A neglected reader raised by the old ladies of Gotham.
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The appearance of Bruce Wayne’s daughter was quite a scandal. She was born from a flimsy woman, an unknown who was quick to sign her parental rights away and get out of the picture with a big check.
His daughter made her debut and lost public interest in a month. Her name was not heard again until her twelfth birthday. She was not the youngest, just a middle and forgettable child, a touch too shy to ask for help when a vapid man pestered her while her siblings and father were busy making connections.
Mirna could still remember dear Martha comforting her after a hard beating, keeping quiet in her shame while using her nursing degree to patch Mirna up. Martha was famous for her tea dates, where women would come “pressured” by their husbands to make a good impression on the Waynes.
All a lie. Martha would spot a woman in trouble and send an invitation.
Times have changed; fewer women are ready to endure a bad egg. But when it was almost a miracle to have a decent husband—one who would only shame you with whores—it was sweet Martha who stood up to help in silence, even when most of them envied her.
Thomas was a jewel, too much in love with Martha to hurt her in any way. The perfect marriage, a dream that ended too soon in a dirty alley. They had endured their tears at the funeral, afraid to show their love for Martha, knowing that their husbands had only allowed their interaction with the understanding that it was more a chore than a joyous time.
Their grief was quiet, but the women that Martha had saved grew up to stand by themselves, to honor her friend in a tight group who would help other wives in need.
The bad eggs were fewer with each generation, but they still stayed vigilant behind snarky and bitter masks. If they could raise the ire of a man in less than five minutes, they would mark him on the blacklist. If he was single, he would find no wife in all of Gotham.
They were old, nosy, and worse... committed.
So, seeing Martha’s granddaughter by herself, and quite obviously forgotten by her father and siblings, made Mirna’s heart ache. Mirna, of course, disposed of the man as soon as she got near, but didn’t stay to chat with the young girl. Still, she told her niece to keep an eye on her. She wanted to believe that this was the mistake of just one night; dear Brucie was sometimes forgetful, but she had seen how much he loved his kids, defending them with fierceness.
More galas came, and each time they saw her alone. What made them move was her smile, that cursed smile full of brightness that concealed the weight of a broken family behind it.
They had worked so hard in honor of Martha, then seeing her granddaughter, who mirrored her in all her beauty, made them seethe in rage.
They may be trapped in their marriages, but Martha’s granddaughter will not be.
The first thing was showing her how to find the secluded room that guarded their little club at each gala. Gaining her trust was not easy work, but experience came to hand more times than not.
“I don’t need pity,” she would reply with anger.
“Don’t be silly, girl,” Olivia would snap. “Needing help doesn’t make you less.”
Olivia was a widow, a lucky widow whose spouse had left a big fortune and no hidden debts. She was the prime benefactor of the tea club, mocked for it. Those outside their circle would only consider it an expensive way to gossip, where old crones would throw venom at each other.
There was gossip and venom; they needed to have their own fun. But they were not heartless, bitter old bitches.
Nosy, maybe.
“I’m not my grandmother either.”
“Oh honey, we can see it,” Olivia laughed. “Dear Martha didn’t need anyone to defend her.”
“Olivia!” reprimanded Esther at her rude words.
“But she was a grown woman; you are just a girl,” continued Olivia. “So, if you are smart enough, you would see this as an opportunity.”
The anger stayed in her eyes, but curiosity was born.
“What for?”
“To seek a life of your choice, be free of your golden cage,” Mirna said. “Let us train you, so one day you become a shining star above everyone else.”
A single tear fell upon her cheek.
“They are never going to love me, are they?”
“I don’t have the answer, but don’t chase love, dear.” Mirna cleaned her face. “The only one who you must seek to love is yourself. Those that come after must give you affection freely, not with conditions.”
Things changed for the better. While Bruce and his children remained quite ignorant of her affairs, Alfred spotted the sudden bond between her and the old ladies of Gotham and chose to say nothing. He had seen her loneliness, so the change on her lips, where a sincere smile adorned, was a nice sight.
After school, she would go to Olivia’s mansion, take lessons, and hear old anecdotes. They would encourage her to take piano lessons, wear clothes even if she separated from her family’s usual trend, and not care about her calorie intake.
Even if not all the days were good, they stayed. Through her tears and laughs, a bond forged deep in their hearts: no longer only Martha’s granddaughter, but theirs. A precious girl who grew up to be a breathtaking lady, one who could command a room with kindness, but be just as stubborn as her grandmother when seeing someone in need of help.
Being a socialite was way different with social media, but their knowledge was put to good use. Their darling would show them her Instagram account; the millions on it made them proud as peacocks. The photos were carefully selected, but what melted them was the way she was proud to show her “Fierce grandmas,” as she titled the shot with all of them in the middle of a Sunday brunch.
The care they had given her: every day, she paid it forward.
So, while their dear girl didn’t need a man... they lived to see her fall in love.
A good man; they made sure of it.
So, with their go-ahead, Charles proposed. When the call came in the middle of the night, the congratulations came as quickly as tears appeared.
And how late Bruce saw his daughter. Too late to rectify his neglect, but in time to see her form her own family.
“Father,” she called, arriving in the morning. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. I know you’ve got a busy schedule, but I think a year is enough notice.” She spoke kindly, but not affectionately. “My wedding is next spring; could you take three days to be in Monaco?”
The answer doesn’t come, so she continues to talk.
“Maybe two days? You can skip the rehearsal, but if you don’t come to the wedding, everyone is going to talk more about it than about my big day,” she explains.
Bruce exhales.
“W-wedding?” he asks. “With who?”
Shock is so overwhelming that his mind doesn’t register at first how his daughter negotiates the days just to make him come—the way she only wants him there to evade gossip, not from a need to have her father there.
“Charles. I presented you to him two years ago, at the charity gala for Women’s Empowerment.” She sends him a resigned look. “Last week, we took our engagement photos in the mansion. I left you a note in your office.”
He didn’t remember Charles or the note.
“Maybe he could come to dinner today?”
He needed to text the kids to know if they knew of this.
“Really?” She arches an eyebrow, annoyed. “I have invited you and the rest plenty of times to come to dinner with us; you always ghost us.” She tells him, “I thank you for the invitation, but we are taking a plane tonight, so we can’t come.”
She goes after that, without getting an apology or an explanation. Just leaving a white-and-golden invitation that smells faintly like cinnamon.
He finds the note she mentions. The thing is that the office is more a facade; he is more comfortable in the Batcave. His kids know to leave a note there if they require his attention... just not her.
His only child out of familiar vigilantism. And he finds that this runs deeper than a moment of forgetfulness; at best, he has been absent. Stacked in one of the desk drawers, he finds more notes.
There were plenty of them from her childhood; they became shorter, colder, and fewer after she turned thirteen. He read glimpses of her life that he ignored... neglected.
It was hard to find that he had not been her father at all.
Alfred finds him in the middle of his unveiling.
“I think I lost hope that one day you would read them when the young miss was ten.”
“You never mentioned the notes to me,” Bruce’s voice is barely a whisper.
“I did, at the beginning,” he says. “But Gotham was turbulent, and your focus—Master Wayne—kept slipping back to the city.”
“And I give her nothing from me.” Dread has made a home in his chest. “I think the birthdays that I attended were barely because I stepped in by mistake,” he confesses. “I handle the rest of the kids’ gifts, but I can’t remember picking hers.”
“Mrs. Wilson had done it every year, just like the Christmas gift,” Alfred told him. “You should give a bonus to your secretary; she has fine taste.”
A bitter laugh left his lips.
“Did she even know I’m Batman?” he asks.
“If she does, she has never mentioned it.”
Even if she knew, after all these years it was barely an excuse to have lost most of her life.
“She is going to marry some guy called Charles.”
“I know. She called when he proposed; she was delighted.” Alfred sighs. “Master Bruce, this is not fixable, but the least you can do is make her wedding the best day. Spare her the sorrow of the media pointing out your absences; they have done it before, and she has denied it with a smile, even if it was painful to lie.”
He nods.
Night comes, and before the kids leave, he asks his children if they know that their sister is getting married.
“Cassandra?” Dick asks, confused. “With who?”
“Can’t be married if we disappear the groom,” says Jason.
That their assumption goes straight to Cassandra just shows Bruce how she is barely part of their lives.
“No, idiots,” Tim calls out. “The princess is marrying; it’s all over her social media.”
“You knew?” Bruce questions, hopeful that one of his children had formed a bond with their sister.
“Hard to miss when it’s all over the news,” he says, still putting his weapon in place. “It’s good she’s leaving; she’s quite delicate for the city.”
“I don’t know how that weakling has kept herself alive all this time,” mentions Damian without cruelty, just stating a fact.
It hurts Bruce more than words can express, the way they dismiss her like gossip. But how can he demand their care when even he ignored her whole life?
He realized that she had lived her whole life being a stranger in her own home.
No father and no siblings... and now, upon her marriage, for the first time all his thoughts focus on her.
Too late to reach her, to show her he loves her, even when he has not cared for her. So, he does more than the least she expected from him.
When next spring comes, he takes the whole week to concentrate on the wedding. Seeing her surprise and relief is enough. He can’t condense years of apology into a single week, but he tries his best to make this week special.
He is there every morning during her bride meetings, even if he stands out like a sore thumb between her friends and the three older ladies who check every corner of the venue like it is a war field.
“Charles is taking his car to race; you can go if you want, Father.”
“I’m okay here, sweetheart.”
She smiles at him, even if not fully convinced.
He had investigated, but observing the life she had made by herself was quite different from seeing it from a screen.
She has inherited the title of “Princess of Gotham” that the media once threw at him, but while he wore it scandalously, she uses it with grace. Her life is gentle, but she has worked hard for it, with the help of the older ladies that he once marked as exhausting.
They are not the harpy he made up in his mind, not if they care so deeply for his daughter. Now he sees it was a facade, just like his Brucie persona.
Walking her to the altar is agonizing. But he supports it with a smile. She smiles shyly at her soon-to-be husband, and he looks at her, full of devotion... In a single second, he can almost see his parents in them.
The rare love he thought he would never see again. He finds himself crying in silence for the girl he failed, for the woman who has found happiness, and for the daughter he never saw.
Alfred silently extends a handkerchief.
He has no right to feel like he is losing her when he never took her hand. Apologies don’t come out of his mouth, but when the dance arrives, he embraces his daughter tenderly.
“I wish your happiness lasts all your life, my dear daughter.” His voice chokes a little with emotion.
There were not enough apologies to reverse what he had done. His daughter observed him for a long time in silence; tears glinted in her eyes, but some storm in her heart calmed at his words. She didn’t forgive him, but she laid her head on his chest.
For the first time, she stops being defensive in his presence. He treasures the moment and the photo.
Three years later, in winter, he travels for the birth of his first grandchild.
He shared happiness that he didn’t deserve, barely holding back a sob when his daughter presented his grandchild in a Batman blanket.
They share a knowing look while Charles coos at the newborn.
“You were not a father at all,” his daughter confesses years later, “but you are a wonderful grandpa.”
Extra scene.
They were quite conscious that she would move with her husband to Monaco, and while keeping in touch was easy nowadays... they had always been nosy! So it must not have been a surprise when the three old goats decided to retire to Monaco too.
Someone had to keep the fort safe when Charles went to race for Ferrari in the season. And, of course, their darling traveled with him as much as she could, so they were always preparing her a suitcase with outfits for the next country.
So, it came as a shock when suddenly a book called “Gotham’s Tea Club” was published.
Martha’s altruism was well known, but the depth of it revealed a tale of how kindness could surpass death and travel through time. Decades after her death, her good heart had even touched her granddaughter.
A lot of women, even if some in anonymity, shared their testimony. Kindness had not stayed only with the wealthy; it had reached even the lowest neighborhoods of Gotham.
Esther reads with tears how her old housekeeper remembers her acting quite bratty about how she needed to stay in the mansion during Christmas, even if she “must” bring her children with her. That winter they were homeless after her husband died and left her with three little children; she described how her old boss acted cold-hearted but was all warm and fuzzy at her core. The kids and she stayed for a whole year, always under the excuse of how Esther could “endure” them just to keep the house working. They got a new place with cash her youngest child found inside her teddy bear.
No word was shared, and there was no surprise when Carmen told her boss she had found a place. She worked for Esther till the kids graduated college, never telling her how she had replicated the tea club in her own neighborhood.
Carmen was not the only maid who learned to run a tight group of women helping each other. The tea club kept strong for years to come, no longer a silent secret, but a movement.
Description: After hearing Buck talk about Theo so much, Y/N finally meets him herself; although sooner than expected.
The apartment was quieter than usual. You sat curled on the couch, blanket over your legs, half-watching a cooking show as you waited for Buck. The clock ticked on, and you glanced at the door every so often. Buck had been distracted lately. He wasn’t distant from you, not ever, but he seemed weighed down. It was as if something rested on his shoulders that he just couldn’t set aside. You knew the reason, too. Theo.
You’d heard the name so often recently that it felt like you already knew him. Buck talked about him constantly, slipping in little details. Theo likes pancakes but only if the syrup doesn’t touch the eggs. Theo hates thunderstorms. Theo pretends he’s not scared of dogs. Every story had become softer by the end, Buck’s voice gentler than usual. And every single time, you could see it happen. Buck got attached. Deeply attached. Which also meant he was terrified.
Your husband had one of the biggest hearts of anyone you’d ever met, but because of that, he carried this endless fear that one day people would decide he was too much. Too emotional. Too caring. Too intense. Tonight, though, something felt different. You heard the apartment door unlock. “Buck?” you called.
The door opened slowly. And Buck stepped inside, fidgeting with his keys and shifting his weight nervously, looking more anxious than you’d seen him in a long time.
Standing beside him was a little boy clutching a backpack to his chest. Theo. His eyes were wide and uncertain, darting around the unfamiliar room as if searching for exits or safe corners. You watched him closely, trying to imagine what the world might look like from behind those anxious eyes. If you could see inside his mind, you would find Theo’s thoughts twisting themselves into knots. He looked so small and scared, and you guessed he might be wishing he could melt into the floor, desperately hoping no one would ask him to speak first. He squeezed the straps of his backpack tighter. Maybe he was wishing he could make himself invisible, unsure if this place could ever feel like somewhere he belonged. Still, there was something fragile in his expression, a quiet hope just beginning to flicker. You wondered if he wanted to believe Buck could be right, that maybe here he wouldn’t need to keep his guard up forever. As you took all this in, you found yourself hoping this was a place where kindness would reach him, and he would know what it felt like to finally be safe.
Theo’s eyes darted cautiously as Buck froze near the doorway, unsure whether he should enter. Your heart squeezed immediately. “Oh,” you said softly. Buck rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, uh… surprise?” Theo looked down at the floor. Buck rambled, words tumbling over each other like always when he panicked. “So, okay, I have something to tell you. I’ve adopted Theo. Social Services needed him to go somewhere safe, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened.”
He looked down, nerves raw. “I spent all night thinking about what kind of person I want to be. Honestly, I couldn’t sleep. I kept going back and forth, wondering if I was making a mistake, if I was being selfish, or if I was rushing into something too big. A part of me was terrified I’d mess this up for all of us. But I kept seeing Theo’s face, knowing I couldn’t let him down. I know it’s big, and I know it’s sudden. But it felt right. I just had to do it.” “Buck.”
“I know we didn’t really talk about this first, and I should’ve called, and maybe this is crazy, and maybe I’m asking too much...” “Buck.” His mouth snapped shut. You slowly stood and looked between Buck and Theo. Theo looked terrified. Buck looked worse.
Not because he regretted bringing Theo here. Because he thought you might regret it. “You brought him home,” you said gently. Buck swallowed hard. “I just… I couldn’t leave him.” His voice held so much vulnerability, it nearly broke your heart. He looked ready for rejection before you’d even spoken. “I know this is a lot,” he continued quietly. “And if you think this is too much or too sudden or-”
You crossed the room before he could spiral further. Buck went silent as you gently cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. His eyes were already glassy. “Evan,” you whispered. That got him immediately. It always did. “You don’t have to carry this alone.” His expression cracked slightly. You glanced over at Theo, who was still standing uncertainly near the door, then back at your husband. “Buck,” you said softly, “we are in this together. Me and you.”
As you spoke, you reached out to gently squeeze Buck's hand, your fingers intertwining in the small, secret way you always did during late-night talks or crowded rooms. You gave his hand that subtle double squeeze, a silent way of saying I’m here, I love you, this is home. Buck’s lips quirked, just a little, recognising the gesture, the memory of all the nights you had sat together on this very couch, leaning into each other when the world felt uncertain.
For a second, Buck just stared at you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then his shoulders dropped. Not completely. But enough. Enough to breathe again. “You mean that?” he asked quietly. You smiled. “Of course, I mean it.” Theo finally looked up at you then. His fingers twisted nervously around the straps of his backpack, and he shifted from one foot to the other, unsure whether it was safe to hold your gaze. Careful. Hopeful.
You walked over and crouched slightly so your eyes were level with his, resting one hand on your knee to steady yourself. “Hi, Theo,” you said warmly. “I’m really glad you’re here.” He blinked at you. “You are?” “Absolutely.”
Behind you, Buck made the smallest strangled sound. You glanced back to see him wiping quickly at his eyes. “Oh my God,” you teased softly. “Are you crying already?” “No,” Buck lied immediately, voice thick. “Shut up.” Theo stared at him in confusion. You leaned closer conspiratorially. “He cries at literally everything.” Buck groaned. “Babe.” And just like that, the tension eased. Just a little. Theo smiled. A tiny one. But real.
You stood and extended your hand out toward him, palm up, inviting him to take it. “How about we figure out dinner first?” Theo hesitated before slipping his small hand into yours. Buck watched the whole thing as if it were precious. Something fragile. Something he’d been afraid to hope for. As you led Theo toward the kitchen, gently guiding him by the hand, you looked back at your husband. And the expression on Buck’s face made your chest ache. Because underneath all that fear, he looked loved.
Maybe for the first time all day, he finally believed this could actually become a home. But even as hope flickered in his eyes, uncertainty lingered quietly at the edges, like shadows in a sunlit room. There would be so much to figure out: school forms to sign, classrooms full of strangers, teaching Theo their routines and letting him make a space of his own, and finding a way to build trust slowly with every gentle step. Soon there would be the challenge of choosing the right outfit for Theo’s first morning at a brand new school, introducing him to the teacher whose name was only a line on a welcome email, and sitting together at the little round table by the door, helping him decide what he wanted for his packed lunch.
There would be practical hurdles too, watching Theo navigate his first night in a new bed, trying to coax him to eat at the table with you, reading picture books at bedtime and hoping he’d let you stay in the room until he fell asleep, holding his hand when nightmares wake him, stumbling through tense meetings with social workers who seem to expect you to know exactly what to do. They still had so much to learn about each other, and tomorrow would bring new worries, like how to help Theo find his cubby in a line of unfamiliar faces or what to say if he asked about people he missed. Questions might come in the quiet moments before breakfast, and maybe even harder nights when fear or loneliness tried to slip inside. Yet here, now, with the hush of the apartment wrapped around them, it was enough to imagine that together, they could make it through whatever came next.
Brendon Park x plus sized/curvy/chubby reader. Part 2 of this. After finding out your boyfriend actually did report those morons to HR, you’re feeling very grateful.// smut. Oral (both reviving) unprotected sex. Workplace sex. Aftercare <3
Brendon was surprised when you knocked on his office door at PTMC.
For many reasons.
A) why the hell are you knocking? Obviously you can come in whenever the hell you want. You should know that.
He supposed maybe you were worried he was in a meeting or something. But still. He’d never, ever fault you for coming to see him.
B) why did you come see him? You could just text. You knew that.
But here you were, standing in his doorway.
Brendon’s office had become very familiar to you lately. Using his minifridge to store your lunch, leaving your jackets on his coat hook. A photo of you mixed in with his family. You were no stranger to the space now.
“Hey baby.” He smiled, turning his attention away from his laptop to you.
He pushed back his fancy rolling chair from his desk, opening his arm for you to come greet him.
When you slotted into his side, he kissed the side of your head, squeezing your waist.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He smiled.
Your face looked uneasy, though.
“Did you- um. Did you actually report Wanger and Chen to HR?”
You fiddled with your sweater sleeves in a way so fucking charming, Brendon could cry.
“Corse I did.”
He dismissed it mindlessly.
“Didn’t I say I would?”
His hand came in to stroke your cheek softly.
“I told you I was gonna do it. The way they were talking about you wasn’t okay. If they don’t receive the discipline for it now, they’ll just keep doing shit like this in the future. One day they’ll be in a real position of power over a woman they talk about like that. They need to learn the hard way, now.” Brendon insisted.
Something started to tingle in your belly at how insistently he spoke about it.
“Besides.”
His hand came down from your cheek, back around your waist.
“You’re my girlfriend now-“ He grinned like a kid as he said the word, that single dimple no one else at this hospital knew existed on display. “It sets a bad president if I let dumb fucks talk about my lady like that.”
You smiled softly at the masculine display. It was so corny but still so attractive. So protective.
What a man.
Brendon attention snapped back.
He didn’t bother to ask if his reporting bothered you. Frankly, he didn’t care. It had to be done.
So be it if you were too nice to agree.
“So. I take it you got called in about it?”
You nodded. “Yeah. They wanted my statement of what happened.”
He hummed. “Did things go okay? Anyone rude to you?”
You shook your head. “It was fine, Bren. Promise. Just sucked reliving all that.”
Brendon understood, smiling sadly.
“I understand. I’m sorry. But you know this is for the best.”
Brendon was so firm with this.
You had to admit it was hot.
You didn’t get a say in his right to protect you.
You were his woman. You were not to interfere with his insuring that you got the respect you deserved.
It was… so fucking hot.
He was protective. And not in a douche bag with a Batman complex who talks a big game about killing anyone who hurts you, or puffs out his chest at bars. He used the correct, formal, professional channels to make sure you were taken care of appropriately. Even protected form him, insisting that you disclosed with HR the morning after your first time together.
You just nodded.
And then, you came in close.
At first, Brendon expected a real hug. If he was lucky, maybe he’d coax you to sit in his lap for a minute or two, but it usually took some insisting that he and the chair would be okay to get that from you.
(He’d train you out of that. Eventually.)
But you didn’t hug him.
You rolled his chair further from his desk.
And sunk down onto your knees.
Brendon’s eyes blew wide.
“What are you-“
You smiled at him, resting your cheek on his knees.
You weren’t an animal. Brendon had a right to say no.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I wanna thank you for taking care of me” you explained, scratching a manicured hand down his strong, big thighs.
“Are you serious? Here?”
You nodded.
“I’m not opposed if you aren’t. No one’s dumb enough to bother you without knocking. Please baby? Wanna show you just how grateful I am for my man.”
Brendon threw his head back and swore, rubbing a hand over his eyes in disbelief.
Was this really happening to him?
His hot girlfriend begging to blow him at work?
Holy fuck.
You took his lack of protest as the yes it was, hooking your fingers into hi waistband and pulling his scrubs down enough to fish his cock out of his boxers.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll swallow so we don’t make a mess” you whispered.
His cock twitched at that. You were insane.
He was a lucky, lucky man.
He was soft, but getting there quickly as your sparkling, bright eyes met his, sweet smile on you lips as you stroked him.
“So big. I’m so lucky to have you, Bren.” You insisted.
Yeah. He was getting there fast.
You didn’t have to wear scrubs. You were a social worker. The social workers across PTMC all dressed pretty differently. Some in suits, some in jeans and tees. You feel somewhere in the middle, in modest dresses and flowy skirts and pretty blouses. Kitten heels, flats, and Mary Jane’s.
Today’s outfit was a knee length wrap skirt and a sleeveless square neck top, due to the increasing heat of the approaching summer. You had a cardigan. One which you’d abandoned here in his office at 9:30. Right now, your outfit was torture. Your skirt- professional 20 minute ago- had bunched and was pulled tight across your wide hips and thick thighs form how you knelt, and from the above angle, staring down your shirt at your cleavage was devilishly teasing.
You were straight out of a virus carrying pop up add.
He must have said that out loud. Or looked as down bad as he felt. Because you giggled, and kissed his tip.
Fuck.
Finally, you took him in your mouth.
Licking up and down, kissing along the length leaving traces of your sensible tinted lipstick. Some perfect kiss marks.
Vixen. Cursed vixen.
Swirling your tongue around the tip, even one cheeky stroke over his balls which sent him griping the arms of his chair and sent you giggling.
There was something Chen and Warner had said those few weeks ago, about how chubby chicks tried harder but it still wasn’t enough to make up for it. In the back of your mind, you wondered if that was true. If you were thinner, would you be this generous, this performative when you sucked Brendon’s cock?
Who the fuck are you kidding.
Brendon had a gorgeous, thick, long, pink cock, which he knew exactly how to use, and the man attacked to it was a fucking gem. Of corse you’d blow him like there was no tomorrow.
Brendon suddenly realized his rudeness, letting the chair go to carefully and gently pull your hair into a sloppy makeshift ponytail behind your head.
You looked up at him, eyelashes fluttering in wordless thanks as you started to bob your head on him.
You weren’t planing to deep throat him. Not at work, when you had eye makeup on and nothing to clean up or fix it with.
So you used your hands to try and satisfy him at the base, as if he would complain at all if you didn’t. He wasn’t greedy. He appreciated anything you did for him.
Which is why you were happy to choke on his cock in the middle of the work day.
You hummed a little as you went to bring him more pleasure, chasing his release happily.
You were growing wet from this, of corse you’d were. Your boyfriend was swearing your name like a prayer while you blew him, looking at you with those loving and needy eyes, abs clenching at the bottom of his taut belly where his top had ridden up, saying the nicest things about you between “fuck”s and “Y/N”s.
“Pull off” he suddenly requested mid bob.
You did, of corse you did, but you were confused as you looked up at him from your little pile on the floor.
Did you do something wrong?”
“Can I fuck you?” He asked- well. Begged.
“Please.”
He looked desperate.
“Is that okay?”
By the third request your brain got online, making you finally nod.
He shuddered a breath, cock hanging heavy against his abs and scrub top, as he patted the top of his desk.
You bit your lip.
“It can take it. I mean it, I’ve sat on it. Okay?”
Okay. Fine.
“Take your panties off.” He ordered, holding out his hand waiting,
Fuck.
You reached under your skirt, handing them to him embarrassingly.
His eyes were dark and heavy.
He pushed his laptop to the side, using all that ortho bro muscle to hoist you onto the desktop, bunching your skirt around your waist leaving your pussy ready for him.
And then he dropped to his knees.
You looked like pure fucking sex, hair just a little messed up from his grip, eyes dazed, lips swollen, pussy glistening and exposed, on his desk in all your glory. He’d had dreams like this, maybe with you a bit more undressed but who was he to complain?
“Bren?” You worried.
“Thought you were gonna-“
“I am. But lemme get a taste first. Gotta get my sweet little pussy ready for me.”
You moaned at his words as he dove in, licking fat stroked across your slit.
He wasn’t chasing your orgasm. This was just fair play. You blew him, now he would take care of you. And selfishly, he craved your taste.
You learned your first time together that Brendon loved eating pussy. It took begging, the man on his knees, to convince you to eventually ride his face. The man loved to eat.
Many might were spent with the better part of an hour, yourself naked on Brendon’s bed, his head squeezed between your thighs (which make you anxious and make him hard as a rock), eating like a man starved. Like a mindless creature acting on pure instinct.
He didn’t spend longer than two minutes down there.
Maybe.
You had 0 clue the time.
Before he came back, looking satisfied at how wet you were for him.
His cock was an angry, desperate red now.
He grabbed you by the fabric of your skirt, pulling you to the edge of the desk with a casualness that made you gasp, and him grin meanly.
“Don’t cha know I’ve always got you by now? C’mon, baby.”
He ran his hand over your pussy, collecting some wetness to stoke himself with before he put his tip against your hole, making you gasp out again.
“You want this, baby?” He teased, breath fanning over your face.
Your shy, wide eyed nod was more than enough for him to sink in slowly, his size still punishing despite the wetness and foreplay.
“I know Princess, but you gotta keep quiet, baby.” He chuckled in your ear.
You nodded, clamping your lips closed.
Unable to dig your claws into his back like usual, you settled on the back of his neck, which he had no complaints about.
He rocked in and out of you with a steady pace, cock bullying your cervix at the angle, in a way with reminded you with a jolt that he was inside you bare.
You knew Brendon would take care of it, probably dropping a discrete prescription bottle plan B in your hands during his lunch break, but the trill of it sent you closer to your own edge.
His hold on your hips was firm but careful, hips firmly pressing against yours and then back out rhythmically, bringing one hand down to thumb over your clit.
“Keep quiet” he reminded you with a wink, before leaning in to kiss you finally.
He’d lasted so long, somehow.
His kiss, like they usually were in bed, was sloppy and desperate and animal deep strokes of tongue like he was tasting your teeth, claiming your whole mouth.
He could feel you were close, from how your body was growing tighter and more ridged, perfect pussy fluttering around his cock.
You were moaning softly against his lips, unable to hold it.
“C’mon princess. Cum for me. Be my good girl and cum on my cock.” He encouraged, keeping his pace because he knew changing it would only ruin your orgasm.
He did push himself a little deeper on each thrust, though, pushing that soft silky spot every thrust as his thumb worked over your clit.
With a particularly nasty move of his tongue against yours and a deep thrust, you finally came, whimpering as you clenched around him, both your pussy and your hands around his neck pulling him in as he whispered reassurances, cock still chasing its own release
After a few thrusts, and your hands scratching his scalp just right, burying himself deep inside you he came, groaning into your kneel as he did so, weakly thrusting a few more times to ride it out.
Brendon stayed inside you for a minute, both catching your breath, his head remaining on your shoulder as he did so.
He finally pulled out slowly, careful expecting the cum that would leak out. He grabbed a few tissues, taking care of what he could, admittedly savoring the view as he cleaned you up clinically.
“I’ll pick you up a pill on my lunch” he assured as he cleaned you up, like he could read your mind.
He wasn’t fully satisfied, knowing you’d need a minute or two to finish cleaning up in the bathroom, but he stopped. He pulled you into his arms, into a firm hug quickly, kissing the side of your head lovingly, kisses pecked over and over. Like a true gentleman. Brendon knew you always needed some loving after sex. Quiet cuddles and sweet affection after heavy fucking. Unfortunately, you both knew you didn’t have that luxury right now.
“I love you” he reminded you, soft and gentle in your ear.
Maybe you guys had said it fast at just about a month, but with the time you’d been friends, with the time you’d been pining…
That first time he’d said it last week wasn’t groundbreaking.
“I love you too” you mumbled into his shoulder, slouching.
One luxury you did have that you were thankful for, was Brendon’s offices bathroom. You didn’t have to go far, snatching your panties off his desk, rolling your eyes as he playfully protested how he won them fair and square, making your way awkwardly across the room.
You peed, cleaning up quickly and messily with some damp toilet paper, before moving to the mirror to focus on your face.
Brendon came in behind you, washing his hands and cleaning himself up.
The causality was a reflection of a deep, safe intimacy. You could cry at it.
“Do I look like I just got fucked?” You worried with a weak playful cover Brendon saw right through.
Brendon helped you to smooth down your hair in the back, twirling it in his fingers in his best attempt of what you did to the front.
“Not really. Just have had a busy day.” He shrugged.
He looked at his watch.
Surprisingly, not too much time had passed. You both were firmly in the clear of your schedules, thankfully.
He squeezed your hips reassuringly.
“You look just fine, honey. No one’s gonna know.” He assured, leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“My necks probably gonna get me hell, but I don’t mind.” He winked.
He didn’t mind.
What mattered was that you were safe and secure and not questioned. His marks could have been from hours ago, and were no one’s business.
You blushed red at the realization but did relax just a bit.
He spun you around, smiling at you lovingly, before he kissed you again. Far softer than those shared minutes ago, but just as passionate and adoring.
synopsis: Your boys know you're keeping secrets they just never imagined this.
warnings/notes: This was @mangetoutt's square for my 9k celebration. Do not do what this reader did. Call the proper authorities. She is crazy stupid, or maybe just crazy. So is this fic.
wc: 1.3k (how? why?)
It started on a Tuesday evening.
At least, that was when Robby first noticed that you were up to something. He came home from work on time for once and you didn’t greet him at the door as you normally did. He frowned as he hung up his bag and kicked off his shoes, pushing them against the wall with his foot.
“Baby?” he called.
“Oh, shoot,” he hears from deeper in the house.
His brow furrowed, and he followed the sound of your voice. He caught you in front of the guestroom, fiddling with the knob. He couldn’t see around you to catch what you were up to.
“What are you doing, baby?” he asked, voice low.
You jumped and turned in surprise, eyes wide. “Me? Nothing. How was your shift?”
He pursed his lips and looked from you to the door behind you. “It was fine. You sure everything’s alright?”
“Yeah, of course,” you nodded, taking his arm in your hands and steering him toward the bedroom. “You take a shower and I’ll check on dinner.”
Before he could even attempt to get you in the shower with him, you were gone. He frowned after you for a moment then went about getting himself cleaned up. Once he was clean and in lounge clothes, he left the bedroom to head to the kitchen. The guestroom door beckoned and he hesitated. Finally giving into temptation, he reached for the knob only to find the door locked. He didn’t even know the door could be locked. What the hell?
He looked from the door toward the kitchen where he could hear you humming. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Jack. She’s up to something.
Robby filled Jack in on your behavior during handoff but Jack thought the other man was worrying over nothing. You were probably hiding presents or something. You always did start your shopping early.
When he arrived home, however, he was surprised to hear you in the kitchen. You were almost always still in bed if he got home on time. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said as he leaned in the doorway watching you put together the most random plate of food he’d ever seen in his life. Nuts, chicken, a whole egg and three different kinds of berries and a sliced banana.
You turned from the counter in surprise. “Jack! You’re home early.”
He shook his head once, eyes narrowing. “Right on time actually.”
You glanced at the clock. “Oh.”
He stepped closer. “What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” you said with a shrug.
Sucking in a breath, he thought for a minute then said, “Okay.” Robby was right, you were clearly hiding something. “I’m going to go shower.” He said the words slowly as if you might reveal something if he just delayed long enough.
You gave him a bright smile. “Great. I’ll make you some breakfast when you get out.”
The plate on the counter caught his attention again. “Why don’t I take care of breakfast this morning?”
When he’d finished his shower and headed back toward the kitchen on his crutches, he encountered you coming out of the guestroom, shutting the door quickly behind you. You kept one hand on the knob behind you as you gave him a smile he was sure you thought was innocent. You were wrong.
“Any reason you keep going in the guestroom when we’re not around? Something we should know?” he asked, eyes tracing your face looking for any hint of what you were up to.
“Nope. Just straightening up a bit.”
“Uh-huh.” As he followed you down the hall, he couldn’t help but glance back at the room.
Two days later, Robby was off. Normally, when that was the case, the three of you would go out to breakfast after Jack got home from his shift. You, however, claimed a headache but encouraged your boyfriends to go without you. Once you’d all but shoved them out the door, they sat in the car and stared at the house.
“How long should we give her before we come back?” Jack asked.
Robby shrugged one shoulder. “Five minutes?”
So, they drove around for a few minutes before returning. They entered the house as quietly as possible, your voice drifting from the direction of the guestroom. “No, you can’t do that. You can’t make a mess, they’ll get so mad. I told you that you needed to behave. You’ve been so good, just be a good boy for me.”
The men frowned and exchanged a look before moving as quietly as possible down the hall. The guestroom door was cracked open. Robby reached out with one hand and slowly pushed it open. Never in a million years could they have possibly guessed what they would see when he did.
You sat on the floor, a plate of food beside you as you cradled a bundle of fabric in one arm. They’d anticipated a pet of some sort. A cat. A dog. Maybe even a rabbit, you’d always liked rabbits. But it was none of those ordinary animals. No. You, their girlfriend who they were reminding themselves they loved very much right now, had smuggled a raccoon into their house.
A baby raccoon, sure. An adorable baby raccoon, they’d admit. But…
“Are you nuts?” Jack asked, raspy voice cutting through the air like a whip.
Your head snapped up, eyes wide as you looked between them and back to the raccoon in your arms. “It’s not what it looks like?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “It’s not? Because it looks like you have one of the primary carriers of rabies wrapped in…Is that my Steelers hoodie?”
You winced. “I’ll get you a new one?”
“Jesus Christ, honey,” he groaned. “What the hell?”
“His mom got hit by a car. I couldn’t just leave him there. Look at him.” Your puppy eyes were giving the raccoon’s a run for their money.
“There are people you call for things like this,” Jack said. “They’re trained.”
“I looked up what he’s supposed to eat and everything. I’m a good mom for him.”
Both men went very still. “You can’t keep him,” Robby said.
“But—”
“No,” they said firmly and in unison.
You sighed. “Alright. Fine.”
“Why don’t you put him back wherever you’ve been keeping him and come out here so we can talk about all this?” Jack kept his tone level, controlled like he did with psych patients.
As soon as you put the kit back in the kennel you’d gotten from somewhere (Instacart you’d tell them later) they pulled you into the hall and shut the door. Jack immediately began looking you over while Robby pulled out his phone and started looking for a number to call. “Did it bite you? Scratch you?” Jack asked, frantic.
“Wilbur’s a good boy. He would never.”
“Not even a nibble?” Jack asked at the same time Robby said, “Wilbur?”
You huffed out a sigh. “I’m fine. Promise. You can inspect me thoroughly later. And yes, Wilbur.”
Robby shook his head as he arranged for someone to come get their houseguest. “They will be here in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” you echoed, despondent.
Jack shook his head while Robby huffed in disbelief.
“Sweetheart, you are in so much trouble for this little stunt.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest as he glowered at you.
“This could have turned out very bad for you and your little friend in there. You understand that right? Even if he looks healthy, he could have rabies,” Robby added.
“I get it. I’m sorry.” You didn’t sound sorry. Robby was getting ready to chastise you again when your bottom lip started to tremble. “I’m just going to miss him so much.” Tears rolled down your cheeks.
Jack sighed and pulled you into a hug. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you have a big heart but this one we can’t give you. It’s not fair to him or to you.”
You nodded against his chest. “I know.” Robby stepped forward and wrapped his arms around both of you. A long moment passed, then your muffled voice said, “Can I get a bunny?”
Notes: hi hi i tried to use american terms like mall and mom, but i am not american and i say mum, so if you notice any slip ups pls let me know and i will change it. I feel like it would be weird to picture chris saying mum in an american accent so i tried to only used mom
Also i have started watched the walking dead and am obsessed so pls feel free to request some fics for the walking dead (i’m halfway through s7)
When you and Eddie started dating, you waited quite a while before meeting Chris as you wanted to be sure in your relationship so as not to unsettle Chris. After about 8 months, you were pretty sure Eddie was it for you, and you eventually met Chris. Within 6 months of meeting Christopher you had pretty much moved in with the boys, and when the lease on your apartment was up for renewal Chris was the one who suggested you move in. That was over a year ago and since then the three of you had been living life as a happy little family.
Today, you had a day off from work but Eddie did not, so you had decided to take Chris out for the day. For weeks, Chris had been saying his shoes were starting to get tight so you had decided you would take him to buy some new shoes and buy him a couple extra treats. It wasn’t often you and Eddie weren’t both at work at the same time, even if you didn’t have the same shift, you often overlapped so Chris would spend time with Carla.
Eddie was at work before you even woke up, so you and Chris had a slow morning before heading to the mall. The car journey was filled with music and laughs, you loved spending time with Chris and you guys always had an amazing time.
Once you got to the mall you found yourself chasing Christoper, the shoe shop was all the way on the other side of the mall so you had decided to do fun shopping first. The first stop was at the ice cream parlor, and then the two of you made your way quickly over to the lego shop. You both bought a lego set, as you planned to watch a movie and build lego together in the afternoon. Once the pair of you had gone to all the shops you wanted to, you slowly walked back to the car, trying to agree on a movie to watch while you were building your legos.
You were nearly at the car, when the ground started to rumble. Small tremors weren;t uncommon living in LA, but this was not that. The slight rumble turned to full blown shaking and the lights in the parking garage started to come loose and smash to the floor. You quickly dropped your bags and grabbed Christopher and headed for the car, it might not have been the smartest idea but in your panic it seemed like the safest option if the garage was to crumble.
Somehow, you managed to get to the car in record time as you were opening the door, you noticed a piece of debris falling and you quickly pushed Chris into the car. Within seconds of you getting Chris safely into the car, the debris had come down, knocking you down in the process. You hit your head on the concrete and briefly lost consciousness, but you quickly came around to the sounds of Chris’s cries.
“I’m here Chris, I’m okay,” you mumbled as you tried to wriggle free. Although, your right leg was trapped under the piece of the parking garage that had knocked you to the floor.
Not long after you regained consciousness, sirens were all you could hear and it became nearly impossible to keep your eyes open, and you were soon consumed by the darkness.
“Cap, get Eddie over here!” You heard being yelled from close by. Squinting at the bright light you started to blink your eyes back open and were met with Buck’s face looking down at you.
“Chris, is Chris okay?” you forced out, your throat was hoarse and felt as though you had woken from a deep sleep. You could feel yourself being rolled onto a stretcher, presumably to move you to an ambulance, or at least a safer area.
“Chris was with you?” Buck panicked.
“I think I got him in the car,” you coughed, “Check him first.”
A couple minutes later you heard a car door be forced open, and then Buck’s shouts.
“Chris!” Eddie’s shouts were so loud. He had arrived onto the scene and saw Buck carrying Chris over some rubble away from the car. You turned your head slowly and saw Eddie embrace his son tightly.
“Where’s Y/N?” Eddie suddenly asked. The panic in his voice was palpable.
“Over here,” You heard Buck’s voice get louder as he led Eddie to you. Eddie placed Chris down next to your stretcher and cradled your face.
“Baby, are you okay?” he questioned, whilst scanning your body for any obvious injuries.
“My leg got crushed but I’m fine. How is Chris? Is Chris okay?” you spoke so fast.
“I’m fine,” you heard Chris speak. You could have cried with relief upon hearing his voice. You had seen Eddie carry him, but hearing him speak and confirming he was okay made you so happy.
“Now, let get you taken to hospital, Buck can you take Chris to Athena and get her to call Carla please,” Eddie said as he began to wheel you out of the area. You saw Buck begin to usher Chris towards Athena who you could see a while away directing people.
“No.”
You and Eddie both stopped and looked at Chris who was avoiding Buck and walking towards the two of you.
“Chris, bud, y/n is okay. Your dad is just making sure she gets her leg checked out,” Buck tried to convince Chris.
“No,” Chris shook off Buck’s arms and carried on walking in your direction. Eddie sighed, letting go of your stretcher and turning to Chris before squatting down to his level while holding onto him.
“Chris, I need to take y/n to get checked out. Can you please go with Buck?” Eddie begged.
“No.” Chris was being stubborn.
“Chris please,” Eddie was starting to get desperate.
“I want to stay with mom.” Chris yelled.
You, Buck and Eddie all went still. Suddenly, the atmosphere had changed. Chris had never called you mom before. The three of you all looked at each other in shock unsure what to say or do next.
“Come here Chris,” you beckoned the boy, before helping him to sit on one side of the stretcher after you had collapsed the arms, “You can stay with me.”
Eddie was still looking at you in shock, starting to feel love swell in his chest. The idea that Chris saw you as a mother figure made him so happy.
“Chris, it looks like your dad is frozen,” you laughed whilst looping one of your arms around the boy. You had managed to get him in a place where he wasn’t near your leg which was causing excruciating pain.
This brought Eddie out of his shock and he walked over to the two of you.
“I love you both so much,” he breathed as he leant to kiss both of your foreheads, “Let’s go get mom all checked out.”
Summary: When (part of) the team eats drugged brownies, chaos follows. When (y/n) gets asked to pick Eddie up at the hospital, but she wasn’t prepared for how flirty (and annoyingly stubborn) he’d be.
TW ‼️: This fic includes accidental drug use (hallucinogens), some disoriented/panic behavior, light medical stuff while a character is high.
Request: @buckslifeline
Word count: 7,2k
9-1-1 Masterlist | Eddie Diaz Masterlist
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The sirens were loud. Louder than usual, maybe. They echoed in Eddie’s ears and bounced around his skull like a rubber ball.
He sat in the back of the engine, squinting at nothing in particular. His eyes were burning, Itchy. Like he’d rubbed them too hard, or like there was sand stuck under his eyelids. He wiped them again and sniffled. Man, what is this?
“Allergies are going crazy today,” he mumbled, rubbing his fingers under his eyes. It felt like hay fever. But worse. Like it was crawling under his skin. Next to him, Buck turned his head, frowning. “You too, huh? The index wasn’t elevated this morning. Think it’s a new kind?”
Eddie blinked at him, his brain slowly catching up. “A new kind of what?” he asked.
“Pollen!” Buck said, loud enough to be heard over the sirens. Eddie stared at him for a second, then nodded slowly and slightly shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah… maybe.” That actually made a lot of sense. New pollen. Strong pollen. Was that actually a thing? New pollen? Whatever.
Across from them, Chim looked confused. He raised an eyebrow, frowning a little. “A new kind of pollen?” Chim said, like the words tasted wrong in his mouth. Eddie looked over at him, blinking again. “You’re not feeling this, Chim?” Eddie asked then. “No, I do not,” Chimney said flatly. Weird. Really weird.
Eddie leaned back in his seat and looked out the window, and then… Something changed. Everything looked brighter. Softer. The light was glowing off of buildings. The sky was the color of cotton candy. The air outside looked like it was moving in waves, like heat shimmer on a hot road.
“I can see the pollen,” Eddie said, voice quiet, calm. It looked like little sparkles in the air, floating past the glass. “It’s... everywhere.” Buck leaned forward beside him, eyes wide like he saw it too. “I can hear it.” he said.
Eddie nodded, slowly, as his eyes followed the dancing specks outside. Yeah, he thought. That sounds right. He didn’t feel bad. Not really. Just… floaty. Strange. It was something he’d never felt before. Like he wasn’t fully sitting in his own body. He was still in the engine, but also kind of watching himself be in it. Was that normal? Probably not. But maybe it was just the pollen.
The engine pulled to a stop, and Eddie barely felt it. His thoughts were soft, slow like clouds moving across a quiet sky. He blinked down at his gloves, but not remembering putting them on.
Chimney was already out the door, grabbing a medical bag. Hen followed behind him, sharp and focused. Eddie finally climbed down, boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud, and Buck landed beside him.
Eddie also grabbed a medic bag from the compartment where Chim and Hen fished their bags out. And then the two of them followed slowly behind the others.
Chim walked fast, straight toward Athena, who was talking to someone near the entrance of the room. Hen was close behind him, no hesitation in her steps. But Eddie… Eddie paused as soon as he entered the room.
Everything was…bright. Like someone turned up the lights too far. He heard footsteps and giggles, and when he looked down, and they were surrounded by tiny, tiny people in sparkling dresses.
Little girls, maybe three or four years old, in full beauty pageant gear glittery hair, fake eyelashes, big toothy grins. Eddie froze and Buck leaned closer to him. “Did these beauty queens shrink,” Buck said beside him, voice hushed and serious, “or are we suddenly giants?” he added, scared.
Eddie looked at him, then back at the girls. But he didn’t answer Buck’s question. He was far too shocked at the image that was playing in front of his eyes. They stood still, just watching the toddlers swirl around them like little fairies. Their shoes clicked against the floor. Their dresses shimmered. Eddie felt like he was in a dream.
“Diaz! Buckley! Let’s go!” Chimney called from across the room, sounding kinda annoyed. Eddie blinked. Chim was standing near the middle of the crowd, holding up a bag, waiting. But his voice sounded like it was underwater.
Then Athena walked up, stopping in front of them. Her presence was strong, sharp like a light getting flipped on in the dark. “I think he means you guys?” she said, crossing her arms.
Eddie looked up at her slowly, as if she’d just teleported into the room. “Hey, Athena,” Buck said, eyes still wide. “They’re like… the tiniest ladies I’ve ever seen. Teeny-tiny.” his voice pitched. Athena stared, in confusion. She could tell something was going on. “Excuse me?” she said.
“So tiny,” Eddie whispered, eyes glued to the girls. One of them twirled. He gasped softly. Athena turned away and started talking to Hen, who was trying very hard to act normal, but didn’t particularly succeed. She mentioned something about Athena smelling like love?
Eddie wandered backwards, still staring at the girls and walked straight into a wall of balloons. They bounced against him, soft and squeaky, and he flinched hard. His heart thumped. The red one looked suspicious.
He fumbled for his small flashlight, the one he used for pupil checks and clicked it on. Then off. Then on again. He shined it at the balloon like it might reveal something. The balloon stayed red. Innocent. But not to him. “What are you?” he whispered to it.
Chimney stepped into view, frowning. “Guys. Look at me.” he said. Eddie didn’t. His face was now in the middle of the balloon pile. They were everywhere.“You guys know where you are?” Chim asked, voice calm but serious. Eddie blinked. His voice was slow and dreamy. “We’re everywhere, man.”
Eddie was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, arms limp at his sides. Everything felt like it was too much. The voices, the lights, the sound of rustling papers and soft conversations around him. Everything felt like it was a thousand more times louder. The floor felt safer, he could breathe better down here.
His legs were stretched out, and he was staring at his boots like they were speaking to him just quietly enough that he couldn’t quite hear the words. Suddenly, a pair of boots stopped in front of him.
He looked up, it was a police officer, reaching a hand out. Eddie blinked, confused. “Come on, let’s get you on your feet,” the officer said calmly. Eddie hesitated, then let the man help him up. His knees felt like rubber. He wobbled slightly but stayed upright, gripping the wall for balance.
The officer held out his hand again. “Your phone, please.” he asked.
Eddie frowned, confused. “Wait… why?” he sounded like a little boy who was getting punished. “We need to hold onto your personal belongings for now,” the officer explained.
Eddie stared at him “Why are you taking our stuff?” Eddie asked as he looked over at Buck, who was standing nearby, just as dazed. “You’re not in trouble,” the officer added. “It’s just a precaution.” the officer explained.
But Eddie didn’t feel safe. His phone was the only thing connecting him to something real. He didn’t want to give it up. Still, his fingers let go slowly, handing it over. And then he heard the sound of metal clicks.
Handcuffs.
The officer gently pulled his hands behind his back. It wasn’t rough, it was careful. But to Eddie, it felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. “W-What’s going on?” he asked, his voice shaking as his eyes filled with panic. His breathing got faster. His mouth trembled. “I don’t like this,” he said, sounding small and tight in the throat, like a kid trying not to cry in front of strangers.
“Aww, you made him cry,” Buck said nearby, eyes wide and serious as he looked between Eddie and the officers.
Athena stepped forward fast “Just breathe, okay? You’re going to be okay.” her voice sounded calm and grounding. “Alright?” she continued gently. “Somebody dosed you with a hallucinogen. We don’t want you to hurt yourself or anyone else.”
He nodded slowly, trying so hard to stay calm. He kept his head tilted back like it might stop the tears. “Yeah…” he said. Then his chin dropped until it hit his chest, his shoulders curling inward “I like that idea,” he said softly. Like he was already giving up to it, floating, letting go.
-
The Diaz house was quiet except for the soft scratch of a pencil on paper somewhere down the hall. (Y/n) moved through the kitchen, putting away clean dishes, wiping down the counters. While Chris was in his room, focused on homework, with the door slightly open.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She stepped away from the counter, a towel in her hand to dry her hands as she glanced down at her phone that was lit up, and it showed “Athena Grant” on the screen. Her heart skipped for just a moment.
She threw the towel over her shoulder and let her finger slide over the screen to accept the call. “Hey, Athena.” she said as she placed the phone against her ear.
Athena’s voice was steady but serious. “(Y/n), I wanted to let you know, Eddie’s at First Presbyterian hospital.” Athena got straight to the point.
(Y/n) froze for a moment. “What? What happened?” she asked.
“There were brownies at the firehouse,” Athena said. “Eddie, Buck, and Hen ate them. They were laced with something… a hallucinogen. But they’re fine, they’re safe. Eddie’s safe, but he’s confused and emotional.” Athena continued to explain.
(Y/n)’s fingers tightened around the towel that was slung over her shoulder, but she used it to fidget. “Is he hurt?” she asked, that was the first thing that popped up in her mind because of the words: hospital and drugged.
“No injuries. He’s just… not himself right now. Buck’s sister picked him up, and Karen’s picking up Hen. I thought you might want to come get Eddie.”
(Y/n) took a slow breath and nodded as if she was in the room with her. “Yeah. I’ll be there.” she said, and with those words they hung up.
She let the phone rest on the counter, staring at it as the weight of the news settled. Her fingers tapped softly against the kitchen counter as she thought of a plan. She had Chris. She couldn’t just leave? And most important of all, Chris couldn’t see his dad in a state like this. He’d think Eddie was a madman.
What was she going to do? She placed her elbows on the counter as she slid her hands into her hair, just thinking about a plan. That’s when it hit her. Tía Pepa. She mentioned that Chris would always be welcome in case of an emergency, which… this kinda is…
She pushed herself off the counter and she walked quietly down the hall. She knocked softly on his door, and opened it as soon as he told her she could come in. Chris looked up when she appeared in his doorway.
“Hey, bud,” she said softly as she leaned with her shoulder against the doorframe and held the door handle with her other hand. “Hey,” he replied, pencil paused, his eyes focussed on her.
She let go of the door and crouched beside his desk. “Can we talk for a sec?” His eyes searched hers. “Is everything okay? Is dad okay?” he immediately asked.
She gave him a reassuring smile, “Your dad’s safe,” she said gently. “But he ate something at work that made him feel really strange. Kind of like when your brain is all foggy after a bump. He’s at the hospital right now, getting better.” she explained, trying to make it understandable for him, but not too much.
Chris frowned. “Is it serious?” he asked. (Y/n) shook her head. “No, but it means he needs a little time to get back to normal. So I was thinking… maybe you could stay at Tía Pepa’s for the night? Like a sleepover.”
Chris blinked. “A sleepover?” he sounded surprised, sure he did now and then sleep at his aunt's house, but usually it was all planned out and not that sudden. “Yeah,” she smiled softly. “She said if anything happens, you can always stay there. And I think it’d be good for you both. You get to hang out, and your dad can rest without worrying.” she continued.
Chris thought about it a second, then nodded. “Okay.” he said. “Awesome, buddy. Can you grab your stuff? I’ll help if you want.” (Y/n) offered, but Chris shook his head “No, I got it.” he said, closing his homework.
She stood and headed to her bedroom, pulling a hoodie over her LAFD shirt, something to cover up and stay warm.
While Chris moved around his room gathering things, she took the moment to call Pepa. The conversation was short, quiet. No panic. Just enough words and a steady voice. A pause, a soft "thank you," and then the call ended.
She pocketed her phone and grabbed her keys from the table in the dining room. A few moments later, Chris emerged from his room with his backpack slung over one shoulder. She reached out and handed him his crutches, taking the bag from him with her free hand.
“Ready?” she asked. He nodded, and together, they walked toward the front door, the house suddenly feeling a little emptier.
-
(Y/N) pulled into the hospital parking lot, her grip tight on the steering wheel. She turned the key to shut off the engine, and just sat for a moment. Her heart was beating a little faster than normal not out of fear, but worry. Worried what he’d get himself into, what did he do in the time he was drugged?
(Y/n) had dropped off Chris at Tia pepa’s. When she got there, she explained what happened to him, at least what she’d heard from Athena and that she didn’t want Chris to see his dad like that. Pepa understood that, and told (Y/n) to take care of Eddie.
She buried her face into her hands for a second, not to gather courage, but to sigh. Why was this happening? Who brought in those brownies? And why would they even eat home made stuff? Why not put it straight into the trash?
But what mattered most was that Eddie was okay, he is okay. Athena had made that clear on the phone. But still… the idea of him being high and confused, in a hospital of all places, made her chest feel tight.
She got out of the car, the air outside was still warm but it wasn’t as hot as on the middle of the day. It was cooling down a bit. She made her way towards the entrance of the hospital, but her mind was still racing.
What if he’s scared? What if he’s embarrassed? What if he doesn’t even recognize me when I walk in?
As she reached the automatic doors, she let out a slow breath and reminded herself: You’ve got him. He’s safe. You’re here.
Inside, the hospital was calm but busy. Bright lights, quiet chatter, and the usual smell of disinfectant filled the air. She walked up to the front counter and offered the receptionist a polite smile, though her nerves buzzed under her skin. “Hi, I’m here to pick up Eddie Diaz. He was brought in earlier?” she said.
The nurse at the counter looked up and smiled warmly. “Ah, Eddie Diaz? Oh good, he’s been on quite a ride today.” the nurse said.
“I figured…” she says softly, nodding as her teeth gently catch her lower lip. “Is he okay?” she asks.
The nurse laughed softly as she stood up and picked up a clipboard from the desk. “He’s been a handful. He’s gone through about five mood swings since he got here. Thought he was in a jail cell at one point.” the nurse told her, trying to keep her smile at a minimum.
“That sounds like my boyfriend,” (Y/n) said with a soft, almost tired smile, shaking her head just a little. There was affection in her voice, but the worry still lingered behind her eyes.
“They were keeping him in a room with the others.” the nurse said, as she tried to remember the names. “Evan and Henrietta. Evan’s sister picked him up already and Henrietta is just about to leave too. Come on, I’ll take you to him.” She continued as she turned and tilted her head, silently motioning for (Y/n) to follow.
(Y/n) nodded and followed the nurse down the hallway. The nurse carried the clipboard in one hand as she walked. “We’ll need a quick signature for his discharge,” the nurse explained. “He’s stable, but definitely still feeling the effects. Might take several more hours to wear off completely. Keep him hydrated, let him rest, and if anything feels off or extreme, don’t hesitate to bring him back in.”
(Y/n) nodded, listening carefully, even as her heart beat a little faster the closer they got. As they turned the corner, they nearly bumped into Karen, who had her arm gently around Hen, who was still very much… not sober.
“(Y/n)!” Hen sounded enthusiastic, her eyes wide and shiny as soon as she saw (Y/n). She broke free from Karen’s grip and threw her arms around her without hesitation.
“Whoa, hey—Hen!” (Y/n) laughed, catching her balance as Hen gave her a squishy, way-too-happy hug. “You okay?” (Y/n) asked as she softly padded her hand onto her back.
Hen pulled back and looked her dead in the eyes. “You smell like home. Like warmth. Like… pancakes.” she said as she breathed in deeply.
Karen gave (Y/n) a tired but amused smile. “She’s been like this for twenty minutes.” Karen said. (Y/n) raised her eyebrows. “This is… a lot.” (Y/n) said, if this was kind of the state she’d find Eddie in. Then she was in for quite a rollercoaster.
Karen sighed. “They left the brownies on the kitchen counter at the station. No note. No warning. They just assumed it was a thank-you gift from the community. It wasn’t.” she explained. Hen leaned her head on Karen’s shoulder. “We thought they were cinnamon-y. That was the first clue.” Hen sighed and pushed off Karen’s shoulder again.
(Y/n) shook her head, half-laughing. “Well… at least everyone’s okay.” (Y/n) said, trying to create some kind of positive side. Karen nodded. “Yeah, and now I’m taking mine home before she tries to high-five a nurse again.” Karen answered as she let her eyes wander back to Hen.
“Do it again!” Hen shouted, holding her hand up. Karen rolled her eyes and gently steered her away. As they parted ways, Karen looked over her shoulder “Oh, and… good luck with Eddie.” she said, offering her a thin lipped smile. “Thanks… I think I’ll need it.” she muttered back.
The nurse stopped in front of a door with a small sign taped to it that read “Observation – Temp Holding”.
Through the small window in the door, (Y/n) could see Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs slowly, just kinda… chilling. His face was relaxed, his eyes soft, like a kid waiting to be picked up from school.
The nurse handed over the clipboard. “Just sign here, and he’s all yours,” she said with a small grin. (Y/n) signed her name quickly and gave the clipboard back.
“So again,” the nurse said, keeping her voice gentle, “fluids, rest, and supervision. The effects usually fade in 6 to 8 hours, but everyone reacts differently. He might be… emotional, spacey, affectionate. If it seems worse, or he gets agitated, bring him back.” the nurse continued.
(Y/n) nodded. “Got it. Thank you.” she said. The nurse gave her one last nod, then knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open.
His shirt was rumpled, and only one boot was on the other forgotten on the floor, like he'd just lost interest halfway. His fingers were fiddling with the paper lining on the cot, peeling it back and watching it curl.
He looked up when the door opened, his eyes blinking slowly.
(Y/n) gave him a soft smile. “Hey…” she said gently. Eddie tilted his head, squinting at her. No smile. Just… confusion. “Do I know you? I feel like I do.” he said, blinking again. His voice was calm, but distant.
Her heart did a small, nervous flip. “Um, I hope so. I’ve been sleeping in your bed for months.” she said, ending with a nervous, small laugh.
There was a pause. Then his brows raised, like a delayed reaction. “Wait… are you my girlfriend?” he asked. A beat passed, “You're really pretty.” he added with a grin. Another beat passed, “Can I have your number?” he asked then.
She let out a breathy laugh, half-shaken and half-relieved. “You already do, Eddie.” she said, smiling at his question.
Getting him to the car was… a journey. It took nearly ten minutes to get out of the hospital.
Eddie got distracted by a vending machine. Then a “weird floor tile” that he insisted didn’t match the others. He tried to count the ceiling tiles while walking. Every few steps he’d stop to look at something. The fire alarm box, a poster about hand hygiene, the sparkle in the hallway floor wax.
(Y/N) kept a hand near his arm the whole time, trying to steer him gently. He was surprisingly cooperative… just very slow.
He waved at a passing nurse like they were old friends, asked if the security guard was in a band and tried to open a janitor’s closet just to see “what’s in there.”
By the time they made it to the doors, she felt like she’d guided a very large, curious toddler through an obstacle course. When they finally reached the parking lot, (Y/n) helped Eddie into the passenger seat with more effort than she thought necessary. He kept trying to sit down without bending his knees, like the car was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve on his own.
Once she finally got him buckled in after convincing him that, yes, the seatbelt was necessary, even if he “felt invincible right now”... she walked around to the driver’s side and slid in with a deep sigh.
Ten seconds.
That’s how long it took for him to start.
She was backing out of the parking space when the window rolled down.
He gasped like he had just discovered a hidden treasure. “It moves,” he whispered, eyes wide, leaning forward to look at the mechanism. (Y/n) glanced over, raising a single brow. “Yes, Eddie. That’s what car windows do.”
The window went back up.
And down again.
She reached over without even looking and slapped his hand lightly. “Stop that.” she said. “Ow,” Eddie said, pouting like a child who just got caught reaching for cookies before dinner. “You hit me.” he added, eyes locked on his hand.
“That was the warning shot” she muttered, biting back a grin. Eddie held up his hand dramatically and inspected it. “This is my button-pressing hand. Be gentle with it.”
She gave him a flat look, her lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Eddie, if you touch that window again, I’m going to tape your hand to the seat.” she threatened him.
He slowly brought his hand down to his lap… for about two seconds. And that’s when he poked the AC button. “Cold air,” he whispered, grinning like a little kid at Christmas. “I control the wind.” he said, like he had just found out he was avatar or something.
(Y/n) stared at him for a moment, then slowly turned the AC back down. His eyes followed her hand like it was magic. “You… you just turned off the wind.” he gasped. (Y/n) kept her eyes on the road, “I did.” she said.
“That’s cold,” he said, still staring at her like she’d just betrayed him. “Like… emotionally cold.” he said. (Y/n) sighed, her eyes rolling upwards as she looked at the sky for just a second, “Lord, give me strength.” she muttered.
In the meantime, Eddie was fiddling with the radio knob, not really choosing a station just turning it up, then down, then up again. “Do you hear that?” he asked, nodding seriously at a static-filled frequency. She doesn’t even spare him a glance by now, “It’s static, Eddie.” she said, kind of annoyed.
He leaned in close, eyes narrowed. “No. It’s telling me something.” he said. She rolled her eyes with a small laugh and gently slapped his fingers again. “Hands. Down. Please.”
“Fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms like a grumpy teenager, but then turned to her with wide, puppy eyes. “But your voice is better anyway.” he said, keeping her eyes on her for a moment. That made her smile despite herself. “Smooth.”
“I am smooth,” he said proudly, but he was distracted again, he was poking the hazard light button before she could stop him. The dashboard started blinking red. He gasped while his face looked something like: oops. Like he’d just launched a rocket. “Emergency mode,” he whispered. “I think I started something important.”
(Y/N) smacked his hand again, this time more firmly. “Eddie! Those are the hazards. Not a spaceship launch button.” she said. He blinked at her. “…You sure?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s blinking-”
“It’s supposed to blink. Stop pushing things.” she said. He grinned at her again. “You look hot when you’re bossy.” he commented.
(Y/n) groaned, turning her eyes back to the road. But she was smiling, lips pressed together tightly to stop from laughing out loud. “Just sit still and don’t touch anything else,” she said.
Before she could even finish that sentence, he was already distracted by something else. “Can I…?” he asked, already rolling it down without waiting for permission.
Before she could say something, he stuck his whole head out of the window, hair whipping in the wind, a huge grin on his face.
“Oh my God,” (Y/n) muttered, heart lurching. “Eddie!” she shouted, one hand gripping the wheel while the other reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him back into the car.
He flopped back into his seat with a dazed expression and wide eyes. “Ow,” he said, blinking. “Why’d you do that?” he asked, like he’d not just do something (Y/n) told him clearly not to do.
“You were about to fall out of the car like a damn golden retriever!” she said, as he rolled the window back up. He looked offended and also a little proud. “Golden retrievers are loyal. And they’re cute.” he then said, always trying to look at things from the bright side, right?
“Eddie, I swear to God—” she sighed again, as she shook her head. How was she going to survive this day any further?
“That breeze changed me,” he mumbled, staring out the window again. “I was reborn.”
(Y/n) gave him a deadpan look, her hand still gripping the steering wheel tightly. “Next time you try that, I’m putting the child lock on you.” she threatened.
He snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
But even as she scolded him, her lips twitched, her cheeks warm from holding back a smile. Honestly, she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh, cry, or pull over just to take a breath.
The man she loved was acting like an overgrown puppy with a firefighter badge, and somehow, she was still completely in love with him.
Eddie looked out the window with a dreamy expression. The wind ruffled his hair, and he rested his head against the glass. After a minute or two, he whispered, “This window is showing me my future.”
(Y/n) glanced at him from the corner of her eye, deadpan. “Oh yeah? And what does your future look like?” she asked him. He turned to her slowly, eyes soft, voice serious: “It looks like you. And also tacos. But mostly you.”
(Y/n) laughed this time, giving in. “You’re ridiculous.” she said, with a smile on her face, glancing at him. “I’m in love,” he said, leaning dramatically toward her. “That makes me ridiculous.”
“You’re high.”
“It’s the same thing.”
______
The door clicked shut behind them, and Eddie barely made it two steps into the living room before collapsing face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan. His body hit the cushions like he’d just completed a marathon, arms and legs sprawled, cheek pressed into the armrest.
“Home sweet couch,” he mumbled into the cushions. (Y/n) paused in the hallway, watching him with an amused smirk. “You good there?” she asked.
“I've never been better,” he sighed, voice muffled. Then, without moving his head, he added, “Although… this couch would be a thousand times better if you were on it. With me.”
(Y/N) chuckled under her breath. “Are you inviting me to the couch now?”
“I’m inviting you into my arms,” he corrected, turning his head just enough to shoot her a tired but cheeky grin. “Temporarily. Before we move to somewhere with a much comfier mattress.”
She raised a brow, amused. “Oh, so this is a two-part plan.”
“Exactly,” he nodded. “Couch cuddles… followed by bed cuddles. Followed by…” He paused, letting his eyes drop to her legs, then slowly trail up her body until they landed on her chest. “...less cuddles. More… cardio.”
(Y/N) let out a loud laugh, shaking her head. “Wow. Subtle.”
Eddie flipped onto his back, draping an arm dramatically across his stomach. “I'm just a man… hopelessly in love with his girlfriend… and tragically horny.” he told her. She gave him a sarcastic look but still walked over and settled next to him on the couch. “You need water and sleep. Not whatever it is your brain’s trying to cook up right now.”
He rolled onto his side, facing her fully now, grinning as his fingers brushed over her thigh. “I need you. That’s what I need. Preferably horizontal.” he said. Her face flushed, but she tried to stay firm. “You’re high. You’re gonna fall asleep in like five minutes.” she told him.
“Then that gives us a solid four and a half to work with,” he smirked, scooting closer. “Eddie,” she warned playfully. “Come on,” he whispered, eyes locking on hers. “You know you wanna tuck me in... maybe take a little detour on the way to the sheets?” he smirked.
(Y/N) let out a long, amused sigh and stood up. “Alright, lover boy. Let’s get you to bed before you try to romance the houseplants.” she said and motioned at him to stand up.
He perked up, already sitting up with exaggerated effort. “Are you gonna tuck me in with a kiss?” he asked, with puppy eyes.
“No.”
“A kiss and a striptease?”
She turned to walk toward the bedroom, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m even dragging your ass to bed.”
Eddie followed behind like a puppy, trailing after her with a very obvious sway in his step and that dopey grin plastered on his face. “Best. Girlfriend. Ever.”
Eddie flopped onto the bed with all the grace of a collapsing tree. On his back now, arms spread like a starfish, still fully dressed. His boots were hanging halfway off the edge of the mattress, his belt digging into his waist, but he looked like he was ready to fall asleep right there.
(Y/n) hovered by the edge, arms crossed. “Eddie,” she said gently, giving his wrist a tug. “You can’t sleep like that.” she said. He opened one eye, barely. “I can sleep like this,” he mumbled, “if I believe hard enough.” and closed his eyes again.
“You’ll wake up sore and sweaty. Come on.” She said as she gave his arm another pull. He groaned but let her tug on his arm again. With a great effort, dramatic, he propped his hips up and started fumbling with his belt. But mid-fumble, his gaze caught on her torso. Her hoodie was unzipped now, and underneath it was one of his LAFD t-shirts the fabric soft and worn in just the right places, fitting her too well in his hazy opinion.
He blinked and then grinned. “That’s mine.” he said. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow and looked down to whatever he was staring at. “Good job, detective.” she said. She had practically forgotten she had one of his old LAFD t-shirts on, she wore it especially when Eddie was on shift, when she’d miss him.
“Damn. You look so good in my clothes.” he commented. (Y/n) tried not to laugh, shaking her head as she crouched down to help him with the laces of his boots. “Focus, Casanova.” she told him. But Eddie kept going, voice low and a little dreamy. “No, I mean it. You wear my shirts better than I do. Like… God, it should be illegal. You should be arrested. For stealing hearts. And t-shirts.”
She bit her cheek to keep from smiling too much. “You done?” she asked him. He nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”
She stood up again and rested her hands on her hips. “Okay. Now take your shirt off.” she ordered him. Eddie made a show of groaning like that was a massive task. But instead of undressing himself, he reached forward and grabbed the hem of her LAFD shirt, the one he’d just been complimenting.
Before she could stop him, he tugged it up and over his own head, pulling her a little closer in the process. The fabric bunched around his shoulders like a ridiculous hoodie, his face now buried against her stomach. And then… a fart sound entered the room. She blinked, feeling the unmistakable buzz of lips vibrating against her skin. “Eddie,” she said flatly.
He looked up with a goofy grin, still holding the bottom of the shirt over his head like it was a cape. “You make funny noises when I do that.” he smiled. (Y/n) sighed, trying to hide her laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” she said.
“I know,” he grinned, then leaned his forehead back against her stomach, she gave Eddie a little push on his shoulders and he was back on the bed again, lying like a starfish. She let out a soft laugh and knelt beside the bed. “Okay, Romeo. Off with the boots.” she ordered him, again.
She unlaced them further where she left, and brushed her hand down the side of his leg, and he sighed happily. “That feels nice,” he said dreamily, eyes fluttering closed. “You always take care of me. Did I tell you that lately?”
“Not in the last hour, no.”
“Well… I adore you. You’re hot. And cool. And really smart. And also…hot.” he said. She pulled one boot off, then the other. “Mhm. Tell me more while I get your pants.”
“Oooh.” He grinned. “I like where this is going.”
“Not like that.” She unbuckled his belt and began tugging his jeans down. “You're going to bed.” she told him. He sighed like she’d broken his heart, watching her tug his jeans down. “Buzzkill.”
She arched a brow, tossing the jeans to the side. “You keep flirting, and I might forget you’re high as a kite.”
Eddie smirked lazily. “Good. Maybe then we could-” She pressed a finger to his lips before he could finish that sentence. “Okay, loverboy. I’m getting you some water. Finish the job. Shirt and socks off, then under the covers. Got it?”
He saluted her weakly. “On it.”
She rolled her eyes and headed out to the kitchen, running the faucet and filling a glass. As she stood there, she smiled to herself, shaking her head at how ridiculous he’d been. The flirting, the compliments, the “did I tell you I love you?” like he didn’t tell her at least a hundred times.
When she returned a few minutes later, the smile faded into a breathy sigh. Eddie was still exactly where she left him. Shirt still on. Lying diagonally across the bed, arms splayed, one sock halfway off. He was out cold.
(Y/N) walked over slowly, placing the water on the nightstand. She leaned down, brushed the hair off his forehead. “Idiot,” she whispered affectionately. She pulled the blanket up over him, tucking it around his arms, and turned off the light.
She definitely needed some wine after this rollercoaster.
_
Eddie felt like he’d been hit by a truck. No, correction: several trucks. One after the other. Going back and forth.
His head throbbed, the kind of ache that reached behind his eyes and settled in his jaw. His mouth was dry like cotton, and every blink sent a stinging sensation through his eyes. His limbs were heavy, his muscles stiff, and he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His LAFD t-shirt and one sock. The other was gone, probably lost sometime during the night. He didn’t even want to think about how.
He groaned softly, rolling onto his back and lifting his head just enough to glance at the full-length mirror near the closet. What he saw made him regret the effort. His hair was sticking out in multiple directions, his face blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like hell.
With another groan, he let his head fall back onto the pillow, exhaling sharply as his hands dragged down his face, fingertips pressing into his temples and cheeks like he could scrub the fogginess away. What the hell happened?
The door creaked open and (Y/n) stepped in quietly, dressed in sweats and one of his hoodies, her hair pulled back. She held a glass of water in one hand and a pill of ibuprofen in the other. “Morning,” she said softly, crossing the room to his side. “Thought you might need this.” she said.
Eddie cracked an eye open. She was a vision. He managed a weak smile as he took the water and the pill, nodding gratefully before tossing it back and chasing it with half the glass. As he swallowed, she circled around the bed and sat down on her side, tucking one leg underneath her.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her with a hoarse voice. “What… exactly happened yesterday?” he asked her.
She sighed, giving a small, amused shake of her head. “You and Buck and Hen ate mystery brownies at the station. Potent ones. You were so far gone by the time I got the call from Athena… I had to come pick you up from the hospital.”
Eddie blinked, his brows pulling together as he thought of the most important person besides his girlfriend. “Call? Wait—” His eyes widened. “Chris?” His voice was edged with panic now, guilt already rising in his chest.
(Y/n) reached over and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Chris is fine. He’s at Pepa’s. Sleepover. She was more than happy to have him. I took him over last night.” she explained.
Eddie stared at her, then exhaled and let his head drop back to the pillow, guilt still lingering in his eyes. “You’re the best,” he mumbled. She smiled softly. “Yeah, you said that a lot yesterday.”
He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
She laughed quietly, biting her bottom lip as she looked down at him. “You were… so high,” she said, shaking her head. “You kept telling me how much you love me. Asked for my number like three times. Tried to seduce me while I was helping you out of your pants.”
Eddie stared at her in disbelief. “You’re joking, right?” he asked. (Y/n) shook her head, “Nope,” she said with a grin. He groaned and ran his hands over his face again, muttering into them.
Then, before she could say anything else, Eddie reached out and hooked his arm around her legs. She let out a surprised sound as he gently tugged her down, toppling her onto her back beside him. “-Eddie!” she laughed as the mattress shifted beneath them.
Her laugh was still lingering in the air as Eddie shifted beside her. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, his one arm over her waist as he held her close. The room quieted around them, and for a long second, their eyes locked.
He looked at her like she was the only solid thing in the world… like even through the pounding in his head and the fuzziness of everything else, she was what kept him grounded. His gaze searched hers.
(Y/n) smiled faintly, reaching her hand up to his head. Her fingers slipped gently through the mess of his curls, smoothing some of the chaotic strands sticking in every direction. “Jesus,” she murmured teasingly, “you look like you lost a fight with a leaf blower.”
Eddie let out a low laugh through his nose, the corners of his mouth curving. “Thanks for the ego boost,” he muttered, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.
Still close, his hand came up to her cheek, rough thumb brushing softly over her skin. His fingers curled just under her chin, guiding her closer until their lips met. A kiss that started slow and gentle. But it didn’t stay that way.
The moment deepened. His lips pressed against hers with more determination, like he was remembering her all over again, like the fog in his head was finally clearing and she was all he could focus on. Her hand moved from his hair to his jaw, holding him there just a moment longer.
“You keep kissing me like that,” she whispered against his lips, “and I’m going to start thinking you want something.” she said as she found his eyes, once more. Eddie’s grin was crooked, boyish, and smug. “Would that be so bad?”
Before she could answer, his hand roamed from her waist, down the curve of her hip, exploring her body he knew all too well, with ease. She hooked one leg over his, pulling him in a little closer. His palm traced the length of her thigh, fingers dragging lightly across her skin, leaving goosebumps on its way.
“Still feel like you got hit by a truck?” she teased, voice low, breathless. “Yeah,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against her jaw. “But I might be willing to die a second time.”
(Y/n) snorted, swatted at his chest in a playful way, but didn’t push him away.
Eighth entry in the widow!jack ficlet series. minor spoilers for the finale. As always, thanks to @tanely
wc: 900
Previous Series Masterlist
“I have a plan for tonight,” Jack said as the two of you walked into the building side by side. “Something to get the shift off on the right foot.”
“You don’t have a right foot,” you responded without missing a beat.
Jack’s steps stuttered to a halt and he turned to you with a pout, hazel puppy eyes in full effect. “Baby…”
You looked at him with a raised brow. “Yes?”
A slow grin covered his face. “That was really good. I’m stealing that one.”
“Thank you. I’ve been sitting on it for months waiting for the opportunity to use it.”
He placed a hand on your back and steered you into the department. Once your things were stowed away and handoff had been completed, he called for night shift to gather up.
“Alright, we’re going to try something new tonight. A little pep talk of sorts.” He crossed his arms and gave a nod of his head. “We are the night crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and wildest because we are the weirdest and wildest of them all. Hooah!”
Everyone just stared at him.
He threw his arms out. “Well come on. Hooah with me. Hooah!” The response was less than enthusiastic and Jack scowled. “Get to work.” Once they moved off, he turned to you. “They’ll get used to it.”
You just watched him with a blank face.
“What’s the matter?”
“You think I’m a worm.”
His brow furrowed. “What? Baby what—”
“Night crawlers are worms Jack. I saw you step on a worm just yesterday.” Your even tone never fluctuated.
“Baby, no. I love you. That’s not what I meant.”
You gave him one last disappointed expression and turned away to start checking on the residents. He started to follow and you glanced over your shoulder. “Get to work, Jack. Worms don’t need supervision.”
Jack backed off but muttered to himself. “Yes, they do. They get eaten all the time. They’re weak. Who’s going to protect her from a bird?
Lena just blinked at him over her glasses and shook her head.
The night continued in that vein until around 04:00 when you intercepted a coffee delivery in the ambulance bay. You carried the multiple drink carriers to the hub. “Where are my night crawlers at?” you called.
In no time at all, various staff members, who weren’t otherwise occupied, crowded around you at the hub. They thanked you as they took their drinks and wandered off. You sipped at your coffee as you turned and found Jack standing behind you, arms crossed, scowl on his face. “Yes, dear?”
“That’s my thing. You can’t just steal it.”
You took another sip of your coffee. “Steal what?”
“Night crawlers.” When you didn’t say anything, he continued. “You said it was stupid.”
You scoffed. “I did not. You said I was a worm. That’s rude.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That…I didn’t…You know what? Fine. You’re a worm. I hope a bird eats you.”
You gasped. “Jack Hector Abbot, you take that back.”
He snatched the coffee from your hand (which was really his anyway) and walked away. “Nope. Be nice or I’ll use you to catch a fish.”
When Robby arrived in the morning, you and Jack were standing on opposite sides of the hub. He looked between you then to Dana and Lena. “What happened?”
“Jack said he hopes I die,” you answered.
“What?” Robby found that really hard to believe. Jack was crazy about you.
“I did not,” Jack protested.
“You did.”
“Not.”
“So.”
Robby held up his hands and sighed. “Okay. Enough.” He turned to look at you. “Mrs. You first.”
“He called me a worm and then said he hopes a bird eats me. Threatened to feed me to a fish.”
That…was not even on Robby’s long list of all the things he thought you might say. He turned to Jack. “Mr. You next.”
“I called her a night crawler as in one who dwells in the night. Not a worm. And of course, I don’t want her die. I’d love her even if she was a worm.”
Robby wondered, not for the first time, why he had to exist in the same space as the two of you.
“You would?” you asked. “Really?”
Jack nodded making his way around the hub toward you. “I’d get you a little terrarium and everything. You’d love it.”
You laid a hand on his chest and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “I love you, too. Probably not if I was a worm though.”
“Why not? That’s—”
Robby held up a hand again. “Please don’t continue this conversation. I beg of you.”
Jack huffed in annoyance but you nodded. “Of course, Mike. I understand. Emotions make you uncomfortable.”
Robby tipped his head back with a groan. “Can we please just do handoff like regular doctors? You know like they do in literally every other hospital on the planet? Please? Just once.”
You patted his arm as you walked by him. “Sure. I’m sorry. We’ll behave.”
As you continued down the hall, Robby called after you. “Where are you going?”
You just waved and kept going and he turned to look at Jack who shrugged. “She can’t do handoff. She’s just a worm. What do you expect? Get it together, man.”
synopsis: after too much time away from your alpha he assures you there is no one else he could ever want
warnings/notes: Omegaverse dynamics. Slight hurt/comfort. fluff. written to fulfill a request. Part Two to Let Me Show You
wc: 2.9k
In the two months since Robby kissed you in the ambulance bay, he had been true to his word and had been courting you relentlessly. Not in an overwhelming way, but with a determination that had your Omega purring in satisfaction.
Bringing you coffee before shifts and texts throughout the day had transitioned swiftly to casual dates to spending nearly every night together. You maintained a nest in both of your homes, your scents mingled together. Some nights, you’d curl up on the couch watching old movies together. Others, you’d barely make it to the bedroom discarding clothing along the way.
Robby had made a point of wanting to do things properly, to give you time to be certain it was him you wanted. You were sure. You had been since the moment you left him that first cup of coffee. But the one time you’d tried to convince him of that, he’d said, “I’m not going anywhere.” Then he distracted you by trailing kisses up the side of your neck.
Meanwhile, you continued your campaign of constant care, making sure your Alpha knew he was loved. All in all, things were going great between the two of you.
Until this week.
Dr. Meyers from pediatrics had a family emergency at the same time the flu was once again making rounds through the hospital. What that meant was in addition to longer shifts, you’d picked up three extra shifts to help cover pedes and Robby pulled a double shift all in one week.
The two of you were exhausted. And to make everything worse, you’d only been able to see each other in stolen moments at work. You’d both been heading to your own homes and crashing at the end of shift, too tired to do anything else after taking care of the things you needed to at home. Fortunately, you both had the next two days off and intended to spend every minute possible in your nest at Robby’s.
But you had to make it through the day first.
You glanced at the clock. Twenty-seven hours. That’s how long it had been since you’d last seen your Alpha. Last inhaled his scent, last felt his skin on yours and even that had been a simple holding of hands while you shared a cup of coffee in the breakroom. Your skin itched, nerves in overdrive as your Omega instincts hovered at the edge of distress. Long separations were never ideal, but were particularly difficult for partners in the courting phase.
You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose before returning to the case notes you were entering for a seven-year-old with abdominal pain. Realizing you’d just typed the same sentence three times in a row, you glanced at the clock again. Oh good, five whole minutes later than last time.
You lasted another twelve before you stood and announced you were heading to the ED. Lewis Harris who was serving as the other pedes attending on staff for the day, blinked in surprise and glanced at the clock before looking at the charge nurse. “I wasn’t aware we’d been paged.”
“We haven’t.”
“You can’t just leave. There are matters to see to here and we still five hours left on the shift,” Harris chastised and the hairs bristled on the back of your neck.
This man was trying to keep you from your Alpha. Plus, he’d been a bit of a dick all week. You were done being polite.
“I have picked up three shifts this week in addition to my ED shifts. I need fifteen minutes.”
“But—”
“This isn’t even my department,” you interrupted. “I am doing you a favor by covering while Dr. Meyers is out because you didn’t want to work extra shifts. I have not seen my Alpha in over twenty-four hours. I am. Taking. A break.”
Before he could irritate you any further, Nina the charge nurse spoke up. “Go. Take all the time you need. We’ll manage just fine here.”
Harris looked like he wanted to say more but the sharp expressions of both yourself and the charge nurse silenced him. You were rarely short with colleagues but right now you couldn’t be bothered to care. Maybe pedes would refrain from asking you the next time they needed help.
You turned to Nina. “Thank you. Call if you need me.”
As you hurried toward the elevator, your heart sped. Finally, you were getting a chance to see your Alpha. Your Omega practically purred at the thought and some of that ever increasing anxiety began to melt away at the mere prospect of being near him again. You jabbed the button repeatedly. When the doors finally opened you stepped inside and pressed the button for the ED, willing the elevator to move faster than its usual slow pace.
When you finally arrived on the correct floor, the doors slid open to reveal the familiar semi-controlled chaos of the emergency department. You stepped into the hallway, eyes already scanning for Robby’s tall form. Your colleagues greeted you with a nod or a smile as they hurried past. But there was no sign of your Alpha.
“Well, look who it is.” Dana’s familiar voice cut through the surrounding noise as she made her way to you, smile on her face. “Pedes finally sending you back to us.”
You huffed out a breath. “I wish. Next time they ask me to help out, remind me to say no, would you?”
“Something tells me I won’t have to.” She indicated down one of the halls with a tilt of her head. “Last I saw him he stepped into twelve to answer some questions for a surgical resident on a case.”
You gripped her arm lightly, already stepping in that direction. “Thank you, Dana.”
Your steps quickened as you neared the room. The need to see Robby, to touch him, was overwhelming now that you were so close. The curtain to the room was partially drawn though the door was open. You could hear Robby talking a female whose voice you didn’t recognize. You slowed your steps, not wanting to interrupt.
“Come on. Give me chance. What’s the harm?” The woman’s voice was soft, cajoling.
“I already told you that I have an Omega.” Robby’s voice was firm but polite, the professional tone he used when setting boundaries. His words had your spine straightening as you frowned.
The woman scoffed. “Well, not a very good one. I can’t smell her on you at all. What kind of Omega leaves their Alpha alone for so long?”
And oh, that hurt. Wasn’t that what you’d been telling yourself all week? That you were failing by being absent, for letting work keep you apart. That he deserved better.
Unable to resist you moved closer and peered through the small gap in the curtain. A beautiful woman in purple scrubs stood too close to your Alpha. Her body angled toward him. Long dark hair, pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Flawless makeup. She was everything you weren’t at the moment. Put together. Available.
“My Omega—” Robby started only to be cut off.
“You deserve an Omega who puts you first,” she continued, hand dropping onto his arm. “One who makes sure everyone knows you’re claimed.”
Robby stepped back slightly, but she followed, maintaining the contact. “I’m not interested and I’d appreciate it if you respected that.” His voice was sharp, angry.
You should have made your presence known then. Should have claimed your territory. But she was right, you hadn’t been a good Omega lately. A proper Omega would make time for their Alpha, would go to his place no matter how tired they were. Would never let their scent fade, or allow work to come in between them. You knew these were unfair expectations considering the week you’d both had, but your Omega instincts were drowning out reason.
Robby’s posture was stiff, uncomfortable, but he was still standing there. Still talking to her. Still letting her touch him. The thought made your chest tighten painfully.
“You haven’t even given me a chance, Michael,” she persisted. “How do you know I won’t be a more perfect fit?”
She called him Michael. That… Only you could call him that. A small sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. The distinctive chirp of a distressed Omega.
You hadn’t realized how loud it was until both faces turned toward the curtain. Robby’s eyes widened as they locked with yours, relief flooding his features instantly at the sight of you. You didn’t even glance at the other Omega.
You turned abruptly, desperate to return to the elevator and the department upstairs. Your vision blurred with unshed tears, your breath coming in short gasps. This was so stupid. You were so stupid. All you wanted was to get away from the proof of your failure, your shortcomings. You made it three steps before a familiar hand caught your wrist, strong fingers wrapping around it.
“Don’t.” Robby’s voice was soft but carried the unmistakable Alpha command that made your steps falter. Before you could protest, he tugged you back, spinning you around and pulling you against his chest in one fluid motion.
Your body responded before your mind could catch up, melting against him as his arms encircled you. Traces of his scent tickled your nose, the scent blockers keeping most of it buried. You pressed your face against his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his scrubs.
After so long apart, the physical contact was overwhelming, your Omega instincts rising to the surface. You nuzzled closer, seeking the spot where his neck met his shoulder, where his scent would be strongest despite the blockers.
His arms tightened around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close as a low rumble vibrated through his chest. It was the instinctive sound Alpha’s made to comfort their distressed Omegas and your body responded immediately, some of the tension draining from your muscles.
“I tried to be polite,” Robby said, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly quiet ED. He wasn’t speaking to you but rather over your head to where the other Omega must be standing. “But you’ve upset my mate, so kindly get the fuck out of my department.”
The sharp tone of his voice made you shiver. This was Robby in full Alpha mode, protective and unyielding.
“Your mate? I don’t see any mark.” Her voice was heavy with disbelief.
“A mark isn’t what makes her mine.” His voice had dropped lower. “Now leave, and if the ED needs a consult, tell surgery to send someone else.”
Only when you heard the sound of retreating footsteps did you dare glance up. Staff and patients were watching with varying degrees of interest and amusement. Dana stood nearby with her arms crossed and a satisfied smile on her face.
“Show’s over,” Robby announced. “Don’t you all have patients to see?”
Robby’s attention returned to you immediately, his expression softening as he looked down at your face. He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. Concern flooded his eyes. “You’re trembling. Come on.”
He kept you wrapped in his arms as he led you through the department. His hand rubbed circles at the small of your back.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
His steps faltered briefly, his arm tightening around you. “You have nothing to apologize for, baby.”
When he reached the on-call room at the far end of the department, he checked inside quickly before ushering you in. He closed and locked the door behind you. A bed was pushed against one wall and a chair sat in the corner along with a table and a lamp that glowed softly. He led you to the chair and sat down, pulling you into his lap in one smooth motion. His arms came around you immediately, cradling you against his chest.
“I’ve got you.” His lips brushed the top of your head as he spoke.
You relaxed against him, his heartbeat thumping beneath your ear. Your legs dangled over the arm of the chair, your side pressed against him as he arms created a protective cage around you.
Without a word his fingers found the edge of the scent blocking patch on your neck. He paused, eyes questioning, waiting for permission. You nodded and he peeled the patch away with gentle fingers. The moment it was removed, your scent began to fill the small room.
Robby inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed as he took in your unfiltered scent for the first time in days. “There you are.”
You peeled his patch off in turn. The moment it came free, his Alpha scent flooded your senses. Your Omega instincts surged in response.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded, unable to find your words. The room quickly filled with your combined scents, causing you both to relax even further. Robby’s hand stroked up and down the length of your spine. “You’re okay, sweetheart. We’re okay.” He deliberately released calming pheromones and the subtle shift in his scent wrapped around you like a warm blanket.
You turned your face into his neck, finding the spot where his scent was strongest. You inhaled deeply and your lips brushed against his pulse point.
Robby mirrored your actions, burying his face in your neck, his nose trailing along your scent gland. His beard scraped gently against your skin as his lips pressed against your throat. The separation of the past days melted away as your fingers found their way into his hair, carding through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your scrubs.
Your Omega, that had been so agitated earlier, settled in contentment as your body recognized that you were exactly where you belonged.
Robby’s lips brushed against your temple. “Feeling better?”
You nodded against him. “I was fine, really.”
He pulled back just enough to look in your eyes, raising one eyebrow. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t have chirped in distress, sweetheart.” His thumb traced your cheekbone. “That sound nearly broke me. I never want to hear you make it again.”
The memory made your cheeks heat. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
His eyes searched yours, his brow furrowed. “What upset you so much? Was it just seeing her with me or was it something else?”
“She said I wasn’t a good Omega, that she couldn’t smell me on you.” You swallowed hard. “She wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already been thinking.”
His expression shifted, something like dismay filling his eyes. “Sweetheart, no—”
“I’m failing you. We’ve barely seen each other this week. I’ve been too tired to come over, too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed alone. A good Omega wouldn’t let that happen. They’d make time. They’d ensure their Alpha was take care of or—”
“Stop,” Robby said firmly, though his voice remained gentle. “Stop right there. You have not failed me. Not even close.”
“But she was right. Your scent was fading from me and mine from you. I’ve been letting work come between us.”
He pulled you back against his chest, one hand cradling your head as he tucked you beneath his chin. “We’ve both been letting work come between us. I’m just as guilty. I should have made more effort, should have insisted on seeing you for more than a few minutes at a time. But neither of us is failing the other. We’re both doing important work. That doesn’t make you a bad Omega or me a bad Alpha.”
“I hate that she thought she could have you.”
A soft chuckle left his lips. “She never stood a chance. Do you want to know why?”
You nodded against him, inhaling another lungful of his comforting scent.
“Because I love you. I am completely in love with you. These past few days without you have been torture.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
His arms tightened around you, holding you closer. “I’ve been thinking about us. Where we’re going.”
You tilted your head back to look at him and he smiled at you. “I think we’ve been courting long enough. This week apart has made it painfully clear to me that I don’t want to spend another night away from you if I can help it.” He took a deep breath. “I want to mark you and I want you to mark me.”
“Michael…”
“I want to wake up with you every morning,” he continued, the words coming faster now. “I want your clothes next to mine in the closet. I want our scents so thoroughly mingled that no one could ever question who we belong to again. I want to spend every possible moment together.”
Tears of joy pricked at your eyes. “You really want that?”
“More than anything,” he answered with no hesitation. “I’m crazy about you. Have been since the moment you stepped into my ED. You’ve been taking care of me since even before I knew it was you. Let me spend the rest of my life returning the favor.”
Emotion clogged your throat. This was everything you wanted. “Yes to all of it,” you finally managed to say. “I want to be yours in every way.”
The smile that crossed his face was radiant. “Tonight?”
You laughed. “Yeah, Alpha. That sounds perfect.”
He kissed you then. A deep, claiming kiss that left no doubt of his intentions.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
*Being Brendon Park's prized resident had its upsides and down. One down that she's turned into a up is when people ask 'why is he so mean?' She has decided she's gonna give em a crazy answer every time. Park knows she does this. He had some favorites that she'd say so his top few are.*
"He was in a situationship with a mean bisexual in college and he's never recovered."
"He got hit in the balls with a baseball bat in high-school and hasn't been the same since." (That one she said infront of Robby to McKay Robby had to walk away cause he was laughing so hard)
"He got hit by a car and suffered too much oxygen loss to the brain."
"Cause he's into BSDM and is a natural brat." (That was his favorite and just about pissed himself laughing when she said it to Shen one night)
"I haven't given him enough blow jobs lately." (Gloria heard that one and made the two go to HR epically cause she said it to Whitaker on his second day...)
Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Sunshine! Pregnant! reader
Summary: How Shark found out he was going to be a dad + how they welcomed their little girl into the world with an unexpected surprise.
Warning: Swearing, Brendon Park himself, Age difference, Height difference. Grumpy and Sunshine. Possible medical inaccuracies. There's talk of growing up in the system.
Words: 4277
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You were utterly submerged in the rhythmic domesticity of folding laundry, your headphones snug and your hips swaying—almost instinctively—to the music that anchored your private world. You had squeezed every drop of productivity from your day off: an exhaustive marathon of errands, heavy shopping bags filled with the absurdly expensive luxuries Brendon favored, and the endless hum of the washing machine.
Yet, there wasn't a flicker of resentment for having "wasted" your freedom on chores. Each time you smoothed a T-shirt or triumphed in matching a pair of socks—a feat far more complex than it seemed, as if they possessed a supernatural urge to vanish—a small, secret smile tugged at your lips. You couldn't stop visualizing your husband’s reaction.
Would he mirror your radiance? Or would he succumb to the phantom of panic since, in his own haunting words, "he’d never been granted a decent paternal example"? That doubt lingered in the back of your mind, but it only served as the fuel for your fire. Everything had to be impeccable. Today wasn't just housework; it was a silent, frantic race to ensure every detail of your home was a sanctuary. The life already blossoming within you deserved nothing less. It hadn't been a calculated pursuit—simply a choice to stop running, to step back and let fate take the lead.
Now that fate had spoken, Brendon deserved to hear the echo in a way he’d never forget. Between cycles of the wash, you had choreographed the moment perfectly. You wanted him to step through that door after a grueling shift at the hospital and find more than just a clean house—you wanted him to find the threshold of his new reality, neatly packaged in a box on the table containing a pair of tiny, shark-printed shoes.
You were so lost in your own thoughts, the music acting as a barricade against the world, that you missed the subtle creak of the front door. You didn't hear the heavy, exhausted sigh as Brendon dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl. You were still lost in the melody, carrying the final stack of clean clothes toward the dressing room, when large, warm hands suddenly cinched around your waist.
The shock was electric. You jumped, the sudden jolt sending a freshly folded cotton shirt tumbling to the floor. You spun quickly within his grasp, headphones still clinging to your ears, to meet your husband’s gaze. The exhaustion of a marathon shift in the operating room was etched into the tension of his shoulders, but his eyes held that soft, guarded light—the look he reserved exclusively for you—that never failed to make your pulse skip.
You slid the headphones down around your neck, discarding them onto the nearest surface without a thought.
"Your first day off in weeks and you spend it on labor, Sunny..."
"I slept in, Bren. Then I had a proper breakfast, got dressed, and conquered the shops," you replied with a tender smile, looping your arms around his neck and grazing the skin at his nape. "I bought those steaks you love. And I finally caught up on the laundry."
"You spoil me, Doll," he rasped. Before you could offer a retort, he closed the distance between you until there wasn't an inch of air to breathe.
His hands migrated from your hips to cradle your face with a fierce, possessive urgency as he kissed you. It was deep and desperate—a kiss born of longing and necessity, but anchored in a profound, quiet love. You felt the rigidity leave his frame as he melted against you, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a slowness that felt almost reverent.
"I’ve missed you every damn second of those sixteen hours," he whispered against your mouth, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. "I needed this. To feel you."
A lump of pure emotion tightened your throat. He had no inkling of the miracle growing in your womb—the tiny spark you had both kindled. You pulled back just enough to hold his gaze, keeping your hands on his chest with a mischievous glint in your eyes.
"Well, I’m right here... and I have something for you."
You slipped from his hold and walked to the dining table, where the small box rested on the dark oak. You lifted it with trembling care, as if the contents were made of spun glass, and returned to him. Brendon watched you with mounting intrigue, leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a weary half-smile playing on his lips.
"A gift?" He arched a skeptical brow. "Doll, it’s not an anniversary or a birthday. You don’t need to buy me things."
"Just shut up and open it, Bren," you whispered, thrusting the box toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He gave a soft, amused huff and took the package. His long, steady surgeon's fingers made quick work of the black ribbon, drawing out the suspense. But the moment he lifted the lid, the world went silent. His blue eyes locked onto the miniature shoes—tiny blue sharks, so small they could be swallowed by the palm of his hand.
He froze. He barely blinked, his analytical brain seemingly paralyzed by the image. The weariness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor and a look of profound wonder.
"Doll..." His voice was a fractured whisper, his breath hitching as he delicately lifted one of the booties. "Tell me this isn't just a joke... tell me you didn't just find the design funny."
He looked up, searching your eyes for the permission to believe it.
"It’s not a joke, Bren. I’m nine weeks pregnant," you confirmed, your voice thick with tears. You placed your hands over his, which were still clutching the tiny shoe. "We’re having a baby, Big Guy."
The silence that followed was heavy and sacred. Brendon looked back down at the shoe, and for the first time in your years together, you watched a single, solitary tear track down his cheek.
Without a word, he sank to his knees. He pressed his forehead against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, grounding strength. It was the gesture of a man who had just found a new center of gravity.
"Nine weeks... a baby," he muffled against you, the vibration of his voice humming through your skin. "God, I’m going to be a father. I swear to you, Doll... I swear on my life I’ll be the best for them."
He stood, cupping your face once more to kiss you with a tenderness that nearly broke you.
"I'm buying a portable ultrasound machine," he announced, a flash of his usual professional authority returning as he wiped your tears away. "I don't care what it costs. I want to see this baby and hear that heart whenever we want."
"An ultrasound machine, Bren?" you laughed through your sobs. "That’s insane, it’s not even your specialty."
"I’m an orthopedic surgeon, Doll. I can read an image better than half the residents in that building," he countered with that characteristic touch of arrogance that made you smile. "Besides, I’m not letting our peace of mind depend on a waiting list. If I need to hear that little heart beating at three in the morning just so I can sleep, then I will."
"I married a madman," you joked, leaning into him.
"You married the man who is going to protect you and that baby better than anyone on earth," he corrected fiercely. "Tomorrow, I’m calling Dr. Bishop. She’s the best OB in the city and she owes me for fixing her mother’s hip. You’ll be seen in her private clinic. You’ll just have to tolerate me wanting to listen to the heartbeat every five minutes."
He folded you into his arms, and in that embrace, you felt like the safest person in existence. He fell silent, resting his cheek atop your head as you both stared at the tiny shoe on the table. The "Shark" had finally laid down his armor.
"It’s going to be so small, isn't it?" he asked suddenly, his voice laced with genuine awe. "The bones... they'll be so delicate. God, I’ll have to learn not to squeeze too hard when I hold them."
"You won't hurt them. They'll be in the best hands in the world," you assured him, rubbing his back. "You’re going to be an incredible father, Big Guy. Overprotective, but incredible."
In that moment of raw vulnerability, it was clear: Brendon was already as deeply in love with the baby as he was with you. It didn't matter how formidable he was in the OR or how much he terrified his residents; here, in the quiet of your home, he was simply a man captivated by the new life beginning to pulse within you.
"I'll be whatever you need," he promised, kissing your hair. "Rest now, Doll. I’ll take care of you both."
He wasn't lying.
Nine months later, you were a study in heavy, aching anticipation. Your daughter was a tempest, kicking your ribs with a relentless energy she had clearly inherited from her father. You felt as though you might split at the seams, yet stubbornness—another trait you shared with your husband—drove you from the bed. You wanted to brew one last pot of coffee for Brendon while he showered, preparing for his final shift before paternity leave.
But as your feet hit the floor, it wasn't a contraction that halted you. It was a strange, sudden rush of heat—the unmistakable sensation of liquid soaking through your clothes and pooling onto the hardwood. You froze, staring at the puddle with the eerie, detached composure that only an ER nurse could maintain in a crisis.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Brendon emerged in a shroud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips and his torso still glistening with droplets. He stopped dead when he saw you standing there, staring blankly at the floor. His blue eyes swept the room, processing the scene in a fraction of a second. There was no first-time-father panic; there was only the absolute, chilling calm of a surgeon.
"Bren... I just—" Your voice was a thin whisper.
"I know, Doll. It seems our daughter has a very loose interpretation of due dates," he replied. His voice was so steady it sent a shiver of pure relief down your spine.
There was no frantic rushing. Brendon dropped the towel and dressed with the clinical efficiency of a soldier on a mission. In a heartbeat, you were swept into his arms and carried down to the garage. He settled you into the leather interior of his BMW X6, reclining the seat just enough to keep you secure but comfortable.
"Bren, the upholstery..." you wheezed as a fresh contraction stole your breath.
"I can replace leather, Doll. I can't replace you two. The only thing that matters is getting you to that hospital," he said, cinching the belt over your belly with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.
He rounded the hood in three long strides and slid into the driver's seat. With a flick of his wrist, the engine roared to life. The drive was a masterclass in precision. Brendon kept one hand locked on the wheel, carving through the morning fog with surgical accuracy, while his other hand sought yours, squeezing tight every time a contraction forced your back to arch. His eyes flicked between the road and you, monitoring your vitals as if you were his most critical patient.
"She had to pick rush hour," you hissed through gritted teeth. Pittsburgh’s morning traffic was a legendary hellscape; the path to PTMC felt like an impossible gauntlet.
A new contraction, far more violent than the last, forced your eyes shut. You gripped his thigh with a force that would have made any other man falter, but Brendon didn't flinch. He absorbed your pain as if it were his own.
"She’s impatient. Clearly, she didn't get that from me," he joked, his voice a low rumble designed to ground you as he swerved around a delivery truck. "Breathe, Doll. You’re doing perfectly. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known."
"God, I don't think I'm doing this again, Bren..." you gasped, the pressure becoming unbearable. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't you dare apologize. Not for this," he countered instantly, his voice thick with devotion. He kept his left hand fixed on the wheel, dodging a slow-moving sedan, while his right hand remained a steady weight on your leg. "If this impatient little girl is the only one we ever have, she’ll be the luckiest, most loved child in this fucking world. I don't need another miracle to know how incredible you are. I just need you two safe."
You looked at his profile—a sharp, concentrated line of marble. There was no trace of the panic a normal father would feel. He was a surgeon in the middle of the most vital operation of his life, and you were his only priority.
"Bren... she’s crowning," you exhaled, the downward pressure forcing you to arch against the leather.
The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly. The air grew dense, electric. Brendon’s jaw tightened until the muscle looked carved from stone. You were gridlocked just blocks from the hospital. Time had run out.
"Damn it," he growled, though his voice remained low. "Okay, Doll. Listen to me. We aren't waiting for this traffic to move. We both know she isn't going to wait for a parking spot."
He shifted in his seat, placing a firm, steady hand on your stomach.
"Unbuckle the belt. Get your pants off. Now, beautiful. Don't worry about the car, just focus on me."
"We should call Dana... tell her to get the OB team ready..." you managed to stutter, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the fabric.
Brendon didn't take his eyes off you, but he slammed the hands-free button. "Call Dana Evans," he commanded. "Now, Doll. Get rid of the clothes. Forget everything else. Let's bring our daughter home."
The phone rang over the speakers just as you managed to kick the clothes to the floor. Dana’s authoritative voice filled the cabin. "Park? Why are you calling? Is everything okay with Sunshine?"
"Dana!" you shrieked, clutching the ceiling handle so hard the plastic groaned. "I’m in the car and she’s coming! I’m crowning!"
There was a half-second of silence—the time it took for a veteran nurse to shift gears. "Sunshine! Stay calm! Don’t push unless you can’t stop it! Shark! Tell me you aren't driving like a maniac!"
"We’re stuck in traffic, Dana," Brendon interrupted, his voice reaching that terrifying level of calm he only used when a life was on the line. "Clear Trauma 1. I want OB and a Neo-team standing by the bay. We're coming in hot."
He cut the call. The traffic broke, but your daughter had reached the point of no return. The "ring of fire" consumed you, and your nails dug deep into Brendon's knee.
"Don't hold back, Doll. If you have to push, push," he ordered. He covered your hand with his, welcoming the sting of your nails.
The BMW roared as Brendon tore onto the shoulder, burning rubber to bridge the final meters to the PTMC ramp. You felt a final, explosive surge of nature—a force that ripped a scream from your lungs that likely echoed through the entire ward.
"Brendon!" you cried out, your hands reaching down to catch the small, slick body of your daughter as she slid into the world.
He slammed on the brakes in front of the ER doors, the screech of tires bringing security running. The engine was still ticking, hot from the race, but the world went silent when your daughter’s first cry—a high-pitched, indignant, life-filled wail—broke the air.
Brendon unbuckled and lunged toward your seat. His surgeon’s hands, which never wavered, joined yours to hold the warm miracle against your chest. He shed his linen jacket to cover her, shielding her from the morning air. His blue eyes, usually so clinical, were shimmering.
"She’s perfect, Doll. You’re... God, you’re incredible," he whispered, kissing your sweat-soaked brow.
"She already has your look of annoyance," you joked weakly, tears finally spilling over.
The ER doors burst open. Donnie and Jesse sprinted out with a gurney, their faces a mix of terror and awe.
"I see Baby Shark is just as impatient as her mother, eh, Sunshine?" Donnie shouted, rushing to cover you with a blanket as they helped Brendon move you to the gurney.
"Shut up, Donnie!" you barked, a laugh bubbling through your sobs. "I would have made it to the ward if the traffic in this city wasn't absolute shit!"
"Hey, watch the language, Sunshine! There are innocent ears present!" Jesse teased.
As they began to wheel you inside, Donnie—ever the instigator—pulled out his phone. He had been waiting for this moment since the day he found out "Park the Shark" was the father. He hit play and turned the volume to the max.
The low, menacing notes of the Jaws theme began to thrum through the ER hallway.
Tu-tum... tu-tum... tu-tum-tu-tum...
The ward ground to a halt. Robby froze mid-note; Langdon dropped his pen; the nurses exchanged looks of pure shock. Even Dana couldn't hide her grin. The Great White Shark of Orthopedics had entered the building, not to hunt, but to protect his brood.
Brendon walked beside the gurney, his hand resting firmly on the edge. He didn't care about the ruined shirt or his fearsome reputation. He only had eyes for you and the tiny creature on your chest.
"Donnie, you're an idiot," you laughed.
"What? Baby Shark deserves the entrance of the century," he retorted as they swung you into Trauma 1.
The baby, oblivious to the soundtrack, snuggled into your skin. But the joy of the room shifted as Robby stepped forward, his expression darkening.
"You know what's crazy, Sunshine?" Robby said softly as the team began their post-birth checks. "Today is a day of miracles and cruel ironies. Baby Jane Doe came back in thirty minutes ago."
You stiffened. The memory of the little girl from the 4th of July—the one you had held until the system took her away—hit you like a physical blow. You had grieved for her, fearing the system would fail her.
"What? Why?" you asked, your heart sinking.
Robby sighed, glancing at Dana. "Her foster mother 'forgot' she was in the back seat while running errands. She was locked in the car, Sunshine. In the direct sun. A passerby had to break the glass. She's lucky to be alive."
You looked down at your own daughter, so safe and warm, and then up at Brendon. The contrast was agonizing. You had fought through a city to save your child, while Jane Doe had been left to bake in a metal tomb.
The silence in the room was deafening. Brendon stood perfectly still, but the air around him turned cold. That predatory, protective calm settled over him.
"Forgotten?" The word fell from his lips like a death sentence. His gaze turned lethal. "You’re telling me that while I nearly wrecked my car to ensure my family was safe, that woman left a child in a furnace?"
"Exactly that," Dana confirmed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "She’s dehydrated and the heat stroke was severe, but she’s a fighter."
You felt the echo of your own childhood—the cold uncertainty of the foster system—resonate in your chest. You couldn't let it happen again. Not to her.
"Brendon," you whispered, reaching for him.
He looked at you. In his eyes was the man who had just realized his family wasn't yet complete.
"They failed you, Doll," he said, his voice a low, lethal promise only you could hear. "But we are not going to fail her. Not again. I know how hard it was to let her go the first time. Fate is screaming at us to fix this."
The room went still as his meaning sank in.
"You mean...?" Your voice broke.
"We should have done it from the start," he said, kissing your temple. "There will be no more goodbyes, Doll. Baby Jane Doe is staying with us. I don't care who I have to call—she isn't going back."
A few hours later, the frantic pulse of the ER had faded into the profound stillness of a private suite on the maternity floor. The late afternoon sun began its slow descent over Pittsburgh, hemorrhaging gold through the windows and bathing the room in a warm, ethereal glow. You were reclined against a mountain of pillows, your newborn daughter—the little "Baby Shark" who had claimed her place in the world so violently—sleeping soundly in the bassinet beside you.
The door moved on silent hinges. Brendon stepped inside, still wearing the clothes from the birth, though he had scrubbed the day’s grime from his face. The shadow of fury that had darkened his features in the Trauma Box was gone, replaced by a quiet, triumphant serenity. In his arms, he carried a small, bundled weight wrapped in an immaculate white cotton blanket.
"Brendon?" you whispered, shifting carefully.
He didn't speak. He crossed the room with the measured grace of a man who had already won the war. With the delicate precision he reserved solely for you, he leaned down and deposited the bundle into your arms.
"Emergency custody has been granted," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress and draping a protective arm around your shoulders. "The judge is a former colleague, and the Chief of Surgery personally signed the suitability reports. There is no more 'Jane Doe.' The paperwork dictates she remains with us until the adoption is finalized. We’re going to need to give her a name, Doll... something other than what that woman called her."
You looked down at the infant. She was barely three months old, her cheeks still flushed from the terrifying heat she had endured, but as she felt the familiar warmth of your touch, she blinked open those sweet, dark eyes that had haunted your dreams since July. She seemed to recognize you instantly; her lips mimicked a soft, seeking motion before she curled into your chest, tucking herself directly over the beat of your heart.
"Hello again, little one," you sobbed, the tears falling unchecked as you pressed a kiss to her temple. "I promised you back in July... I promised you that someone would love you. And we are going to love you so very much. My sweet Cordelia Ondina."
The baby let out a long, shuddering sigh, as if she had finally found the only place in the world where she was truly safe. The hollow ache that had lived in your chest since she was taken from you weeks ago vanished, healing scars you hadn't even realized were open.
Brendon leaned his forehead against yours, absorbing the sight of the perfect tableau: his wife, his biological daughter, and the little girl fate had refused to let him leave behind. The three women who now held his world in their hands.
"And to think, I said we’d only have one daughter... then fate hands us two," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you stroked Cordelia’s cheek. Your gaze drifted to the bassinet where Baby Shark slept on.
"Fate didn't hand us anything, Doll. It simply pointed the way," he corrected in a low, gravelly rasp, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble. "We took what was ours. And neither of them... they couldn't have asked for a better mother."
"And they couldn't ask for a better guardian, Big Guy," you whispered, brushing your nose against his. "The great Park 'The Shark'—the surgeon everyone fears, who turns out to have the largest heart I’ve ever known."
In the hallowed silence of the suite, there was only the rhythmic, synchronized breathing of the two infants. Though they had arrived by vastly different paths—one born in the leather-scented sanctuary of a luxury car, the other rescued from the cold abandonment of a failing system—they now shared a home, a future, and a name.
Brendon wrapped his arms around all of you, a living shield against the world outside. His blue eyes shone with a raw vulnerability—the kind only you could draw out, and the kind you suspected his daughters would eventually command as well.
"I love you, Doll," he whispered, the words heavy with a devotion that bordered on the sacred. "I love all of you. You are everything I ever wanted... even when I was too arrogant to know I needed it."
He kissed your forehead with a lingering, reverent slowness. Outside those doors, the hospital continued its frantic, chaotic dance, but inside the bubble of the suite, time stood still. You looked from Cordelia, dozing against your heart, to the bassinet where your youngest daughter rested, knowing that your real story—the one of the Shark and his girls—was only just beginning.
Hiii there! Editor here, sorry for the delay, university homework is killing me and since i'm on my last year the bomb us with everything they have just for their own enjoyment! By the way, the name was a little idea of mine, writer didn't even knew about it
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 15K
Tags: Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N, Duke being a mentor
Robby doesn’t go home right away. He tells himself it’s because he needs a minute to clear his head before walking back into that house. That’s true. It’s just not the whole truth. The whole truth is uglier.
Home means her. Means the key he handed over like it was something simple. Means the fact that she is there now, somewhere inside his house, with her bag by the door and her anger still in the walls and what he did sitting between them like something alive.
Pregnant.
The word still won’t settle. It hits in flashes instead. In the gaps between everything else. Her face in that room. Her voice when she said it. The way the air changed after.
“I’m pregnant.”
Like a hit he still hasn’t stopped taking.
He shuts his office door harder than he means to and braces both hands on the desk, head bowed, pulse still running too fast. The room is quieter than the floor outside, but not quiet enough. Phones somewhere down the hall. A monitor chirping. A laugh near the station, too loud, too thin. The department already knitting itself back together around the shape of what happened. That almost makes it worse.
Because out there, the story is spreading to the Nightshift. He can feel it. Not the real one. Not all of it. Just the scraps Dayshift had to build from.
Vegas. Wife. Pregnant. Sabbatical.
The rest will build itself by the next morning.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. His skin feels too tight. His scrubs feel wrong. Everything about his own body feels wrong.
His pregnant wife.
Jesus Christ.
The thought lands hard enough to make him straighten just to get away from it.
Wife.
Not in the abstract anymore. Not as a certificate he left untouched in that hotel room. Not as something that happened under cheap chapel lights and too much liquor. Not as a mistake he could shove far enough away to stop hearing it.
His wife is in his house.
His wife drove across the country alone.
His wife had to ask the state for help.
His wife had to Google him.
Robby shuts his eyes. For one second, just one, he lets the humiliation of that wash over him. Not his own.
Hers.
“I had to Google my own husband.”
He swallows hard. That line keeps coming back. That and the way she looked when she said she’d been counting tips to make appointments. The way her voice sharpened around the word alone.
He had no answer for that. Still doesn’t.
The folder she shoved into his hands is sitting on the desk now, bent at one corner. He stares at it like it might tell him what the hell he’s supposed to do next. It doesn’t. He reaches for it anyway. The top pages are what he expected. Household information. Income. Spousal details. State forms. Blank spaces where his life should have been and wasn’t.
His jaw tightens as he flips through them. Then he hits the clinic paperwork.
A thin packet clipped together. Intake forms. Lab slips. Visit summaries from some small women’s clinic outside Vegas. Not a hospital system. Not a real OB practice with continuity and resources and maternal-fetal backup and decent imaging on site. Just enough care to get by. Just enough to confirm a pregnancy, estimate dates, run the basics, keep somebody moving forward if better options were out of reach.
His stomach drops harder. He scans without meaning to. Positive test confirmation. Estimated gestational age. Prenatal vitamins recommended. Follow-up in four weeks. Bloodwork ordered through an outside lab.
He knows exactly what kind of place this is. Understaffed. Overbooked. The kind of clinic people use because it’s what they can afford, what they can get into, what they can reach. And she’s been doing this there while he’s been here, with great health insurance, attending pay, every possible referral he could’ve made if he’d actually been in her life enough to matter.
Robby stares at the page too long. She should have had better care than this. Not because the clinic is bad. Because she should not have been piecing together the bare minimum while carrying his child.
His hand tightens on the paperwork. He could sign them.
That’s the part that keeps sitting there. Simple. Clean. Practical. Give her what she asked for. Make this easier on her. Easier on both of them. Stop complicating a life he already made harder. Let her go back to Vegas with what she came for and tell himself that this time, at least, he didn’t make it worse.
It should feel like the right thing. Maybe it is the right thing. So why the hell can’t he do it?
Robby stares at the paperwork. Really stares this time. Like if he looks at the forms long enough, his hand will just move. His name will go down where it needs to. The decision will make itself.
It doesn’t.
Something in his chest goes tight instead. Not sharp. Not panic exactly. Just pressure. Deep and ugly and impossible to ignore.
He leans back in the chair and exhales slowly through his nose. This should be easy. Not easy-easy. Nothing about this is easy. But the next step should be.
She wants the forms signed. She wants distance. She wants him out. He can give her that. So why does the thought of doing exactly what she asked feel so much like standing in that hotel room all over again and walking away before the hard part starts?
His jaw tightens.
No.
Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe this is different. Maybe this is him finally doing the decent thing instead of the selfish one. Maybe signing the paperwork, giving her space, and staying out of her way is what a better man would do.
That thought sits there for half a second. Then something in him shoves back hard enough to make him look away from the page. He doesn’t have a name for it. Only that the pressure in his chest gets worse every time he tries to settle on it. Like his body is rejecting the decision before his mind can dress it up into something reasonable.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. He needs to talk to somebody. Not because he can’t think. Because he can, and that’s the problem. He can make a case for signing the forms. Make it sound decent. Respectful. Practical. Line up every reason it would be easier on her if he just gave her what she came for and stopped making himself part of the problem. And right now, he doesn’t trust his own head enough to know if that’s true, or if it’s just fear in better language.
His eyes drop back to the paperwork. He needs something outside of this. Something that doesn’t sound like him. The answer comes almost immediately after. Not clean. Not fully thought through. Just something in him reaching for outside of this office before he does the easy thing and calls it right.
Robby’s mouth tightens.
Maybe he needs to hear somebody else say it. Maybe he needs somebody to look at this whole mess and tell him signing the papers is the cleanest option. That giving her space is the least selfish move he has left. That letting her go back to Vegas is better than making her stay in a house with a man she doesn’t trust. Maybe if somebody else says it, he can stop fighting whatever the hell this is in his chest and just do it.
The thought should feel like relief. It doesn’t. Still, he grabs onto it anyway. Because if he sits here much longer, he’s either going to sign the papers just to stop looking at them, or go home and make this worse.
There’s a knock against the frame before he can get any farther with that thought. He looks up too slowly.
Jack is standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something flatter. More watchful.
Not because Robby looks bad, though he does. Because Robby is in his office at all. Robby is almost never in here unless he absolutely has to be. He lives out on the floor, at the hub, in trauma bays, half-standing over charts, moving too much and sitting still too little. A closed office door with Robby behind it is unusual enough on its own.
A closed office door with Robby looking like this? That’s worse.
“You heading out?” Jack asks.
Robby lets out a breath through his nose. “Yeah.”
Jack’s eyes flick to the folder on the desk, then back to his face.
“You being in here is weird,” he says evenly. “You looking like that while you’re in here is worse.”
Robby huffs one humorless laugh. “Good to know I’m subtle.”
“Never been your thing.”
Jack doesn’t come in. The office is too small for whatever this is, and the look on his face says he knows that too.
“The floor’s handled,” he says. “Dana’s got handoff. Ellis is handling the board. Nobody’s dying if you leave ten minutes early.”
“Comforting.”
Jack’s mouth shifts like that almost earns a smile, but not quite. Then he looks at Robby a little more directly.
“Don’t worry about out there. I’ve told everyone they needed to mind their damn business.”
That lands heavier than it should. Not because Robby thinks Jack can stop the gossip. He can’t. Nobody can now. But because Jack heard enough to know today went bad in a way that matters.
Robby glances back down at the paperwork. “Appreciate it.”
Jack waits. Long enough for the silence to turn into an opening. Robby doesn’t take it. Jack notices that too. Of course he does. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask if this is about the woman who came looking for him. Doesn’t go digging where Robby is clearly not ready to let him.
Instead, he says, quieter, “You going home?”
The word hits wrong immediately.
Home.
Robby doesn’t answer fast enough, and that’s answer enough.
Jack takes that in without comment.
“Alright,” he says. “Then at least go somewhere you can think straight before you do.”
He pushes off the frame. Stops. Looks back once.
“And Robby?”
Robby lifts his head.
Jack’s voice stays even. “Whatever’s waiting for you there… don’t make her carry it alone tonight.”
Robby goes still.
Jack doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t soften it. Just lets the words sit there exactly as heavy as they are. Then he leaves.
The quiet after is worse.
Robby sits there another minute. Maybe two. Long enough for the fluorescent lights overhead to start feeling like pressure. Long enough for the clinic paperwork to stop looking medical and start looking accusatory.
Estimated gestational age. Prenatal follow-up. Patient advised to return.
Patient.
Like she’s just some chart. Some stranger. Not the woman who had to piece her care together in a small clinic because he made sure he was absent enough to be useless.
Spouse information.
He almost laughs again. His entire life reduced to blank lines because he never left her anything else. And still, the forms are there. Simple. Concrete. A path she already asked for.
He could sign them. He could go home, hand them back, tell himself he was respecting what she wanted. Tell himself he was making it easier. Cleaner. Less uncomfortable. He could call that mercy. He knows enough to know it would probably sound noble if he said it right.
That’s what makes it worse. Because under all of that, under the decency, the practicality, the respect, is the same cowardice in a different suit.
He stands abruptly, grabs the folder, then stops.
Not home. Not yet.
Because if he goes home now, he’s going to walk in guilty and half-cocked and start trying to fix things he doesn’t understand well enough to fix. He’ll say something wrong. Push where he shouldn’t. Back off where he shouldn’t. Do exactly what he already did in Vegas, make a decision inside his own panic and call it the best he could do.
No.
He snatches his keys off the desk, scoops up the folder, and heads out before he can second-guess it.
The department feels different when he steps back onto the floor. Not stopped. Never stopped. But aware. He can feel eyes flicking up and then away. A conversation cutting off too fast near the station. The charged little vacuum that forms after something public and ugly has already happened and nobody knows yet how much they’re allowed to say.
He keeps moving. Doesn’t give anyone anything. But he feels it. The nurses’ station is quieter than it should be for this point in the evening. Al-Hashimi is saying something to a resident. Shen’s is at the board. Two nurses are charting with the kind of focus that looks a little too deliberate to be real. Nobody stops him. Nobody says a word.
Then Al-Hashimi looks up from the desk. And somehow that’s worse. Because there’s no curiosity in it. No gossip. No barely-hidden judgment. Just one long, steady look that says she saw exactly what kind of woman had to come down here and claim him out loud, and exactly what kind of man that made him look like.
Robby’s jaw tightens. He gives her a small nod as he passes anyway. She returns it. Nothing more. That almost sits heavier than if she’d called him an asshole to his face.
Outside, evening has settled in hard enough that the air feels cooler than it should. Damp. Pittsburgh dusk hanging low over the lot, ambulance bay lights throwing harsh white across the pavement. He doesn’t remember the walk all the way to the bike. Just the weight of the folder in one hand, the helmet hanging from the bars, the metallic click when he unlocks it.
His motorcycle waits exactly where he left it, dark and familiar and uselessly steady. Usually the bike helps. Usually riding strips the noise down to something manageable. Engine under him. Wind in his face. Enough speed to burn off whatever he doesn’t want to think about.
Tonight it just feels exposed. Appropriate, maybe.
He shoves the folder into the saddlebag more carefully than it deserves, then stands there for one second with one hand braced on the seat and his head tipped down.
Pregnant.
The word is back.
He tries, just for a second, to picture her in his house right now. Shoes off by the door, maybe. Standing in his kitchen. Looking at his things. Looking at the life he came back to while she… what? Counted bills? Worked sick? Sat in a cheap clinic waiting room with fluorescent lights and intake forms and nobody with enough history to care beyond the next appointment?
His grip tightens on the seat.
Jesus Christ.
He let that happen. Not directly. Not knowingly. But he let it happen all the same by making himself absent enough for it to be possible.
He straightens, drags the helmet on, swings a leg over the bike, and fires it up. The engine roars to life beneath him, louder than the thoughts for half a second. He pulls out of the lot with the kind of focus that only comes when every other option is starting to feel like cowardice.
The city is settling into evening around him by then. Streetlights blinking on one by one. Traffic bunching and thinning in waves. Restaurant windows glowing warm. People heading home. Ordinary lives moving around him in every direction while his own feels like it split open and never quite closed again.
He rides mostly on instinct. His body knows the route even when his head won’t stop replaying the last few hours.
“I had to ask the state for help.”
“I had to Google my own husband.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Then, layered over all of it now, the clinic paperwork in his hands. Minimal prenatal care. Patchwork care. Just enough. Not because that was what she deserved. Because it was what she could get without him.
The bike takes a turn a little sharper than usual. He corrects automatically. His shoulders are locked so tight they ache by the time he turns onto the street.
The mechanic shop is still lit. Not wide open anymore, but not dark either. The garage bay is half-shut. A long bar of warm light cuts across the pavement beneath it. Music plays low from somewhere inside, too muffled to make out. Familiar. Grounding in a way he doesn’t deserve.
He parks on the edge of the lot and kills the engine. Silence rushes in too fast after the motor cuts. For a second, he just sits there staring at the strip of light under the bay door. Then he gets off the bike, grabs the folder from the saddlebag, and heads inside.
The smell hits first: oil, metal, old rubber, engine heat still hanging in the air. The kind of place that smells like work and tells the truth about itself. No performance. No polish for the sake of it. Just labor. Tools. Time. Things either fixed or left broken.
Duke’s near the back workbench, wiping his hands on a rag while he looks over something spread out under the hanging light.
He glances up at the sound of the door. Then stills. Not dramatically. Just enough. His eyes go over Robby once, quick and practiced, and whatever he sees there makes him straighten slow.
“You look like hell.”
Robby lets the door swing shut behind him.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I know.”
Duke studies him for another beat, then tosses the rag onto the bench.
“That bad?”
Robby looks down at the folder in his hands.
Then back up.
“Worse.”
Duke studies him for a beat, then jerks his chin toward the side of the building.
“Come on.”
Robby follows him without a word.
The evening air hits cooler out back. The heat from the day is still trapped in the brick and the concrete, but the edge has gone out of it. Around the side of the shop, two old metal chairs sit against the wall beside a rusted ashtray stand nobody’s bothered to empty. The sounds from inside dull behind them, muffled music, the low mechanical hum of a place that never really goes quiet.
Duke drops into one chair with a grunt and nods toward the other.
“Sit down.”
Robby does. The folder stays in his hands. His fingers are tight around the edge of it, thumb rubbing once against the corner, then again. His other hand comes up to the back of his neck, presses hard, drops, then comes right back like it doesn’t know where else to go.
For a second, neither of them says anything. Duke doesn’t rush him. He just leans back in the chair and waits. Robby stares out at the lot. At nothing. His mouth opens. Closes.
Then—
“I got married in Vegas.”
The words land flat between them.
Duke doesn’t react.
Robby lets out a rough breath through his nose and keeps going before he loses his nerve.
“A few months ago. During my trip. I was there. She was there. We met. We were drunk and—” his hand drags over the back of his neck again “—we did something stupid.”
Duke’s voice stays even, “Sounds like it.”
Robby nods once. “Yeah.”
A beat. Then, quieter—
“I left the next morning. I didn’t wake her up. I didn’t say goodbye. Just left.”
That one sits there.
Duke doesn’t soften it by repeating it back. Doesn’t make a face. Doesn’t give Robby anything to push against. He just lets the silence hold it in place until Robby has to keep talking.
“She found me today.”
Duke’s head turns slightly. “She found you?”
“At work.”
“Mm.”
“She showed up during my shift. Announced she was my wife.”
That gets a little more out of him. Not much. Just enough.
“Public?”
Robby laughs once under his breath. It has no humor in it.
“Yeah.”
Duke nods like that tracks.
Robby looks down at the folder in his lap. “She’s pregnant.”
That changes the air. Not dramatically. Duke doesn’t jerk or swear or sit bolt upright. He just stills in a way that feels complete.
“How far?”
“About three months.”
Another pause.
Then Duke asks, “Yours?”
Robby looks up sharply, but Duke doesn’t blink.
“Had to ask.”
Robby swallows hard. “Yeah. Mine.”
They sit in that for a second. Robby’s fingers tighten around the folder again.
“She needed my information,” he says. “For government financial help. Personal information. Income. All of it. She couldn’t get the help she needed without it because legally I still count.”
Duke’s eyes drop to the folder. “That what all this is?”
Robby nods and hands it over.
Duke flips through it slower than Robby did. Not because he’s reading every line. Because he’s reading the shape of it. Thin packet. Thin care. Thin margins. He closes it and hands it back.
“That all she came for?”
Robby nods once.
“Paperwork. Information.” His thumb presses hard into the back of his neck again. “She wants to go back to Vegas.”
Duke watches him. “And?”
Robby laughs again. Smaller this time. More tired.
“I convinced her to go to my house instead of leaving right away.”
Duke says nothing.
Robby keeps his eyes on the folder.
“She drove all that way. She was exhausted. Hadn’t eaten. She was going to head back immediately. I told her to go there, shower, sleep.” A breath. “We argued back and forth about it until finally she said yes because she didn’t really have a better option.”
That one gets him harder than the rest. Duke can hear it in the way the last sentence comes out flatter.
“She there now?”
Robby nods. “Yeah.”
The lot is quiet for a second. Just distant traffic and the faint hum from inside the shop.
Then Duke asks, “And you came here instead of going home?”
Robby drags his hand down over his mouth. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”
Duke tips his head once, like “go on”.
Robby looks back down at the folder.
“She wants the forms signed. Wants to go back home. Be done with me.” He exhales through his nose. “And part of me thinks maybe I should just do it.”
Duke’s brows shift a fraction.
Robby keeps talking.
“It’d be easier on her.” He rubs the back of his neck harder. “Cleaner. She doesn’t trust me. She’s pissed off. She has every right to hate me.” His mouth tightens. “And if she wants out, maybe the least selfish thing I can do is sign whatever she needs and let her go.”
Duke leans back in his chair. “Let her go?”
Robby nods once. “I figured I could send her money. Like child support or something.”
The words come out quick, like he’s been holding onto them.
Duke says nothing, so Robby keeps filling the space.
“I make enough. I can send her money every month. Cover what she needs. Appointments. Bills. Whatever.” He shrugs once, helpless and irritated with himself for sounding helpless. “She wouldn’t have to deal with me. I could still help.”
Duke is quiet long enough that Robby finally looks over at him, his face flat.
“Oh,” he says. “You really thought that one through. Father of the year here.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying to figure out what makes this easier on her.”
“No,” Duke says. “You’re trying to figure out how to stay involved without having to stand there and be the man who caused it.”
Robby looks away first.
Duke doesn’t let him sit in that for long.
“You think mailing checks makes you a father?”
Robby’s head turns back. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Robby’s fingers clamp tighter on the folder.
Duke leans forward, forearms on his knees.
“You let her leave now,” he says, voice low and blunt, “you are never seeing that girl again.”
The words hit so hard Robby doesn’t answer.
Duke keeps going.
“And you are damn sure never knowing that kid.”
Robby swallows hard.
“That’s not—”
“That is exactly what that is.”
Silence.
The night feels closer somehow. The brick wall at their backs still warm. The air thinner than it was a minute ago.
Duke watches him.
“You think she’s driving back to Vegas pregnant, hurt, proud as hell, and giving you another easy shot after that?” He shakes his head once. “No.”
Robby’s hand comes back to the back of his neck. “She hates me.”
Duke’s voice doesn’t move an inch. “She’s allowed to.”
Robby looks over at him.
Duke meets his eyes.
“She is allowed to hate you. She is allowed to be angry. She is allowed to not trust a damn thing that comes out of your mouth right now.” He pauses. “You know what you don’t get to do?”
Robby says nothing.
“Let her suffer because hating you makes this uncomfortable.”
That one settles in deep. Robby looks down at the folder again.
Duke nods toward it.
“She’s still married to you,” he says. “Like it or not, those papers don’t mean shit by themselves if she turns around and files and your income still counts against her. The government’s not gonna go, ‘Well, emotionally this felt resolved.’” He snorts once. “She’s still tied to you.”
Robby knows. That’s the worst part. He already knows.
Duke sees it on his face and presses anyway.
“So don’t sit here and sell me some bullshit story about how signing a few forms and wiring money makes this noble. It doesn’t. It makes it clean for you.”
Robby’s jaw works once. “I’m not trying to run.”
Duke looks at him for a long second. “Aren’t you?”
Robby doesn’t answer. Because he can’t. Because the answer is sitting there between them in the shape of everything he’s been trying to call decency.
Duke sits back again.
“What kind of man do you want your kid to know?”
That one gets him to look up.
Duke doesn’t blink.
“The one who walked away?”
A beat.
“Or the one who stepped the hell up when it got hard?”
Robby’s throat tightens.
Duke’s voice stays level. That somehow makes it worse.
“Because if you let her leave now, if you tell yourself you were respecting her wishes while she drives back across the country carrying your kid by herself, then no.” He shakes his head once. “You would not be a man for that. You’d be a coward with a bank account.”
That one lands ugly and clean.
Robby drops his gaze. His thumb digs into the back of his neck hard enough to hurt.
“So what the hell am I supposed to do?”
Duke lets the silence sit for a moment.
“You need to fight.”
Robby looks up again. “What?”
Duke jerks his chin once. “You heard me. Fight for her to stay.”
Robby’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t want me there.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
Duke leans forward again.
“What matters is that your wife is in your house right now because she ran out of better options, and you are sitting back here trying to decide whether to be useful from a distance.”
The words hit one after another.
Duke points at him. “Don’t let her pride or your cowardice let both of you fail.”
Robby stares at him.
Duke doesn’t soften it.
“You want to know what you’re supposed to do?” he asks. “Go home. Feed her. Listen. Tell the truth. Tell her you were wrong. Tell her you ran. Tell her you don’t want to do it again.” He pauses. “And fight.”
Robby exhales slowly, but the pressure in his chest doesn’t ease. It just feels more honest now. Less tangled. More painful.
“I don’t know how.”
Duke nods once. “Good.”
Robby frowns.
Duke shrugs. “Means you stopped pretending this has an easy version.”
He looks out at the lot for a second, then back at Robby.
“You are not gonna fix this tonight,” he says. “You are not gonna erase Vegas, or erase leaving, or erase the fact that she had to do this alone.” A beat. “What you can do is show her that the man she needed finally showed up.”
Robby looks away fast.
Duke lets him.
“She can hate you and still need you to be better.”
The words go through him slow.
Then Duke adds, flat and final, “So be better.”
Robby sits there with that. The folder in his lap. The ache in his shoulders. The smell of oil and warm brick and old cigarettes. The full, sickening shape of what letting her go would actually mean. Not mercy. Not respect. Loss. Permanent, stupid, deserved loss.
He drags a hand over his face. “I was hoping you’d tell me to sign them.”
Duke huffs once. “I know.”
Robby lets out one rough breath.
Duke stands.
Conversation over, apparently.
Robby stays seated another second, staring at the folder like it changed in his hands.
It didn’t.
He did.
Duke waits by the chair.
“Well?”
Robby looks up.
Duke jerks his chin toward the lot.
“You gonna sit there all night, or are you gonna go fight for your wife and kid?”
That gets him to his feet. Slowly. The folder comes with him. It doesn’t feel lighter. But it feels clearer.
Duke watches him for one more second.
“Buy food on the way home,” he says. “Real food. Not vending machine bullshit.”
Despite everything, something in Robby’s chest almost catches into a laugh.
Almost.
“Yeah,” he says.
Duke nods once. “Good. Now go home and be a man.”
That one stays with him.
Robby grips the folder tighter, heads back around the building toward the bike, and doesn’t stop moving.
—
You wake up slowly. Not wrong. Not panicked. Not dragged up out of sleep by nausea or a mental checklist or the sharp, ugly jolt of remembering your life too fast. Just… awake.
For one long, strange second, nothing is wrong at all. You’re warm. Comfortably warm, the kind that sinks all the way down into your bones. The blanket is heavy enough to feel safe without being suffocating. The pillow under your cheek is soft. The mattress doesn’t sag or fight your back before you’re even conscious enough to resent it.
You stay where you are, eyes still closed, body loose with the leftover weight of real sleep. Real sleep. Not half-sleep. Not the kind where your brain keeps one eye open even when the rest of you gives out. Not the kind that leaves you more tired somehow. This was sleep. Deep enough that your body feels heavy in a good way. Quiet. Rested. You can’t remember the last time you woke up and didn’t feel behind immediately.
The thought lingers. Then the silence does.
Not silence exactly. A low hum somewhere. Air moving through vents. The faint creak of a house settling. But none of it feels harsh. None of it comes with neighbors through thin walls or traffic scraping past outside or your own thoughts already sprinting ahead of you.
You breathe in. Laundry detergent. Something clean underneath it. Faintly woodsy. Warm. Not your sheets.
Your eyes open.
The ceiling is wrong. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. Your whole body goes still before your brain fully catches up, that quiet animal moment where something in you notices first.
This isn’t your room.
The truth settles in slowly. The light is different here. Softer. Late enough that it’s gone gold where it slips past the curtains. The walls aren’t yours. The lamp on the nightstand isn’t yours. The furniture isn’t yours.
And the bed—
You know this bed. Not well. Not enough for it to mean anything dangerous. Just enough to know it isn’t yours.
Michael’s.
The name comes easier in your head than it should.
You’re in Michael’s house. In Michael’s bed. In Pittsburgh.
Your hand slides over the sheet beside you before you can stop it. Cool. Empty. No body heat left there. No sign he’s been in it since you passed out face-first hours ago, too exhausted to care what came next.
You stare at the ceiling a second longer, waiting maybe for the stress to hit. For your chest to tighten. For the anger from earlier to come rushing back, sharp and useful.
It doesn’t. Not right away.
You don’t feel good. Not exactly. But the edge is gone, blunted by sleep and distance and the simple fact that nothing in this room is actively hurting you. For one unguarded minute, you just feel still. And that unsettles you more than panic would have.
You push yourself up slowly, the blanket sliding into your lap. Your body protests in a dozen dull little places. Shoulders. Lower back. Neck. All the usual damage from too much driving and too much tension and not enough anything. But even that feels less sharp than it should.
You rub a hand over your face and sit there blinking yourself fully into the room. The bed is neatly made on one side and not on the other. A navy comforter. Clean sheets. One pillow knocked crooked from where you must have dragged it under your head in your sleep. Your overnight bag sits near the dresser where you left it.
And then your eyes drift. A dark T-shirt over the back of a chair. A watch on the nightstand. A book with a receipt tucked partway into it. A pair of glasses folded beside it. Not staged. Not polished. Just… his.
Michael’s room. Michael’s life. You’re sitting in the middle of it.
And for the first time, really, the fact of him starts to shift. Not the man you got blackout drunk with. Not the man who left. Not the man you tracked down online. Not the one you’ve been angry at for months. Just Michael. Sober. Ordinary. The kind of person who reads before bed and forgets where he left his place.
You look at the book again. The glasses. The watch. Small things. Boring things. The kind people leave out when they expect to come back to them.
Something in your chest shifts with it. Because the version of him you carried here was easier. Easier to hate. Easier to flatten. Easier to hold at a distance.
But this is just a room. A person who lives in it.
And the anger you’ve been holding onto doesn’t sit here as neatly as it did in your car. It’s still there. It just isn’t the only thing in the room anymore.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and pause when your feet hit the floor. The house is quiet. Not empty quiet. Occupied quiet. There’s a difference.
You listen. For a second, nothing.
Then—
a cabinet door.
Soft. Somewhere outside the room.
A drawer. Something set down on a counter. Movement. Not much. Just enough to remind you he’s here.
You glance toward the door, suddenly more aware of yourself. The T-shirt. Sleep shorts. Bare legs. Hair probably a mess. Face still warm from sleep. And the fact that whatever clarity you thought you had coming here is about to get tested the second you walk out that door.
Then something else reaches you. Not sound this time. Smell. Soy sauce. Rice. Something warm and savory curling through the quiet.
Chinese food.
You blink once. And against your will, something almost like disbelief tugs at the corner of your mouth. Of course. Of course this is what your life looks like now. You slept in his bed and woke up to dinner in his kitchen like any of this is normal.
The absurdity of it is enough to make you move.
You stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your shirt on reflex. Your body still feels heavy with sleep, but looser now. Less wound tight. Less held together by the anger that got you here.
That absence sits strangely in your chest. You don’t know what replaces it yet. But the cabinet already opened. The food is already out. And he is already in the next room.
Whatever happens next, you don’t get to avoid it anymore.
The bedroom door opens with almost no sound. The hallway beyond it is dimmer than the room was, evening light stretched thin and gold across the floorboards. The house feels lived-in around you in small, irritatingly ordinary ways. A framed print on the wall. A pair of shoes near the edge of the hall. A jacket slung over the back of a chair farther down.
Just his.
You follow the smell into the kitchen.
And there he is.
Robby’s standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, one hand braced against the edge while the other digs through a white plastic takeout bag. He’s changed out of his scrubs. Dark T-shirt. Sweatpants. Hair a little flattened in the back like he scrubbed a hand through it too many times on the drive home. He looks tired in a way that isn’t subtle. Not dramatic. Just twelve-hour-shift tired. The kind that sits in the shoulders and behind the eyes and makes every movement a fraction slower than it should be.
There are containers spread across the counter already. Rice. Soup. Dumplings. A carton flipped open beside a stack of paper napkins. Two sets of chopsticks still in plastic. A bottle of water near one plate. A beer near the other.
He notices you before you say anything. Not because he turns. Because something in him stills first. Then he looks over his shoulder and sees you standing there in the hallway, sleep-warm and uncertain and suddenly much too aware that this is his house and you are in it.
For a second, neither of you says anything. The whole thing is so weirdly intimate and so deeply wrong for the two of you that it almost circles around into funny.
Almost.
His eyes flick over your face once, quick and careful, like he’s checking for something without wanting you to catch him doing it.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
His voice is rougher than usual. Tired. Quiet.
You lean one shoulder against the frame and fold your arms, more because you don’t know what else to do with them than because you need the barrier.
“Yeah,” you say. “Your bed is annoyingly comfortable.”
His mouth shifts. Not quite a smile.
“I’m glad.”
A beat.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“That was probably smart.”
That gets the faintest breath of something out of him. Not a laugh exactly. More the shape of one.
“Yeah,” he says. “That was my read on it too.”
You glance at the counter. At the containers. At the sheer amount of food he seems to have brought home.
“You got Chinese?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s… a lot of Chinese.”
He glances at the spread like maybe he’s only just seeing it through your eyes now.
“I wasn’t sure what sounded safe.”
That catches you a little. You look back at him.
He shrugs once, awkwardly. “So I covered possibilities.”
Your eyes move over the containers again. Plain rice. Soup. Dumplings. Lo mein. Something in orange sauce. Fortune cookies shoved off to one side like an afterthought.
“You bought enough for six people.”
“I panicked.”
That gets a quiet, unwilling twitch at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. Robby notices and looks away first.
You push off the doorway and step fully into the kitchen. It smells warm and salty and lived-in. Soy sauce. Ginger. The faint stale trace of coffee from earlier. A dish towel slung over the oven handle. Mail on one end of the counter. A half-dead plant in the window over the sink that looks like it’s surviving mostly out of spite.
It should feel invasive, being here. It doesn’t. Not enough, anyway. That bothers you more than if it did.
“There’s a lot of it,” you say again, quieter now.
Robby rubs a hand once over the back of his neck, tired enough that the gesture looks more automatic than nervous.
“I didn’t know what you’d want.”
That lands differently. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Not dressed up as something bigger than it is. Still, it gets under your skin in a way you don’t love.
Because he’s trying. Not elegantly. Not especially well. But trying. And that’s harder to be furious at than the version of him you had in your head on the drive here.
He glances back at you when you don’t answer right away.
“You hungry?”
The question is careful. Not loaded. Not pushing. Just there.
And the honest answer, embarrassingly enough, is yes.
Your stomach has gone from hollow to actively irritated in the last two minutes, probably because the smell of hot food reminded your body it’s allowed to want things when they’re available.
You exhale through your nose. “A little.”
Robby nods once like that’s enough to work with. “Okay.”
He reaches for one of the containers and flips the lid all the way back. Soup. Then another. Rice. He moves around the counter with the tired efficiency of someone who has spent all day making decisions and doesn’t have the energy to make this one more complicated than it needs to be.
There’s something weirdly grounding about watching him do something so ordinary. No big emotional moment. No heavy conversation yet. Just takeout containers and tired hands and the quiet fact of him being here when you woke up.
He slides a bowl toward you. “Soup first might be safer, if you haven’t eaten in a while.”
The old instinct rises immediately, sharp and automatic.
‘I can decide that myself.’
But the words don’t make it out.
Because he isn’t talking down to you. He isn’t trying to take over. He’s just… paying attention. And for the first time since you got here, your pride doesn’t rise fast enough to turn it into a fight.
You step closer and look down at the open containers. “This is weird.”
Robby nods once. “Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t have a better word for it.”
You stare at him. Then laugh. Quick. Unplanned.
Robby stills for a second at the sound, then glances down at the food.
“I was hoping the dumplings might help.”
You huff softly. “That’s optimistic.”
“I’ve had worse plans.”
The quiet that follows is different. Not hostile. Not easy either. Just… possible, in the most uncomfortable way.
You look down at the bowl in front of you. At the soup. The rice. The stupid amount of food he brought because he clearly had no idea what would make you sick and what wouldn’t and apparently decided the safest move was to buy half the menu.
Your throat tightens a little around that. You don’t let it turn into anything.
Not yet.
Instead, you pull the bowl a little closer and say, quieter this time, “Thank you.”
Robby’s hands still for a second on the counter. Not dramatically. Just enough to tell you the words landed. He doesn’t look at you right away. Keeps his attention on the beer bottle in his hand like maybe it needs adjusting. Like maybe if he gives himself one more second, his face will be easier to manage.
When he finally does look up, his expression is careful enough to hurt a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”
The silence after that stretches a beat too long. You shift your weight. He shifts his. There’s a chair across from you, and he is very pointedly not taking it.
“You can sit,” you say before you think too hard about it.
His brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the offer. Or like he’s not sure it is one.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you got hit by your day.”
That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Accurate.”
You take another sip of soup because looking at him for too long right now feels like a bad idea.
“So sit.”
For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s checking whether you mean it, whether this is a trap, whether he’s about to do the wrong thing in his own kitchen somehow.
Then he sets the beer down, drags out the chair across from you, and drops into it with the careful heaviness of someone whose body is feeling every hour he’s been upright.
He exhales once through his nose. Long. Tired. The sound of it changes the room. Makes it feel smaller somehow. Less like a standoff, more like what it is: two exhausted people in a kitchen trying to figure out how the hell they got here.
You look down at your spoon again. “Long shift?”
Robby gives a quiet huff. “Twelve hours.”
“Bad?”
He rolls one shoulder, then winces a little like even that cost him. “Could’ve been worse.”
Silence stretches a second too long.
You stir your soup even though it doesn’t need it. Across from you, Robby shifts like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
You take another sip. “So which kind of day was today?”
Robby drags a hand over the back of his neck, then drops it. Picks up his beer. Doesn’t drink. Sets it back down.
“The kind where I had to avoid answering questions about my ‘pregnant, one-night-stand, Vegas wife’ for fourteen hours.”
That pulls a quiet laugh out of you. You can’t help it. It slips free and hangs there between you, surprising enough that you almost clamp down on it after the fact.
Robby hears it and lets out the smallest breath through his nose.
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”
You stir your soup once, slow, mostly so you have something to do with your hand. Then you say it because you want it clear.
“I’m not sorry I said it.”
“I know.”
You look up at him. He meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t do anything except sit there and take it, which somehow makes it harder to hold the line than if he’d argued.
“I’m not asking you to be.”
You nod once. “Good.”
The word comes out flatter than you mean it to. You take another sip of soup, then glance at him again.
“I’d love to hear what they had to say, though.”
That gets the faintest shift in him. Not quite tension. Not quite amusement. Something awkward and tired caught in the middle.
“Trust me,” he says, “they had a lot to say.”
“I just wanted to let them know why you were busy,” you say, and the innocence in your voice is so deliberate it almost embarrasses you the second it’s out.
Robby gives you a long look. “You really know how to make an exit, don’t you?”
You take another sip of soup, trying for unfazed and not entirely sure you pull it off.
“I like people to be informed.”
He picks up his beer this time and actually drinks from it, eyes still on you over the rim.
“That’s a very generous way to describe what happened.”
“I was being courteous.”
“You were detonating a device and walking away.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Small. Sharp. Real enough that you feel it hit the room on the way out.
Robby’s mouth twitches at the sound, tired enough that it barely counts as a smile, but it’s there.
You look back down at your bowl too fast, like maybe that will hide the fact that it happened.
“I did not detonate anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
He leans back a fraction in the chair, studying you with that dry, exhausted look of his.
“You announced that you were leaving and referred to yourself as my ‘pregnant, one-night-stand, Vegas wife’ in front of half my department.”
You glance up. “That’s not an announcement. That’s context.”
“That’s not context.”
“That is absolutely context.”
Robby huffs softly through his nose and looks down at his plate, like maybe the lo mein is somehow less ridiculous than this conversation.
“Sure.”
You shift your weight against the counter. The edge of the laminate presses into the back of your thigh.
“I just wanted them to understand the situation.”
“Oh, they understood.”
You lift a brow. “Good.”
“My charge nurse took one look at me and asked if I needed to hide in triage before I embarrassed myself further.”
That gets a short laugh out of you.
Another pause.
He picks at the edge of his takeout container with his thumb, not looking at you when he adds, “And the two gossip queens of the department spent the rest of the shift looking at me, whispering in a language I don’t understand, like I was the entertainment for the day.”
You blink. “That’s terrible.”
He gives you a look.
You take another bite of soup. “For you.”
That gets him. Just barely. A soft, unwilling twitch of his mouth, gone quick.
“Pretty sure there’s a betting pool now.”
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. “On what?”
Robby looks down at the counter for a second, then back up. “Us.”
You blink. “Us?”
“You, me, whether we got matching tattoos, whether Elvis actually married us, whether you’re having a boy or a girl, whether it was a dare.” His mouth shifts faintly, something like disbelief at his own life moving through it. “Stupid stuff like that.”
That pulls another small laugh out of you. You can’t help it.
Robby hears it and looks away first this time, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he needs something to do with himself.
The room goes quiet again after that. Still too careful. Still full of too much. Still one wrong word away from going sharp again.
But open.
You pick up your spoon again.
“So,” you say, not looking at him, “what were the odds on Elvis?”
Robby huffs softly through his nose. “Disturbingly high.”
That gets you one more time. Quiet. Quick. Real.
And across from you, tired and stiff and still too careful with every movement, Robby’s mouth twitches again before he looks back down at his plate like the expression escaped without permission.
The moment almost goes easy. Almost.
You set your spoon down a little too carefully. The sound is small. Still enough to change the room.
Across from you, Robby looks up. Not fast. Not startled. More like he felt the shift before you said anything.
You keep your eyes on the bowl. “I still need you to fill out the paperwork.”
The quiet that follows is different now. Less awkward. More deliberate.
Robby doesn’t answer right away. His fingers shift once near the neck of the beer bottle, then stop. “What paperwork?”
You look up at him. The question sits there between you, too neutral to be real. “Don’t do that.”
His expression tightens slightly. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
You set the bowl down fully this time, freeing your hands.
“The paperwork. The stuff I brought. Whatever you need to fill out and sign so I can submit it to the state and get the help I need.”
Robby holds your gaze for a second, then looks down at the table, then back at you. “You want to do that right now?”
You let out a short breath through your nose. “You think I drove across the country for fun?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No. You’re just stalling.”
His jaw shifts. He leans back a fraction in the chair, one hand coming up to the back of his neck. Not defensive. Not yet. Just buying himself a second. And that, more than anything, tells you this conversation isn’t going to stay simple.
Robby rubs the back of his neck once, slower this time, then drops his hand. “You’re not going to qualify.”
You frown. “What?”
“My income,” he says. “Once they run it, you won’t qualify for anything.”
For a second, you just stare at him, because that was not the answer you were bracing for.
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is.”
“No.”
His eyes stay on yours. Calm. Tired. Annoyingly certain. “You’re legally married to me on paper,” he says. “That counts.”
Your jaw tightens. “Then we get divorced.”
The words come out fast. Too fast. Like if you get them into the room before anything else can grow around them, maybe they’ll still feel simple.
Robby goes very still. “That’s not fast.”
You blink. “What?”
“A divorce,” he says, voice level, almost too level, “that’s not fast.”
You stare at him. “Well, it’s faster than this.”
“That depends what this is.”
The answer is so calm it almost makes you angrier than if he’d snapped. You straighten fully, arms folding tight across your chest.
“This,” you say, “is me trying to fix a problem.”
“I know.”
“No,” you say. “I don’t think you do.”
His hand comes back up to the back of his neck. More tired than nervous now. More habit than tell.
“I know divorce doesn’t happen tomorrow,” he says. “And I know my income is still attached to you until it does.”
You watch him as he keeps going.
“That means going back to Vegas doesn’t solve the part you came here to solve.”
You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “So what’s your answer?”
Robby doesn’t look away. “You stay.”
The simplicity of it knocks the air sideways.
You just stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You stay here.”
He says it the same way the second time. No softer. No bigger. Just as plain and impossible as it was the first.
“You stay here and let me help you.”
The kitchen goes very still.
You let out a short, disbelieving breath. “You really think it’s that simple?”
“No,” he says. “But I think it’s the least stupid option in front of us.”
You look at him for a long second.
“The least stupid option?” you repeat.
“Yeah.”
“That’s your pitch?”
“It’s the honest one.”
You laugh again. Quiet. Sharp.
“Wow.”
He doesn’t flinch from that either. “I’m not trying to sell you something,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you what makes sense.”
“You mean what makes sense to you.”
“No,” he says. “I mean what makes sense if you stop pretending the paperwork fixes this tomorrow.”
Your arms tighten. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
The room goes tighter around that. Not loud. Not yet.
“You’re acting like I sign a form, you drive back to Vegas, and somehow that solves the part that matters right now,” he says. “It doesn’t.”
Your head turns back to him, sharper now. “It lets me put my life back together.”
“No,” he says. “It gets you back to a state where my income still keeps you from qualifying for aid, where you’re still paying out of pocket, and where you’re still doing this by yourself because divorce takes longer than either of us would like.”
The quiet after that feels bigger than the kitchen, because he’s right in the most irritating possible way: practically.
“So what?” you ask. “I stay here because the system is stupid?”
Robby exhales through his nose. “You stay here because going back doesn’t fix anything.”
Your head tilts slightly. “And staying here does what exactly?”
Robby doesn’t hesitate. “It gives you a situation that actually works.”
You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “For who?”
“For you.”
“For you,” you correct immediately. “This works for you.”
His jaw tightens. “It works for both of us.”
You shake your head once. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Robby leans back a fraction in the chair, then forward again, like he can’t decide which version of himself is less likely to make this worse.
“I’m not deciding it for you,” he says. “I’m telling you what it is.”
You let out a short, sharp breath. “God—” you shake your head, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out. “That’s somehow worse.”
His hand drags back through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
“No, go ahead,” you say, one hand lifting in a quick, dismissive wave. “Explain my life to me. That’s been going great so far.”
His jaw shifts. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
You push off the table, shoulders tight. “You don’t get to sit there and tell me what works for me after leaving me in Vegas without a word.”
Robby’s eyes stay on yours. “I know I left.”
“Yeah, and you keep saying that like it does something,” you shoot back. “Like it fixes anything.”
“I’m not saying it fixes anything.”
“Then stop using it like a shield.”
He looks down for half a second, then back up, something more worn than careful in his face now. “I’m not shielding anything,” he says. “I’m trying to get you to stop acting like going back solves this.”
“It solves enough.”
“No,” he says. “It gets you back to the same shit you were already drowning in, except now my income is tied to yours, you still won’t qualify, and you’re still pregnant.”
The last word sits heavier than the rest.
Your face hardens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk like I don’t know what the hell is happening to me.”
His brow pulls tight. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you sound like.”
Robby exhales, dragging a hand hard over the back of his neck. “I’m not saying you don’t know what’s happening,” he says. “I’m saying you’re acting like pride is a plan.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, fuck you!”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t back off. “You’d rather drag yourself back to Vegas and make this harder than stand here and admit I might actually be useful to you.”
You shake your head, hand cutting through the air again. “Useful,” you repeat, a short, bitter laugh following it. “God, you really hear yourself and just keep going anyway.”
“Because I’m right.”
Your fingers curl against your arms, grip tightening without you noticing. “No,” you say, quieter now, sharper for it. “You don’t get to call it pride because I don’t trust you.”
Robby goes still. The room tightens.
“There it is,” he says, lower now.
“It is that,” you snap, a frustrated breath leaving you. “What the fuck do you expect?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when the person offering help is the same person who disappeared.”
The words hang there.
Robby takes them. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t soften. When he finally speaks, his voice is flatter. More tired. More certain.
“You don’t have to trust me!”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t,” he says. “Be pissed at me. Stay pissed at me. I’m not asking you to feel better about me right now.” A beat. “But I’m not letting the mother of my child go back and struggle through this because trusting me feels worse than being scared!”
Your head jerks back. “Wow!”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” you say, a short, tense laugh slipping out. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“No, the problem is you’ve been doing this alone for so long that now you’d rather keep doing it alone than owe anyone anything.”
The anger spikes, hot and immediate.
“Don’t— don’t do that,” you say, shaking your head, one hand lifting again. “Don’t sit there and act like you know me.”
His hand goes through his hair again, rougher. “Jesus Christ, I know enough!”
“No, you don’t!”
“I know you drove across the fucking country pregnant because you didn’t have another option!” he counters. “I know you’re going to clinics you shouldn’t have to go to. I know you left paperwork in my hands because you’re trying to hold this together by yourself and it’s not working.”
You go still. Completely still. Because none of that is wrong. And that pisses you off more than anything else he’s said.
You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head once like you can physically knock the truth out of it. “That doesn’t mean you get to step in and fix it.”
“I’m not fixing it,” he says. “I’m trying to helping.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“It is when it’s you,” you fire back, a frustrated laugh slipping out. “Do you not get that?”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “I get that you don’t trust me,” he says. “I get why.”
“Good,” you snap. “Then maybe stop acting like I should just— what— say yes and play house with you?”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“It sure as hell sounds like it.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, but still sharp, “I don’t need you to save me, okay? I’ve been handling my own shit just fine.”
The words come out too fast. Too defensive. You hear it. So does he.
Robby leans forward slightly, voice lower now, steadier. “No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”
You let out a short, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand over your face. “Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“Yeah? Well it’s been working so fucking far.”
“Has it?” he asks. “Or has it worked just enough to get you here?”
That knocks the breath sideways. You hate him a little for it.
Your hand presses flat against the counter, grounding yourself. “And what if I don’t want this?” you ask. “What if I don’t want your help, your house, your— whatever the fuck this is?”
Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Then hate it.”
You blink.
He leans forward a little more, eyes locked on yours. “Be angry. Don’t forgive me. Fight with me every damn day if that’s what you need.” His voice drops. “But I’m not letting you and my child struggle through this because saying yes bruises your fucking pride.”
That one hits deep. And for once, you don’t have something immediate to throw back.
For a second, the kitchen goes completely still.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
And the worst part, the part that makes something hot and ugly twist up in your chest, is that he looks like he means it. Not in some big dramatic way. Not like he’s trying to sell you on anything.
Just… certain.
You hate certain.
A short, broken laugh slips out of you. “Yeah,” you say. “You mean it now.”
Robby’s brow tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You shake your head, looking away before you can stop yourself. “It means this is easy right now.”
His jaw shifts. “This isn’t easy.”
“No,” you say, looking back at him, sharper now. “It’s not hard yet.”
That changes the room. You can feel it.
Your arms fold tighter across your chest, like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own body.
“This is still new,” you say. “It’s still a situation. A problem. Something urgent and dramatic and immediate.” A short, ugly laugh slips out. “It’s still the part where you get to feel like you’re doing the right thing.”
Robby doesn’t interrupt.
“But what happens when it isn’t that anymore?” you ask. “What happens when it’s just life?”
Your hand comes up, sharp and frustrated, then drops again when it doesn’t know where to go.
“What happens when this house doesn’t feel temporary anymore? When it’s appointments and bills and no sleep and a baby screaming at three in the morning and nothing about any of it is romantic or urgent or clean?” Your voice tightens. “What happens then?”
Robby watches you carefully. Too carefully.
“What happens when you get tired?” you ask.
He opens his mouth.
You don’t let him answer.
“What happens when you decide this is too much? When you remember you didn’t ask for any of this either and suddenly it’s easier to leave than stay?” The words are coming faster now, sharper, like you’re cutting yourself open with them on the way out. “What happens when being a father stops feeling important and starts feeling hard?”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t know that!” you shoot back.
He goes quiet.
You shake your head, a short, humorless laugh breaking loose. “You didn’t know you were leaving in Vegas until you did.”
You take a step away from the table, then another, not going anywhere, just moving because if you stay still you’re going to crack open right there in his kitchen.
“You don’t get to say you’re staying like that means something to me,” you say. “You don’t get to look me in the eye and act like I’m supposed to build anything around that.”
“I’m not asking you to—”
“Yes, you are,” you snap. “That’s exactly what you’re asking.”
He stands then. Not fast. Not threatening. Just enough to make the room feel smaller.
“I’m asking you to let me help.”
“And I’m asking you how the hell I’m supposed to trust that,” you fire back.
His face tightens. “You don’t have to trust it tonight.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, fuck that.”
His jaw shifts. “I mean it.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head hard now. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave me in Vegas without a word and then come back talking like trust is some gradual inconvenience we’ll work through.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s exactly what you’re saying.”
Your throat is tight now. Burning. And you know if you don’t stop, this is the part where it gets real.
You don’t stop.
“I can survive you leaving,” you say, and your voice breaks just enough on survive to make you hate yourself instantly.
Robby goes completely still.
You look away because if you keep looking at him, you won’t get it out.
“I already did.”
The words come out quieter. Worse. You press your palm hard into the counter.
“But I am not doing that to my child.”
Silence. Dead silence.
You can hear the refrigerator humming. The faint tick of something cooling near the stove. Your own pulse beating too hard in your ears.
When Robby speaks, his voice is lower than before. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You shake your head immediately, tears of anger threatening now, which only makes you angrier. “You do not get to promise that.”
His face tightens. “I’m not promising—”
“Yes, you are.” You look at him again, and now there’s nothing between the two of you but the worst part of it. “And you haven’t earned the right.”
Robby doesn’t move. Doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t try to soften it.
“You don’t get to play house with me for six months and then decide it’s too hard,” you say. “You don’t get to get bored or scared or trapped and walk out when it stops being dramatic enough to hold your attention.” Your voice drops, rough and furious. “You don’t get to be temporary for my child.”
Robby’s hand comes up to the back of his neck, but he doesn’t look away. “I know.”
“No,” you say, and now the tears are there, not falling, just burning, making your whole face feel too hot. “I really don’t think you do.”
A beat.
Then, quieter. More awful because it is quieter.
“Because the truth is, I don’t know what to do with someone who says he wants to stay after he already proved he can leave.”
That one changes him.
Not dramatically. Not enough to save you from having said it. But something in his face goes raw. For the first time all night, he doesn’t look like he has the next answer ready.
He just looks hurt. And guilty. And there.
His voice, when it comes, is rougher. “I know that’s what I gave you.”
You don’t answer.
He takes a breath. Then another. “I know that all you’ve seen from me is that when things got real, I ran.”
You close your eyes for half a second. Because hearing him say it out loud is somehow worse than throwing it at him.
When you open them again, he’s still looking at you.
Still here.
“I can’t fix that tonight,” he says. “I know I can’t.” His jaw tightens once. “But I’m still here.”
The words are small. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. But they hurt anyway.
You look down, your hand still flat on the table like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Then, because the truth is ugly and you’re too tired to keep dressing it up—
“If I let you be part of this,” you say, voice shaking now despite everything you’re doing to stop it, “and you leave again…” You swallow hard. “I’ll get over it.”
Robby doesn’t move.
You finally look up at him. “But I will never forgive you if you do that to my child.”
The room goes so quiet it feels like standing inside a held breath.
Robby’s face changes. Not just guilt now. Something deeper. Something almost shattered. And when he answers, there’s no fight left in him at all.
“I know.”
Not defensive. Not trying to win. Just true. And somehow that hurts most of all.
The kitchen goes silent. You can hear the refrigerator hum. The tick of something cooling near the stove.
Robby doesn’t move.
Then, quietly—
“I know you’re not afraid for you.”
That pulls your eyes back to him. He swallows once.
“You’re afraid I’ll make them feel the way I made you feel.”
The room changes. Not louder. Just deeper.
You don’t answer.
He doesn’t wait for one. “I know I haven’t earned the right to ask you not to think that.” A beat. “I’m asking anyway.”
You stare at him. Then laugh, and the sound comes out wrong. Thin. Frayed. Almost embarrassed.
“You don’t get to ask me that.”
His expression shifts. “I know.”
Your hand presses flat to the counter. “I’m trying so hard not to be stupid about this,” you say. “Do you get that?”
The question catches him off guard, but you keep going.
“I’m trying not to make a choice that feels good for five minutes and ruins something bigger later.” A beat. “And you standing there saying you want in doesn’t make you safe. It just makes this harder.”
Robby takes that without moving. “I know.”
You shake your head. “That’s the problem. You keep saying that like it helps.”
He lets out a breath through his nose. “It doesn’t help,” he says. “It just happens to be true.”
That almost gets you. Almost.
“I’m not asking you to feel safe with me tonight.”
A beat.
“I’m asking you not to shut me out before I get the chance to earn it.”
That’s the one that makes your throat tighten, because it’s exactly what you didn’t want him to say.
You let out a breath, shaky enough to piss you off. “You’re asking me to risk it.”
Robby doesn’t move. “I’m asking you to give me the chance to prove it’s not a risk.”
You laugh, short and bitter. “Everything about you right now is a risk.”
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
You look away, then back at him, your fingers curling harder against the edge of the counter.
“I don’t get to be wrong about you,” you say.
Robby’s expression shifts. “You’re not—”
“Yes, I am,” you cut in. “Because if I’m wrong about you leaving, fine. That’s on me. If I’m wrong about you staying, my child pays for it.”
Silence. Heavy. Real.
Robby doesn’t interrupt. He just stands there and takes it. Then, quietly—
“Then don’t trust me.”
You blink.
His eyes stay on yours. “Just let me be there anyway.”
You stare at him. Then laugh once, quiet and bitter. “You really think that’s enough?”
Robby’s expression tightens. “No.”
That catches you, but he keeps going.
“I don’t think anything I say tonight is enough.”
The room goes still.
“I think I have to earn it,” he says. “And I think the only way I do that is by staying long enough for you to stop wondering if I will.”
That one gets through. You hate that it does. You look away, jaw tight. “That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“It’s not even close.”
“I know.”
You press your hand harder into the table. “Then why does it feel like you think it is?”
Robby shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says. “I think what I can offer right now matters more.”
You glance back at him. “Like what?”
Robby leans forward slightly. “Like this actually working,” he says. “Insurance. Better prenatal care. A real OB instead of whatever clinic you could get into because it was cheap enough. Tests done on time. Appointments you don’t have to dread because of the bill after. A house you can stay in without paying for it. Food you don’t have to budget down to the dollar. A bed. A bathroom. Space to breathe.”
He swallows once.
“You keep Vegas. Your apartment stays yours. I’ll cover it. Your job, your things, your whole way back stays intact. You are not trapped here.” His eyes stay on yours. “You’d just have more than the bare minimum while this gets figured out.”
You stare at him longer than you mean to. Then look away, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” you say.
“I know.”
“It doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“But it fixes right now,” he says.
Your eyes flick back to his. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Right now.
Right now is where all the practical things live. The things you can’t argue with cleanly.
You press your hand harder into the table. “And what happens when right now is over?”
Robby doesn’t answer immediately. That alone makes something twist under your ribs, because there it is. The part no one can promise.
“When it’s not urgent anymore,” you say. “When it’s just my life in your house and our child in the next room and me still not knowing what the hell we’re supposed to be doing.”
His jaw shifts once. “You don’t have to know that tonight.”
“No,” you snap. “But I do need to know I’m not waking up in some situation I can’t get out of.”
That changes his face. Not softer. Set.
“You are not trapped.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
You stare at him. At the calm in his voice. At the way he’s standing there like any of this can still be managed with enough patience and enough careful words. It makes your skin feel too tight.
“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, sharper now. “You disappear for months, I show up pregnant, and now suddenly you want to play house like that fixes anything?”
He flinches.
You push back from the table so fast the chair scrapes hard against the floor. “No.” You shake your head once. “No, I can’t do this.”
You turn away before he can answer, one hand already up at your forehead, pressing hard like maybe you can stop the room from spinning if you just push hard enough.
Because for one awful second, you almost said yes. You almost let yourself imagine it. A house. A bed. A kitchen with food in it. Not having to count every dollar before you make a decision.
And that’s the dangerous part.
Need. Not him. Need.
“I cannot be this stupid,” you say, voice low and shaking now. “I cannot be the woman who gets cornered by one disaster and lets it turn into another one.”
Behind you, his chair moves. You tense immediately.
Then his voice comes, closer now. Low. Controlled. Firmer than before, “This is not another disaster.”
You turn back so fast it almost hurts. “Oh, you don’t get to say that.”
He’s standing now. Not too close. But not hanging back either. For the first time since this started, he looks like a man who has decided something and is not stepping away from it.
“No,” he says. “I get to say I already made one disaster out of this, and I’m not doing it again.”
That stops you. Only for a second. Then your anger surges back up to cover it.
“You don’t get to decide what this is for me.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t.”
A beat.
“But I do get to tell you I’m done standing here pretending the right thing is letting you walk out because that would make this easier on both of us.”
Your whole face hardens. “You think this is about easy?”
“I think that’s exactly what this is about,” he says, and now there’s something in his voice that wasn’t there before. Not anger. Not quite. Conviction. “I think you’re scared, and I think you have every reason to be. And I think if I stand here and let you leave because it’s cleaner or quieter or less complicated, then I’m doing the same thing I already did in Vegas.”
That lands hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. He keeps going before you can recover.
“I left once.” The words come flat. Clean. No defense in them. “I am not doing it again.”
Your throat tightens. You hate that that hits. You hate him a little for saying it out loud.
“I don’t know you,” you say, but it comes out thinner now. Less sharp than you want it to. “Not really. I know what you did. I know how fast you left. I know I had to come find you because you made yourself impossible to reach. And now I’m supposed to stay here and trust that this version of you is real?”
He takes that hit but doesn’t back off. “You don’t have to trust me yet.” You blink, but his eyes stay on yours. “But you are not getting back in that car and driving to Vegas like that’s the better option.”
Your chest goes tight. “You do not get to tell me what I’m doing.”
“No,” he says. “I’m telling you what I’m doing.”
That catches you off guard.
His jaw shifts once. “I’m not standing here while you walk out because both of us are scared of what happens if you stay.”
The room goes very still.
You fold your arms harder over your chest, but it does nothing to stop the shaking under your skin.
“You think this is fear?”
“I know it is.”
That makes you laugh, broken and furious. “Oh, that’s rich.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“You’re scared I’ll fail you again,” he says. “You’re scared I’ll wake up tomorrow and this’ll all disappear. You’re scared if you need anything from me, I’ll make you regret it.”
Each one lands. Because they’re true. Because hearing him say them makes you feel seen in a way you do not want right now.
“And I’m scared too,” he says.
That wasn’t what you expected.
You look at him. Really look at him. His face is tight. Tired. No easy softness in it. No smooth charm. Just a man standing there with his hands at his sides like he’s making himself stay still through force.
“I’m scared that if I let you walk out right now,” he says, “I am never getting a chance to fix any of this.”
You look away first. Your voice comes out low. “Maybe you don’t deserve one.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he says.
Immediate. No argument. No defense. That makes you look back.
He takes one step closer. Still not crowding. Still giving you room. But there is nothing uncertain in him now.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you are pregnant with my child, standing in my kitchen, trying to decide whether surviving by yourself is somehow safer than letting me help.” His voice roughens just slightly. “And I’m telling you I’m not letting pride make this decision for us.”
Your breath catches. You hate the word us. You hate how right it feels.
“I’m not talking about pride,” you say.
“Yes, you are.”
The words hit like a slap. Your eyes flash.
“No, I’m talking about not being stupid.”
“You’re talking about leaving before you have to find out whether I mean it.”
That knocks you back a step more effectively than if he’d raised his voice.
Your throat works around nothing.
He sees it and keeps going.
“I know exactly what I did,” he says. “I know what I made you carry. I know you have every reason to hate me for it.” His jaw tightens. “Hate me. Fine. Be angry. Fine. But don’t stand there and tell me the smartest thing either of us can do is let you drag yourself back across the country because staying here would mean needing me.”
The room is so quiet now it almost rings.
Your eyes sting. You are furious enough to shake. And underneath that, more exhausted than you even want to name.
“I can’t do this if you think this fixes it,” you say finally.
His expression doesn’t move. “I don’t.”
“I can’t do this if you think I’m suddenly okay.”
“I don’t.”
“And I can’t do this if tomorrow you wake up and decide this was guilt and panic and obligation and not actually—”
Your voice catches. You stop.
Humiliated.
He answers before you have to force the rest out. “It’s not guilt.”
You hold his gaze. The air between you feels thin. “Then what is it?”
His jaw shifts once. “It’s me fighting for what’s right instead of what’s easy.”
That one goes through you slowly. No room left to hide from it.
He takes one more step. Close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the steadiness of him, the fact that he is not backing down.
“I should have fought sooner,” he says. “I didn’t. That’s on me.” A beat. “But I’m fighting now.”
Your breath leaves you unevenly.
He doesn’t look away. “I want you to stay.”
The words are simple. No decoration. No excuse wrapped around them. Just true.
“I want to help you. I want to help with the baby. I want to do this the right way, even if I already did everything else wrong.”
Your chest hurts. Actually hurts. Because this is what you wanted him to say. And also exactly what you didn’t want to need.
He sees the break in your face and softens only a fraction. Just enough to keep you from running.
“You can be angry at me in every room of this house,” he says. “You can hate me through dinner and breakfast and the next damn week. But please just stay.”
The word lands and stays there. Heavy. Certain. A plea. A decision. A fight.
Not controlling. Not passive. Real.
Your body feels suddenly too heavy for your bones. The fight in you is still there. It’s just not endless anymore. It’s expensive. It hurts.
And worst of all, it’s losing to exhaustion and truth and the awful fact that some part of you needed him to finally say stay like he meant it.
You drag a hand over your face. “God.”
He says nothing. Just waits. And somehow that’s what does it. Not the logic. Not the offers. Not the practical things. The fact that for once, he is not stepping back first.
You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but breaks instead. “This is such a mess.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
A beat passes. Then another.
You stay where you are. Still standing. Still angry. Still here. And when you finally speak again, your voice is quieter, worn at the edges.
“So what happens now?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to the back of his neck, rubbing once like he’s buying himself a second to think. His gaze drops toward the floor, then shifts toward the hallway, then back to you.
“I’ve got an office,” he says finally.
You blink. “An office?”
“Yeah.” A small breath. “It’s… not really a room right now. More like storage.” He glances past you like he can see it. “But I can clear it out. Turn it into something you can actually stay in.”
The words settle quietly between you. Not an offer dressed up as something bigger. Not a solution that fixes everything.
Just… something.
You nod, a little. “…okay.”
It feels like a small thing to say. It isn’t.
Robby nods back once, like he understands that.
“It might take me a couple days,” he adds. “I’d have to do it on my day off. Move everything out, get a bed in there. Make it… decent.”
“That’s fine.”
And it is. You don’t need perfect. You just need something that doesn’t disappear the second you look away from it.
A beat passes.
You glance toward the living room. “I can just take the couch until then.”
Robby shakes his head, not sharp, just immediate. “I’ll take the couch.”
You look back at him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The way he says it isn’t defensive. Just… certain.
You hesitate. “I don’t mind the couch.”
“I know,” he says again. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”
There’s no edge to it. No argument. Just preference.
You study him for a second, trying to figure out if this is guilt. Or obligation. Or just… him.
“I usually end up out there anyway,” he adds, quieter. “Falling asleep on the couch, I mean.”
That shifts something. Not big. Just enough to make this feel a little less like a sacrifice and a little more like something he’s already used to.
You glance toward the hallway, then back at him. “…so where would I be?”
Robby’s jaw shifts slightly. “The bedroom.”
You still. Not tense. Just… aware.
“That’s your room.”
“Yeah.”
You look at him, unsure. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“It’s my space,” he says. “I get why that’s… not easy.”
Your eyes lift to his.
He doesn’t look away. “I’m not asking you to be okay with it,” he adds. “Just—” a small pause “—to get through a couple nights.”
That lands. Not as pressure. As honesty.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than you mean to, then look away. And somehow that’s enough to keep you from walking.
“…it’s just for a couple days,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“Until the office is ready.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“…okay.”
The word comes out small. Careful.
Robby nods once. “Okay.”
Neither of you moves right away. Because now that the decision is made, there’s nothing left to hide behind. No more arguing. No more deflecting. Just the reality of what you’ve agreed to.
You glance toward the hallway, then back at him.
“One day at a time,” you say.
It comes out quieter than you mean it to. Not comfort. Not even really a plan. Just the only shape this can take without crushing you under it.
Robby nods once. “One day at a time.”
The words settle between you, heavier than they should, because now they mean something different. Not until this gets easier. Not until one of you changes your mind.
Just this:
tomorrow exists.
And the day after that.
And neither of you gets to run before it gets there.
You swallow once. Your arms loosen at your sides, not because you feel better, but because you don’t have the energy to hold yourself together that hard anymore.
Robby notices, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to soften what this is. He just stands there, looking almost as tired as you feel. And somehow that makes it worse.
Because there’s no relief on his face. No victory. Just the same wary understanding settling over him too.
Like he knows exactly what you know:
this is not a truce.
Not a pause. Not a temporary arrangement until one of you finds a cleaner exit. It’s both of you standing in the middle of the damage and admitting there isn’t another road around it.
You look down at the floor. Then back up.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say.
Your voice is soft now. Worn thin. But you need it said.
He nods immediately. “I know.”
“And I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“And I still don’t know what the hell this is supposed to look like.”
His jaw shifts once. “Me either.”
That lands harder than you expect. Because it would be easier if he acted certain. If he had a plan. If he could hand you something finished and sensible and impossible to fall through. Instead, he’s just here. Staying. The same as you. And somehow that makes this feel more real than anything else tonight.
You nod once, small, almost to yourself.
The silence that follows is awkward in a new way. Not hostile. Not sharp. Just full of everything neither of you knows how to say without making it heavier.
Your eyes catch on the hallway again. His room. The office you haven’t seen. The couch he’s already claimed for himself. All of it waiting there like something already decided.
Your throat tightens, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Not every detail. Not every conversation. But the part that matters.
You are here. He is here. There is a child coming whether either of you is ready or not.
And neither of you gets to run from that now.
The realization lands low and hard. Not dramatic. Just final.
Robby shifts his weight slightly. “If you want,” he says quietly, “I can show you where everything is.”
The words are careful. Not crowding. Not giving you a way out. Just offering the next step because there has to be one.
You nod before you can think too hard about it. “Okay.”
Even that feels bigger than it should.
He steps back first, making room.
You move toward the hallway slowly, aware of him beside and behind you without really looking at him. The house still feels strange. Still too intimate. But less like somewhere you can escape from and more like somewhere you are going to have to learn in pieces.
That thought scares you. More than you want to admit.
One day at a time.
You hold onto it again.
At the mouth of the hallway, you stop. Not because you mean to. Because suddenly this feels real in a way the kitchen didn’t. His room. His house. His life. And you standing at the edge of it, too exhausted to keep fighting and too scared not to understand what agreeing to stay actually means.
Robby stops too. Not close enough to crowd. Just near enough that you can feel him there.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
Then you ask, because you need to hear him say it plainly, “So that’s it?”
His eyes lift to yours.
You force the rest out anyway. “We just… figure this out now.”
It isn’t really a question.
But he answers it like one.
“Yeah.”
No hesitation. No careful softening.
Just yes.
The simplicity of it goes through you harder than anything else has. Because there it is. No more pretending one signature or one drive or one bad night is going to untangle what already exists between you.
This is it.
Not forgiven. Not healed. Not even understood.
Just real.
You look away first. Your voice comes out quieter than before. “One day at a time.”
This time it sounds less like a compromise. More like surrender.
Robby nods once. “One day at a time.”
And that’s all either of you has. No promises big enough to trust. No language clean enough to make this simple. Just two frightened, stubborn people standing in the hallway of a house neither of them knows how to share yet, understanding in the same terrible second that whatever comes next—
it comes here.
With both of you.
You nod once. Then finally make yourself move. Toward the room. Toward the night. Toward the life neither of you gets to run from now.
Hear me out—reader keeps calling Park “Bruce” and he’s obviously confused because his name is Brendon?? And she’s like, “you know, Bruce, the shark from Finding Nemo.” 🤣🤣
I know it says reader but I feel like this is perfect girl dad!Park vibes
It was the perfect morning. The sun was poking through the curtains, basking the room in a soft glow. You were snuggled into Brendon's bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin surrounding you. Brendon didn't have a surgery until later in the morning, and wanted to spend this time cuddle up with you. But that was hard to do with a two year old.
"Bruce!" A shrill voice calls from down the hall, the sound echoing from the baby monitor sitting on the bedside table. You sigh, knowing that your serene moment in your husband's arms before the rush of the day was slowly coming to an end.
It was rare that you got to have time with Brendon in the morning. The mornings were usually hectic. Brendon woke up early to get to the gym, wanting to get in a good pump before going to work all day. By the time he came home, you and your daughter were awake and beginning to start on breakfast. He'd go shower, and then switch you so you could get ready for your day as a trauma physician.
"Bruce!" You hear your daughter's voice again. This time Brendon stirs, groaning and rolling himself away from you to check the time on his phone.
"Does she not understand what sleeping in is?" Brendon mumbles, setting his phone down and rolling back over towards you.
"She's two," You argue, flipping the blankets back and sliding out of them. "I'll go get her back to bed. I think she's just playing." You slip your feet into your slippers and walk down the hall towards the baby pink room. You smile as you push open the door, seeing your husband's twin standing up in her crib.
Her hair was sticking up in every direction. Somehow in the middle of the night she had kicked off her pajamas, only thing on her small body was her nighttime diaper. Just like Brendon, your daughter ran hot, typically kicking her clothes off or fighting you on wearing them (similar to her father).
"Good morning, Princess," You coo walking towards her. It takes her a moment to realize who had come into get her. It was like a slow motion train wreck, her bottom lip starts to quiver, tears well in her eyes, and big cry escapes her lips.
"NO!" She throws herself down onto her bed. "No! Bruce!"
Your eyebrows furrow as you look around her room, trying to see if there was a stuffed animal laying around that she had tossed in the middle of the night. You weren't sure who Bruce was, but you didn't find anything that would help come to the conclusion.
"Do you want breakfast?" You ask your daughter.
She shakes her head, her cheeks red as she cries "Bruce! Want Bruce!"
"Who's Bruce, baby?" You ask her softly, trying to calm her down. You had hit the terrible twos a few months ago, and it was heartbreaking to go through. She had so many emotions in such a small body, and didn't know how to express them. "A stuffy?" You point towards her collection of stuffed animals across the room. "A blanket?"
"No! Bruce!"
"I'm sorry baby," You say, picking her up. She wrapped her arms around your neck, crying into your shoulder as you tried to soothe her. "Let's go get breakfast started, okay?" She just nods as you walk down towards the kitchen, still crying. "Pancakes today?" She nods again, sniffling.
You keep her in your arms as you move around the kitchen, grabbing the pancake mix, eggs, oil, and a mixing bowl. You had gotten pretty damn good at cooking breakfast while holding on to a small child. Your daughter's cries had turned to sniffles, watching as you mixed the pancake batter together. You placed a kiss on her cheek, pouring the batter out on the griddle.
"I think we should plant flowers today," You say to her, looking at the backyard. It was officially spring in Pittsburgh and you were dying to get started on your flower boxes. "What do you think? Daddy can help-"
"Bruce!" She shouts, lifting her head from your shoulder, and flinging her arms out towards someone behind you. You turn around, seeing your husband wearing a confused expression on his face.
"Who's Bruce?" Brendon asks, walking towards the two of you. He takes your daughter from your arms with ease, greeting her with a kiss on her cheek. "Morning baby, why the tears? Hm?"
She just answers his question with "Bruce!"
It was then that you had realized what she was saying. You shook your head laughing. Brendon looked even more confused now.
"Did I miss something?" Brendon asked.
"Bruce," You answered and Brendon nodded his head slowly, still confused. "We let Santos babysit her last night, and she asked if they could watch Finding Nemo. Bruce is the name of the shark."
"Ohhh," Brendon said, turning to look at his little girl. "Daddy's the shark, isn't he?" Your daughter nods, a bright smile on her face. "So she was calling for me earlier."
"Yeah she was," You frown a little bit, rubbing your hand on her back. "I'm sorry baby, I didn't know who Bruce was. I didn't mean to make you sad."
"'s okay, mommy," She buries her head into Brendon's neck. "Bruce here now."
SUMMARY ➩ living next to the cody family was already a difficult task to manage and it only gets more complicated when the eldest boy gets back from prison
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ this is mainly for my tiktok followers who want pope fics so bad!! im sorry it took so long my work schedule is sooo crazy but have some time off coming up and able to actually focus on this, hoping for multiple smaller chapters a week since that’ll be easier than a full fledged story!
next
There was no way to grow up in Oceanside without hearing something about the Cody family.
It was almost like being told a fairy tale, each story more far fetched than the last with ever changing details depending on who you asked what. Some versions were easy to roll your eyes at, not bothering to believe the more outlandish ones but there was never a way to be certain about what the Cody’s were really up to.
You got a particularly close access point to what could be the truth considering the fact you happened to be living in the house next door to theirs.
It was the sore spot and topic of conversation almost every single breakfast when you were a kid, listening to your dad rant endlessly about the loud parties and the shady looking people going in and out at all hours of the night. Your brother had asked sometime in your teen years why he didn’t just file a complaint if it bothered him so bad, your dad’s lips pursing and him falling silent in response.
You understood quickly why he had never complained about the disturbance when you first met the matriarch of the house next door.
You’d been specifically told to avoid that address when you were setting out to parade the neighborhood for donations to your college fund, a charity event your school had set up for the kids unlikely to receive scholarships.
Yet the sight of the shiny cars in the driveway and the dozen rejections you’d gotten so far had you steeling your nerves and knocking on the door with a firm hand.
Smurf was unlike anybody you’d ever met before and you felt a little ridiculous for the way the breath sucked out of you at the sight of her, something captivating beneath the intimidating energy she didn’t even seem to be trying to emit.
“You lost honey?” Her voice was as mocking as it could be, the sight of you standing there in your uniform clearly amusing to her, and you found yourself falling into a full nervous ramble about what you were trying to do.
She interrupted you before you even got two sentences out, barking over her shoulder for somebody you hadn’t even noticed to go and get her wallet for her.
The man returned, clearly a bit older than you but not aged enough to be her partner under any normal circumstances. He gave you a long stare that would have sent you running back home if it at all felt hardened, instead there was a sense of childlike curiosity about him and your head cocked just as she stepped over to block your view.
She’d lost the humor she had previously but still pressed a few crumbled but generous bills against your chest, sending you back a step or two as you thanked her. Your gratefulness was sent to the door halfway through as it slammed in your face.
You’d seen her a lot more over the years and that meant seeing the others too. At first you thought it was purely coincidence or maybe your parents had let go of their hatred for the neighbors but one sight of your dad leaving their garage with nervous sweats and an envelope told you that something else was going on.
Suddenly you were going to dinners at their house once a month, sitting as politely and silently as you could as the disturbing dynamics of Smurf and her sons made your head spin.
Your dad laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny and your mom barely moved at all, keeping half an eye on your brother and the other on the gate that had been shut behind you.
When you were nineteen you heard them fighting, voices loud and afraid as your mom scolded your dad for allowing your brother out with the Cody boys. She seemed more fearful than angry and you sunk back into your room as you once again considered the truth behind all the stories you’d heard.
You weren’t close enough to any of the sons but you did feel a particular sort of disappointment when you heard Pope had been arrested.
He didn’t speak nearly enough for you to consider him somebody you even really knew but there was a certain comfortability that came with both being equally as out of place in a room full of people. There was the lack of disrespectful and lewd comments that helped too, something his brothers couldn’t seem to help themselves from once you were an adult.
There had even been the handful of times that he had scolded them, a sharp glare or a hard hand against the back of their heads that made them hiss in annoyance.
You didn’t bother thanking him, figuring that would just make him uncomfortable anyways but you had hoped the look you’d send his way was enough for him to understand.
You were glad at least one of them wasn’t a creep, grateful there was someone else in the room who couldn’t quite seem to grasp what was going on.
Smurf either took a liking to you once you matured or the absence of her oldest son made her more willing to allow guest because you suddenly found yourself spending a lot more time there. There was a certain allure to the mystery around them and their close bonds, something your own home next door was severely lacking.
You even had your own little corner of belongings in one of the guest bedrooms, your favorite morning drink in the fridge and your clothes mixed into the piles outside the dryer.
Three years passed slowly with Pope gone and you could tell the family was conflicted with how to deal with it. Smurf almost seemed content despite how she claimed to be suffering the most without him there, the other brothers filled the void with each other and whatever else got their blood pumping.
Which was clearly not doing the dishes because you had been scrubbing for what felt like hours and still had yet to make a dent in the pile up. Normally Smurf kept things pretty close in order but she’d left earlier that morning to go pick up her grandson and asked, or demanded technically considering her tone, you make sure the house was decent for his arrival.
You liked the house a lot better when it was empty and you didn’t feel like somebody was always listening around the corners, voices dropping to whispers when you walked past adding a hint of paranoia.
The paranoia seemed to linger even when you were by yourself in the middle of the daytime however considering the soft noise from down the hall made your shoulders tense, breath catching and hands faltering with the dish for a split second.
You ignored it the best you could until it happened again and now you made a point of turning off the running water so you could hear the undeniable sound of footsteps clearer.
“Smurf?” You called and the way it echoed weirdly made your bones chill. The footsteps stopped completely and that only managed to make you feel worse, worse enough that you reached over as slowly as you could manage and gripped the handle of one of the kitchen knives.
You were nearly silent as you moved out of the kitchen and up the few stairs, barely getting to turn a corner before you were hitting a chest.
You weren’t sure if you dropped the knife on instinct or if the grip around your wrist was tight enough for you to lose feeling, the jerky motion you pulled being met with no lax made you believe it might be the second. You only felt a little bit of relief when you realized who it was and then it was followed by a new type of fear.
There had been plenty of people who warned you about the Cody’s and a dozen more who warned you about one of them specifically.
Pope wasn’t looking at you, eyes locked on where the knife had landed with a clatter in between your feet. He was closer than you had realized, the hold on your wrist stopping you from stumbling back when you had bumped into him.
“Pope.” It came out in a breath of surprise, eyes widening as your brain seemed to catch up with the fact he was supposed to be serving out a sentence miles from here.
“You’re here.” He said back and it was in that slow and calculated way he always spoke, low enough that it sounded threatening but too dazed to make you think he could be any real danger. You knew well enough by now to know that wasn’t true so you stayed stiff as that gaze finally landed on your face. “In my house.”
You had half a second where you wanted to question him for being there too before realizing why that would be incredibly stupid.
“Smurf will be back soon.” You landed on instead, voice as soft as you could possibly make it as your eyes shifted across his face for any sign he might relax. “Welcome home Pope.”
His grip loosened at that, lingering for another few seconds before he was letting you go. It stung a little where the pressure had released and you put it down to your side without looking to see if it was red or not, deciding it was better to check on it later.
Pope stepped to the side and walked around you, keeping his strong gaze on you the entire time until he turned the corner into the kitchen.
Smurf returned only a bit later to find you sitting at the island in the kitchen, dishes put away other than the one you were sipping vodka out of. She gave you a look of confusion that was interrupted by a light commotion coming from within the house, heading in the direction of where you figured Pope had disappeared too.
You were curious what her reaction to him being home early would be, if she would be relieved or disappointed. You never could make sense of her emotions and you didn’t think it was even worth trying with this one.
You’d gone home, nearly sneaking out in your efforts to not run into any of them again on your way. It was all futile considering you knew you’d be back again in a few hours for dinner but you found yourself craving the simple act of laying in your bed and wondering what exactly you were doing with your life.
The thought of ghosting the Cody’s completely was the main thing circulating your head as you made your way back up the driveway after the sun had set, sighing as you punched in the gate code. It was a bit of a relief to see things were relatively normal, Deran and Craig arguing about something and Baz in quiet conversation with the younger boy you assumed had to be the grandson.
You waved briefly before heading into the kitchen where you found Smurf pulling things out of the oven.
“Honey will you go get Pope for me?” She said in that weirdly maternal tone she would get sometimes and you faltered before nodding, debating for a second if you should tell her how much you didn’t really want to do that.
It was that you were necessarily scared of Pope despite the things you had heard. You’d known him for a while before he was locked up and you’d never even seen him raise his voice but there was a certain type of unhinged presence that came just from his stare and shaky voice.
You weren’t really sure where to begin looking so you tried his old room before realizing it had been given away, hesitating in the hallway before peeking behind a few more doors you rarely explored. It turned out you didn’t need to find him at all because he was suddenly right behind you when you fully turned to go back to Smurf in defeat.
“Oh.” You nearly gasped at the sight of him, eyes turned upwards at his face in the dark hallway. He was standing there silently, shoulders tensed and squared as he watched you.
“What are you doing?” He asked lowly and his head tilted as he spoke, slowly with each word.
“Looking for you actually.” You breathed out and you were surprised at how steady you managed to sound despite the nerves building back up in your stomach as he continued to just stare at you. His eyes narrowed in confusion at your words and you sighed softly. “Smurf sent me to get you for dinner.”
“Tell her I’m not hungry.” He said flatly and there was a hint of something bitter in his voice that made you think their first day back together hadn’t been going so well.
You gave him a long look, taking in the short crop of his hair and the way he had bulked up while locked away. By the time you met his stare again, he was already watching you closely which didn’t surprise you in the slightest and you sighed softly as your shoulders slumped.
“Please don’t make me tell her that.” You asked of him softly, making your voice drop low like you were telling him a secret.
It really wasn’t that big of a deal but you both knew Smurf would take personal offense to him willingly missing a meal and you also figured she was wanting to keep a close eye on him with a house full of people.
He didn’t reply for a long enough time for it to feel awkward and you felt a little bit like a kid who had gotten in trouble but you tried not to let that show on your face. You didn’t want to upset him and it was easy enough to convince yourself that feeling was for a simpler reason than it probably was.
“She scares you.” He rasped eventually and it came out like a statement and not a question, like he had just decided that for you.
You sighed again and your shoulders raised in a half shrug before you were glancing back to the end of the hallway like you’d somehow be able to escape this conversation sooner than later if you stared long enough.
“Not necessarily.” You answered quietly and he blinked at you when you stopped short. “I just don’t want to upset her, especially after…”
You trailed off before you could mention Julia, almost remembering all at once that she was his twin sister and not just another member of the family. There’d be little to no mention of her for as long as you’d known the Cody’s and it had taken you a few seconds to even recall who she was when you heard Baz whispering about it earlier today, the lack of emotion or real care in his voice not assisting you at all.
Pope’s jaw tightened at the empty space you’d left in the air and you knew he was smart enough to know exactly what you were referring to, especially given the guilt that was no doubt coating your face.
“She’ll be fine.” He said abruptly and it was the sharpest you’d heard him speak in your direction, a tone normally reserved for the youngest brothers when they needed a particular hard lesson served or when you used to overheard him and Baz arguing. It made your chest twist in upset and that feeling only worsened when he turned on his heel and disappeared back into his dark room.
part 2 of robby learning why his s/o became a doctor... (gn!reader)
"Hey, kid! Give me a hand here, will ya?" Dana grabs you and yanks you into the staff lounge, where it looks like a party city exploded.
There are streamers stretching from wall to wall, colorful balloons covering almost every surface, and a big Happy Birthday! banner hanging on the wall. In the center of it all is a slightly sweaty Dana, holding a photo envelope from CVS and some Scotch tape.
"What's all this?" You chuckle. "It's someone's birthday?"
"Not just someone," Dana says. She pulls out a photo from the envelope and shoves it in your face. It's a picture of Robby from last year's holiday party, red in the face from too much spiked eggnog. "Robby's."
You snatch the picture out of Dana's hand, scoffing, "No fucking way."
You've only been with Robby for two months. However, multiple times you've asked him about his birthday, and he's brushed you off every time. A few weeks ago, you thought you could outsmart him by asking his astrological sign, and he said scorpio.
It's March. He's a goddamn Aries. And a liar, too.
Dana smirks, "Way. Now come on, help me hang these pictures up."
You get to work quickly. Technically, your shift doesn't start for another fifteen minutes, but you don't want to linger and be caught decorating when it's time for you to be checking on patients. Though, as you get deeper into the stack of photos, you begin to slow down.
It's just that as the photos of Robby get younger, you can't help but stare. The one in your hand is only maybe fifteen years old, but something about it feels wrong. You can't put your finger on what it is, though.
Dana notices your turmoil, coming up behind you. She points at the photo in your hand, whistling, "Can't believe it, huh?"
"Uh," you shake your head, then nod. "Yeah, yeah. Can't believe it... He's so..." You search for something to say, "Young. I guess."
Dana snorts, "You want to see young?" She grabs the envelope from the table, pulling out a photo, "This one was taken during his residency in New Orleans."
You reach out to grab the photo from Dana. Flipping it over, you say, "He did his residency in New– Oh my God."
In the photo, Robby is sticking his tongue out, lifting his shirt to expose his bare chest. There's about a dozen different strings of Mardi Gras beats decorating his neck. He's much younger, somewhere around your age, with a bare face, big brown eyes, and a head of fluffy hair.
"What?" Dana asks.
"Nothing!"
It's not nothing. Definitely not nothing, because staring back at you isn't just your boyfriend Robby, but Dr. Hunky. The doctor that treated your broken arm. The one you gave heart eyes to when you were little. The one that gave you the most consequential crush of your life. The one that you dreamed of when you were in the trenches of med school.
The one that you're apparently fucking right now.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, kid," Dana teases, shaking you by the shoulders.
"Heh," you chuckle, "Something like that."
*****
"So, um," you gulp, pointing at the photo of young-Robby-slash-Doctor-Hunky. "That's you."
Robby's face flushes, his cheeks painted a deep red, "Yup."
"Ah," you nod, "Cool."
Robby stays quiet. You decide to push it. The last thing you need right now is for him to suspect anything.
You clear your throat, "I've never seen you young before."
Robby hums. He doesn't look your way as he says, "Oh, really?"
"Really. Like, ever."
"Wow. Well, I'm glad you have now," Robby starts stepping away. "I, uh, I think I have a case to work on now."
"Yeah," you can't tear your eyes away from the photo. "Me too."
As the door to the staff lounge closes and you're left alone with young Robby, whose eyes apparently haven't changed in decades, only one thought runs through your head–
