
And—oh god—her music.
“Come in,” Y/N called, smoothing her hair without thinking.
The doors slid open.
And there he stood.
Wearing your sweater.
He looked… good in it.
Too good.
The sleeves hit just above his wrists, the collar sat wide on his collarbones, and the color brought out the warmth in his eyes.
He looked a little breathless, a little nervous—she almost forgot how to breathe entirely.
“I, uh—” McCoy stepped inside with all the grace of someone who had rehearsed this speech and then immediately forgotten every word.
“I brought this back.”
He tugged at the sweater like he was remembering only now that he was still wearing it.
She stared.
“Bones… that’s not how returning something works,” she said.
He grimaced, cheeks pinking. “Yeah, well, I figured it’d look stranger if I showed up carrying it like some kind of—hell, I don’t know—gift basket.”
That pulled a laugh out of her, and his shoulders eased, barely.
Then he held up your PADD.
“And I, uh… also found this.”
Her heart plummeted.
“Oh no,” she whispered, already covering her face.
“Oh no no no—Bones, please tell me you didn’t—”
“I did.”
He said it gently, but you still wanted to dissolve into the carpet.
“I swear I wasn’t snoopin’, it just fell out,” he continued quickly, stepping closer. “And it lit up. And I picked it up. And, well… I saw my name. On a playlist.”
She squeaked.
Actually squeaked.
McCoy’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
“I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. Really. But once I saw the title, I—hell, I’m only human. I got curious.”
She groaned into her hands.
“I’m going to die,” she mumbled.
“You’re not gonna die,” he murmured, voice softening even more. “Though I can see why you’d want to. Those songs…”
He let out a slow breath.
“They were somethin’.”
Y/N peeked at him through her fingers. “Bad somethin’? Cringe somethin’? Never-speaking-to-me-again somethin’?”
He shook his head.
“No. Not even close.”
McCoy set your PADD carefully on your desk and came to stand right in front of you, close enough that you had to look up at him.
“They were… beautiful,” he admitted, and you’d never seen him look so honestly shy.
“Sweet. Honest. Made me feel like my damn heart was tryin’ to climb outta my chest.”
Her breath caught.
“And,” he added, tugging the hem of your sweater with two fingers, “I think you should know this isn’t the first time you’ve given me that particular problem.”
He cleared his throat, flustered but determined.
“What I’m tryin’ to say is… I like you. More than I probably should. More than I’ve been willin’ to admit. And hearin’ those songs? Felt like maybe—just maybe—you liked me too.”
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then she whispered, voice barely steady,
“Bones… I made that playlist because I do like you. A lot,” she admitted.
His entire posture softened, like someone had untied a knot in him.
“Well,” he said, smile spreading slowly and warmly, “guess that settles that.”
Y/N laughed—half relief, half joy—and he stepped closer, close enough that she felt the warmth of him, the smell of hypospray sterilizer and mint tea and her sweater.
“Come here,” he murmured, gently cupping her cheek with a hand that had healed a thousand injuries but touched her like she was the most delicate thing on the ship.
She leaned in, heartbeat thundering, and McCoy brushed his forehead against hers, voice low and fond:
“Next time you feel somethin’ like that… you don’t have to put it in a playlist first.”
McCoy’s breath brushed her lips before the kiss did—warm, hesitant, like he needed one last second to make sure she wouldn’t pull away.
She didn’t.
The moment she leaned in, he met her halfway.
It was gentle at first.
A soft press of lips, warm and careful, his thumb stroking your cheek like he was memorizing the moment as it happened.
Then he kissed you again—just a little deeper, a little hungrier, as if months of quiet want were slipping through the cracks in his composure.
When she sighed into him, his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, sweater and all.
He broke the kiss only when he absolutely had to breathe, resting his forehead against yours with this dazed, almost boyish smile.
“Well,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “that was… somethin’.”
She smirked softly.
“Good somethin’?” she teased.
He brushed his nose against yours.
“The best damn somethin’ I’ve had in years.”
Y/N felt heat crawl up her neck, and McCoy noticed. His grin turned teasing, smug in that gentle, charming way he pretended he didn’t have in him.
“Look at you blushin’ like I just proposed,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” she laughed, giving his chest a light shove.
He pretended to stumble back dramatically, his arms flailing, muttering “Lord have mercy” like he’d been mortally wounded. right before grabbing your hand and tugging you straight into his arms again.
She yelped, landing against him with a soft thump.
McCoy caught you firmly. “Careful now. I’m a doctor, not a crash pad.”
“You literally are a crash pad.”
“Good thing I like you,” he said, giving your waist an affectionate squeeze, “or I might start chargin’ for service.”
She leaned in closer, snuggling her face into the borrowed sweater still clinging to his shoulders. “You can keep it, y’know.”
He made an indignant noise.
“Absolutely not. You’ll freeze without it.”
“I have other sweaters,” she insisted.
“Not negotiable,” he grumbled, tightening his hold. “Besides… it smells like you. I’m not gonna walk around the ship smellin’ like some lovesick teenager.”
She snorted. “Bones, you already do.”
He blinked.
“I—now wait just a damn minute—”
But you just laughed and tugged gently at his hand, leading him toward your bed.
“C’mon, you’re staying,” she said softly.
McCoy froze halfway to the edge of the mattress.
“Stayin’? As in… overnight?”
You raised a brow. “Yes, doctor. I want you here.”
Then you softened. “Only if you want to.”
He hesitated for exactly half a second… then exhaled, shoulders dropping as if he’d been holding that breath for months.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“I want to.”
The lights dimmed automatically when you climbed into bed. McCoy joined you a beat later, grumbling about how Starfleet mattresses were “thin as paper and twice as useless.”
But the second you curled against his chest, his whole body melted.
“Oh,” he breathed, surprised.
She looked up. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just…”
He wrapped an arm around you.
“This is real nice.”
He held you like you were something precious—like a patient he refused to lose, or a secret he’d finally stopped hiding. You tucked your head under his chin, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the steady warmth of his body, the way his fingers idly traced circles on your arm without him noticing.
After a while, he whispered, softer than you’d ever heard him:
“We should’ve done this sooner.”
She smiled into his chest. “We’re doing it now.”
He kissed the top of your head. “Yeah. Guess that’s what matters.”
There was a comfortable quiet after that, the kind that settles over two people who finally stopped pretending they weren’t in love.
Just before sleep tugged you under, McCoy added, a little smug, a little shy:
“And for the record… if you ever feel the need to make another one of those playlists…I’d be happy to hear it first-hand.”
She laughed sleepily, nuzzling closer. “You’re impossible.”
“Mmhm.” He pulled the blanket over both of you and tucked your body closer against his. “And you’re stuck with me tonight. Better get used to it.”
Y/N fell asleep in his arms, warm and safe and stupidly happy—and McCoy stayed awake just long enough to whisper into your hair,
“Goodnight, darlin’.”
Then he held you tighter
and let himself fall asleep, too.