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Debra Morgan is pacing.
Which is never a good sign.
She’s been pacing the same ten feet of hospital hallway for twenty minutes now, boots scuffing the floor, hands raking through her hair like she might tear the stress out by the roots. A nurse already told her—politely, firmly—to sit the hell down.
She ignored them.
“Fucking unbelievable,” she mutters for the fifth time. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”
You’re behind the curtain in the trauma bay, stitched up and monitored and very much alive. Which should be the end of it. Which should be enough.
It’s not.
When the doctor finally lets her in, Deb storms to your bedside like she’s ready to arrest someone. Anyone. Maybe you.
“You are out of your goddamn mind,” she snaps the second she sees you. “Do you have any idea how much blood there was? I mean—Jesus Christ, I thought—”
She stops short.
Because you’re pale. You’ve got a bandage wrapped around your side, IV in your arm, eyes a little glassy from pain meds—but you’re smiling at her. Soft. Reassuring.
That smile hits her harder than the gunshot ever could’ve.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “You look like shit.”
She scoffs, voice rough. “Oh, fuck you.”
But she pulls up the chair anyway. Sits. Leans forward with her elbows on her knees like if she gets any closer, she might keep the universe from pulling this shit again.
“You scared the hell outta me,” she mutters.
There it is. Not anger. Not sarcasm.
Fear.
You watch her fingers—still shaking, just a little. “I’m okay, Deb.”
“Yeah? Because you were bleeding out on the floor,” she snaps, eyes glossy now. “And I couldn’t— I didn’t—”
Her voice cracks.
She hates that.
She swipes at her face angrily. “Goddammit.”
“Deb,” you say gently.
“No,” she interrupts, standing again, pacing once like a caged animal. “No, I don’t wanna hear the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. I almost lost you. Again. And I—I can’t—”
She stops.
Right in front of you.
Her shoulders slump like all the fight drains out at once.
“I can’t lose you too,” she admits, barely above a whisper.
The room goes quiet.
“You’re not like the rest,” she continues, eyes fixed on the floor now. “You don’t leave. You don’t run when I get… like this. And if something had happened to you—” She shakes her head hard. “I don’t survive that. I don’t.”
Your heart aches at the raw honesty in her voice. Debra Morgan, stripped bare. Terrified. Honest.
Before she can retreat back behind the swearing and the walls, you reach out—slow, careful because you’re still sore—and grab her wrist.
She looks up, startled.
And you pull her in.
She doesn’t even have time to swear before your lips meet hers.
It’s not dramatic. Not rushed. Just real. Soft at first, then sure—like you’re grounding her, like you’re saying I’m here, I’m alive, I’m not going anywhere without words.
Deb freezes for half a second.
Then she melts.
Her hands come up to cradle your face, forehead pressing to yours when she pulls back just enough to breathe.
“Jesus,” she whispers, breath shaking. “You just got shot and you’re the one comforting me?”
You smile faintly. “You needed it.”
She lets out a breathy laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “But not today.”
Her thumb brushes your cheek, reverent now. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Get shot?”
“Terrify me.”
You lean in and kiss her again—gentler this time.
Deb doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t pull away.
She stays.