20s 🔞 A ginger know-it-all who has Obsessive Fandom Disorder. Plays mainly RPGs and watches not enough Supernatural. Visit my blog: ginnysbookblog.wordpress.com
based on a post i saw on that letter app about how robby and dennis are like sun and moon on a eclipse, i couldn't stop thinking about it, uhhhh i love them so much!
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses
word count: 9.8k
a/n: surprise—you get it one day earlier!! thank you all for still keeping up with this series and interacting!! your comments are the best part of my day <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.
Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.
"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.
"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.
You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."
"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."
A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."
"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."
"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."
The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.
"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."
"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"
"Because I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."
Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."
"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.
"I know it."
"You do not know that," she counters firmly.
"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."
"What did you actually see?" she presses.
"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"
Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.
"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."
"And that means he’s in love with her?"
"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."
You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."
"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."
"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "
You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"
"...No."
"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"
"...No."
"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"
"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."
"Honey—"
"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."
"No, you don't—"
"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."
"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.
Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"
She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."
You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."
"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."
Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," you reply. "I do."
"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."
Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.
"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."
"Honey—"
Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."
Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.
"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."
"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"
You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.
"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."
You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."
"Promise me."
You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."
"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."
You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."
"Love you more," she says.
The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.
You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.
Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.
And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Home. With you.
Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.
You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.
He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.
A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.
The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.
Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.
So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.
The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.
And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.
That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.
Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.
He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.
But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.
He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.
He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.
He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.
No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.
Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.
He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.
The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.
He's never been good at words.
Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.
He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.
He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.
You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.
"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.
You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"
Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.
"You didn’t have to do that," you say.
He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.
You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."
Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."
You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."
The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.
"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."
You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"
"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."
You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."
The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.
For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.
He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.
That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."
"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."
You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.
Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.
Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."
"Sweetheart—"
Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows. "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."
The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.
Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."
You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."
But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.
So instead, he nods once. "Okay."
You don’t answer.
He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."
"I will."
You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.
So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.
But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.
Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.
Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.
He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.
You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.
When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.
Jack smiles. "Thank you."
You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.
You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.
You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."
"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.
"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.
Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."
Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."
"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"
"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.
You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"
"And—nothing?"
"Nothing?"
"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.
"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."
Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.
He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"
You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.
You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."
He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure."
And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.
By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.
"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."
Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."
Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."
Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.
"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.
But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.
His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.
Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"
Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."
Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"
Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."
Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."
"It’s temporary—"
"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.
Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."
Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"
"It was the easiest fix—"
"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"
Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"
"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."
Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."
"So take Ellis."
Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."
"Then Crus."
"Jack—"
"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.
Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."
"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."
Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."
Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."
"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.
The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"
Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."
Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"
Robby’s silence says enough.
Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."
"Jack, listen—"
"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."
"I didn’t think—"
"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."
Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.
"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."
Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"
Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.
"She’ll still be here," Robby says.
"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.
Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.
"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.
Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.
Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."
Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?
"Take someone else," he tries again.
Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."
He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.
He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.
You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.
You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.
He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.
But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.
It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.
Jack liked Lily. That was it.
You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.
You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"
"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.
You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"
Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"
"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"
Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."
"What?"
"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"
Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.
"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."
His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"
Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"
You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"
His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."
The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.
"It’s just a temporary shift change."
"That’s not the point."
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"
Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."
"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.
He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."
"They are, but you're being a dick again."
He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"
It is. But it shouldn't be to him.
Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.
You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.
Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.
"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."
You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."
"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.
But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."
Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"
You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."
His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.
"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.
As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."
Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—
No.
You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.
So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."
He doesn't follow you when you step out.
Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.
Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.
Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.
You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.
So you don’t.
You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.
"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.
You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"
She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."
Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.
You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."
Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."
You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."
"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"
You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."
"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."
You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."
She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.
She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"
"Yes."
She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."
"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.
She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"
The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.
And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.
So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."
Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."
She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"
"What about Smith?"
Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."
Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"
"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."
You stare at her. "What?"
Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."
You let out a startled laugh. "No way."
"I swear."
"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"
Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."
You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."
"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."
"That's insane."
Princess laughs. "I know."
"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"
Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.
Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—
"So..."
You don’t look up. "No."
Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."
"You’re going to."
He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."
You tap through another chart. "Then no."
He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"
You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."
Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."
You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."
He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."
You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."
He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."
You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."
Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."
You look back down at the tablet.
Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."
The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.
You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."
Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"
That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"
You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.
Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.
You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.
You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.
The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.
It doesn't work.
Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.
"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.
Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.
It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"
Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"
Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"
"She switched to days."
Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."
Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."
Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."
"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.
She nods resignedly.
"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."
"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."
The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.
"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."
Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."
"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.
"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.
"No," Parker murmurs.
"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.
Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."
Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."
"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.
"You're on."
Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.
And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.
By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"
Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."
Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"
Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."
Parker winces. "Oh."
Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"
Lena shrugs.
Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.
Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.
Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."
Jack doesn't answer.
Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."
Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him
Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."
"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.
"Bullshit."
Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.
Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."
Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"
Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."
The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"
Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"
Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."
Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."
Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.
"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."
Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"
Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."
Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."
Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.
"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"
Jack looks away again. "Yes."
Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."
Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."
"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."
Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.
Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."
Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."
Robby blinks. "No?"
Jack shakes his head once. "No."
Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"
Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."
Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."
Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."
Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."
"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."
Jack glances over.
Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."
Jack looks away again.
Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."
Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."
Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."
Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."
Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.
Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.
He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.
You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.
And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.
Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.
And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.
Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.
So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.
But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.
Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.
And maybe you didn’t like it.
Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.
And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.
A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.
And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.
You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.
You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.
Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.
Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.
As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.
summary: Jack's a good attending. He's nice to you. Polite. But he doesn't treat you like he does the others. He doesn't send you smiles. He never laughs with you, and he never seeks out your company. It hurts enough that you've decided to leave and take an attending position elsewhere.
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, coworkers to lovers, fluff, pining
word count: 3.4k
a/n: this was supposed to just be a short little thing, but oh well, here we are. hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! (I've also decided not to have a tag list for the pitt in general, you can turn on notifications for my blog instead <33)
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
It's not that you think Jack dislikes you. If anything, that would be easier to deal with. Dislike has edges—sharpness and intention—something you can point to and name.
This is different. It's quieter than that. This is the sense that Jack simply doesn't care, at least not in any way that reaches beyond professional obligation.
On paper, he's everything he's supposed to be. A good attending and a good teacher. He doesn't blatantly ignore your questions—he’s never cruel or dismissive. When you speak, he listens, and he adjusts treatments when you suggest them. He also isn’t shy to tell you when you've done a good job.
But in practice, there's distance. A careful politeness between you. He engages only when he must, and never more than necessary. He doesn't joke with you the way he does with the others. Where his praise to other residents might go into detail or be accompanied by a smile, his praise to you is vague and efficient—he barely even smiles at you. The thing that, somehow, hurts the most is the fact that he never does his staring thing with you, the one that everyone else jokes about.
You tell yourself not to let it get to you. You try to accept that this is just how it is—that not everyone clicks and that not every connection is meant to happen. Some people just pass through your life and remain professional acquaintances, and nothing more. You tell yourself those are simply the cards that you've been dealt with Jack.
But it still sucks. More than you want to admit.
Because he's the one that you gravitated towards when you started your residency at the Pitt. The one whose instincts you trusted without hesitation. The one you thought, somehow, you'd click with.
Watching him bond so easily with Ellis—who's been there just as long as you—hurts in a way that still catches you off guard even now, with only months left until you're an attending. It's sharp and unexpected, a small grief you don't know what to do with.
And when new people arrive, it's even worse. You watch him warm up to them easily, watch how his walls come down for strangers while they stay firmly in place with you. Because even after years of knowing each other, he remains cold and detached around you.
You can't figure out what you did wrong. You've replayed conversations, moments, and expressions. Searching for a misstep. For anything. But there's nothing. Nothing he's done suggests you've failed in some obvious way. He speaks to you. He listens. He treats you fairly.
He just never seeks you out. Never sits next to you unless there's no other choice. Never chooses you first.
And somehow, that hurts more than outright rejection ever could.
"So, how about you? Any news? Please tell me you're staying?” Lena asks, shifting her attention from Ellis to you. She tilts her head slightly, glasses sliding down her nose to look at you directly.
You lean against the counter at the hub, letting your shoulders drop for a moment. Just a small breath before the ever-demanding Pitt craves your attention again.
"Not sure yet," you say, shrugging slightly. “I’m leaning toward Chicago—or maybe Boston. I've heard good things about them.”
"Nooo," Lena groans, dragging out the sound as genuine disappointment fills the air. "How will I survive if you're both leaving?"
"Guess you'll have to make do with Abbot and Shen," Ellis quips, half-listening while she charts.
"Ugh," Lena grimaces with a teasing smile.
You chuckle, a soft but unconvincing sound, at least in your ears. "Well, if you play nice, I might change my mind," you say, offering her a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.
It's not that you don't want to stay—in fact, you'd love to stay. You've even been offered an attending position here, a stability you've been craving after years of residency, because it would mean you wouldn't have to move again or find new friends. But part of you knows it might be better in the long term to go somewhere else.
Anywhere else but here.
Because here... Here, it hurts. Being around Jack while he's warm with everyone else, watching him bond with new people, while you remain just another face in the crowd, is a constant, sharp ache you can't quite mask.
You glance across the hub, where Jack is talking quietly with Ellis now. His hands gesture softly as he explains something—he's fully present, fully engaged in what Ellis is saying—and you can't help the bitter sting of knowing he would never look at you like that. He would never seek you out to share a funny story or save that half-smile for you alone.
Mid-talk, his eyes flicker toward you like he can feel the burning heat of your gaze, but he looks away just as fast.
Lena notices the shadow crossing your features. "Hey," she says softly, tapping your arm with a gentle hand. "You okay?"
You force your face back into neutral, nodding at her. "Yeah, just thinking about a patient," you murmur.
You'd never tell her the truth—that an overwhelming part of you is aching to stay so that you can be near someone who doesn't notice you the way you see him. That part of you wants a front-row seat to Jack opening up to everyone else but you. You're masochistic in that sense.
Lena frowns, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn't press any further, thankfully. "Well," she says, letting her tone brighten. "I'm going to hold out hope. We need you here. You make this place less terrible."
You manage to send her a small but genuine smile. "I'll think about it," you say.
But even as the words leave your mouth, you know part of you is already planning your exit. Not because you don't love this place, not because you don't like your team, but because staying means living with that quiet, gnawing longing. And maybe, you're not that into self-inflicted pain after all.
A fresh start somewhere new might hurt less in the long run. It might let you breathe without feeling like every laugh, every joke, every casual glance Jack gives to someone else is a reminder of what you can't have.
You take one last look at the hub, at the familiar chaos, at Jack leaning against the counter laughing with Ellis, and swallow the ache back down. You heave a soft sigh as you straighten up again and reenter the Pitt.
It's nearly seven in the morning, just the soft murmur of patients, the low hum of the fluorescent lights and a distant clatter of carts filling the otherwise semi-quiet ER.
You're sitting at the computer finishing the last of your charts, more than ready to go home and sleep for several hours. You're typing as fast as you can when a shadow falls across the keyboard.
"You're leaving?" Jack's voice is calm and measured, but there's a subtle weight to it that you've never heard before. He's standing behind you now, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk as he logs onto a computer. He doesn't look at you directly.
You glance up, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Yeah, m'just about finished."
"No, I mean... the Pitt?" he finally shifts his gaze, just barely meeting yours. It's only for a fraction of a second, but it's enough to make your chest tighten. That tiny tilt of his head, the slight pause in his rhythm—it feels like it should matter. Like he's going to say something more.
You blink, caught off guard. "Oh.. Uh, yeah, maybe. I'm not sure yet," you murmur.
He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then he turns back to the keyboard, typing again. Sharp, precise keystrokes. His jaw clenches once, just once, but he doesn't speak again. Doesn't reach across the space between you. Doesn't ask you to stay.
That small flicker of hope in your chest sparks out again. The small hope that he'd maybe say, 'Don't go. Stay here'. The hope that maybe this quiet and distant man has noticed more than he lets on. But the hope fades as quickly as it appeared, extinguished by the steady thrum of his typing and the efficiency of his nod.
You force yourself to breathe evenly, to turn back to your screen, but your hands pause over the keyboard. The room feels heavier now, charged with unspoken dreams and hopes. Jack's just being polite. Professional. Exactly like he's always been. And yet, for the briefest, cruellest second, it felt like he could have changed your mind, like he could have made you stay, if he had just asked.
But he didn't.
So you return your fingers to the keyboard, continue typing as the decision solidifies in your chest. Chicago. Boston. Anywhere but here.
Anywhere where he isn't.
The week passes like it always does. Or at least, it kind of does. It's the same patients, the same fluorescent-lit hallways, the same stale coffee in the breakroom. And yet, something feels... off. Not wrong, but just different enough to keep you slightly on edge, like crackling air before a storm.
Maybe it's hope colouring your perception, but it feels like Jack is noticing you more. It starts small. Subtle things you could easily explain away if you wanted to. He pauses when you enter a room, just a sliver longer than necessary, as if recalibrating. He asks for your opinion more than he ever has during examinations, and digs deeper than he ever used to. When you speak, he listens diligently. Not the professional attention he used to give you, but something more focused—more intentional.
He also seeks you out in the halls now. Not obviously, but just enough that you start to see a pattern. Enough that you've started to notice how his gait slows to keep up with yours, and his arm brushes past yours more than it ever has in the years you've been here. A casual alignment of schedules that somehow places him beside you more often than not, with an almost excessive amount of check-ins when you're with a patient that feel unnecessary, especially because he never disagrees with you.
His praise is also different. It's not the usual generic approval you've become accustomed to. It's specific and thoughtful. He references things you said weeks ago, brings up details of patients you've treated months back, things you didn't realise he'd ever noticed.
He also meets your eyes now. Doesn't let it flicker away like usual, but lets it linger. As if he's hoping you'll see something in his eyes that he isn’t saying out loud. You’re almost happy he hasn’t done this the entire time you’ve been here because each time your breath catches before you can stop it, a flush creeping up your neck. Hiding a crush when you have such a visceral reaction to him would not have lasted long in this place.
You replay all these moments later at home, dissecting every word and action, trying to decide if they mean what you hope or if you're projecting meaning where there is none. Because is this real, or are you imagining it all because you've decided to leave?
You don't dare voice the thought or the silly hope that flickers back to life in your chest. Hopes and dreams this big, this sudden, are dangerous. They make you careless and make disappointment sharper when it eventually comes. And it will come. Because why would he suddenly be changing?
Just because he heard you might be leaving?
The idea feels ridiculous the moment it forms. An impossible wish. That's not a reason for him to change his behaviour. He probably hasn't even spared it more than a passing thought. You're overthinking, reading significance into coincidence, and you should really stop letting hope get ahead of reality.
Still, the thought refuses to leave.
Lena's comments also echo in the back of your mind throughout the week, playful nudges and gentle prodding, hoping to sway your mind. "We need you here, you know," she says one evening, leaning against the counter. "Things wouldn't be the same without you around."
You grin and shrug, deflecting as always. "I'm still thinking about it."
And you mean it. Because part of you—an increasingly loud and reckless part—is considering staying more seriously than you ever expected. Not just for the work, not just for the familiarity or the team, but for the unanswered question that now follows you through every corridor and examination room.
You tell yourself it's foolish. That you can't make decisions based on glances and half-smiles and moments that might mean nothing at all. But when Jack looks up from his seat as you pass, his expression softening just slightly at the sight of you, you feel the weight of the choice rumbling in your chest.
And how leaving doesn't feel as inevitable anymore.
It's an early morning once again—yet another night shift finished. You're at the lockers, one of the last to leave due to a difficult patient, but now, you're finally catching a hold of your backpack, more than ready for your four days off. You're rummaging through it, trying to locate your lip balm, when a voice cuts through your thoughts.
"You should stay." Jack comes to a stop in front of you, one shoulder leaning against the lockers.
You frown at him. "What? Do you need me to work a double?"
"No. I... Here. You should stay here as an attending." His tone is firm, a pleading lilt to it that you’re definitely imagining, but his eyes are steady on yours.
You shrug, looking back at your backpack, fingers finally grabbing onto the small tube. "Eh... You'll be fine without me—maybe, you can convince Ellis to stay."
"I don't want Ellis to stay," he says bluntly, head tilting to try and catch your eye again.
You blink at the words, head snapping towards his without meaning to.
"I want you to stay," he adds, voice quieter now, but there's no mistaking the sincerity.
You can't hide the shock in your expression, eyebrows drawing up. "I… I don't understand. You don't like me."
There's a flicker of confusion on his face, as if he's struggling with how you've arrived at that conclusion. "I do."
You huff an incredulous laugh, pulling the straps of your backpack on and slipping the lip balm into your jacket pocket. "You don't have to lie to me. It's fine. I get it."
Jack stares at you. "I'm not lying."
Your locker snaps shut, and you shrug at him. "Honestly, it's fine. We don't have to talk about it. We're colleagues—you don't have to like me." You move to step around him, hoping you'll make it outside before he can see the tears that you can feel pressing behind your eyes.
But you barely make two steps before his hand grabs hold of your sleeve, forcing you to stop. You halt, facing the door, as his hand falls to his side again, like he hadn't meant to do that, just charged outwards to make you stay, instinct taking hold of him. He moves to stand in front of you again.
"I like you too much," he admits, his voice low and earnest. A confession you'd imagined so many times that it almost doesn't register as being real. Except you can hear how his breath quickens, see the vulnerability displayed in his eyes, and feel the distant heat of his body.
"What?" you whisper, barely daring to breathe.
"I thought it was best to keep my distance. Avoid playing favourites accidentally, and make you a target for unwarranted rumours. I wanted your abilities to shine on their own, not let them be coloured by how much I like you. You're a fantastic doctor. Brilliant. So funny. And—" he pauses, swallowing as if the next word is spiny, tiny needles spiking his throat and tongue as it leaves his mouth, "beautiful. It wouldn't have been fair to jeopardise your career just because I liked you. So I kept my distance. I'm sorry if it came out wrong."
Shock drenches you from head to toe, an icy coldness that freezes you to the ground. "You like me? Like… like-like me?" you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.
His mouth twitches with amusement at the phrasing, but his eyes stay serious. "Yes. But that's not why you should stay. The department needs you. We work better when you're here. I… I work better."
You don't think your brain works anymore. Just loose wiring firing off into empty space. Because this can’t be real.
"Think about it," he says, with a final lingering glance before he steps out again.
Uh huh. You'll think about it. You'll probably do nothing else but think about the next four days.
It's nearly midnight by the time the worst of the chaos is under control. You're sitting at the hub, sipping your barely lukewarm coffee, delivered by DoorDash earlier, after a mistaken belief that the chaos was over, only to have one sip before it was promptly left on the counter for longer than you'd hoped.
At least it's still somewhat hot. (It's really not, but you've spent money on it, so you're going to delude yourself.)
There's a soft shuffle of footsteps in the distance that eventually stops in front of you. You glance up to find Jack there, hands holding casually onto his stethoscope.
"Crazy night, huh," he says, voice low and hesitant. You've not had a chance to talk yet, both of you immediately pulled into the chaos when you arrived. And the brief respite you’d had was while he was still in trauma. But you've felt his eyes on you throughout it all, the rumour he's heard written all over his face but isn't sure he can truly count on, not until he's heard from your lips.
The rumour that you'd decided to stay.
Which you have, and somehow, it has already slipped out to the staff. Probably Lena’s doing, or Dana's. The two charge nurses stick their noses in everything that's going on in the Pitt (said with the most fondness). And with how much Lena's been begging, you wouldn't be surprised if it were her.
"Yeah, but at least my coffee isn't completely cold," you reply, lifting your cup slightly.
His eyes crinkle, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, all too aware of how coffee is mostly drunk cold in these parts. "Still better than that iced crap Shen keeps bringing in. I will never get why you would purposefully choose to drink it cold. Coffee's meant to be hot."
You huff a laugh at his complaining and take another sip. "This is from that new place around the corner. It's good. You should try it sometime."
He nods. There's a pause. You can feel it stretching around you until he clears his throat. "I... I heard you're staying."
You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. I—um, I thought about it and decided this is a good place for me."
He looks you deep in the eye. "Really?"
"Really," you confirm, setting the cup down.
Jack exhales, a small, relieved sound, finally relaxing now that he's heard it from the source itself. "Good. That's... really good."
There's another pause, the two of you staring at each other. But it's not awkward, just warm.
You stand up, dropping the cup into a bin, but just before you pass him, you lean in and whisper, using every last bit of bravado you have (hoping sincerely he hasn’t changed his mind). "I like you, too, by the way."
You see his brows lift, eyes widening just a fraction before a slow, real smile spreads across his face. Wider than you ever seen it aimed at you.
"Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee… and get to know each other? Maybe at that place you know?" he asks, voice careful, and almost shy.
"Yeah," you say, grinning just as wide. "I'd like that. After shift?"
"Yes," he says, the last remaining tension in his shoulders easing.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, you leave the hub with a lightness in your chest.
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
You knew it! My new original song “I Knew It, I Knew You” for Disney and Pixar’s Toy Story 5 will be yours on June 5th. I’ve always dreamed of getting to write for these characters who I’ve adored since I was a 5 year old kid watching the first Toy Story movie. I fell instantly in love with Toy Story 5 when I was lucky enough to see it in its early stages, and I wrote this song as soon as I got home from the screening. Sometimes you just know, right?
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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 not like an Abercrombie model but 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 a 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 under 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 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 your 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 flesh.
“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.”
summary: it's well known across the ptmc that park the shark doesn't like anyone, except for a younger resident he calls 'crybaby,' who also happens to be jack abbot's secret girlfriend. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / sunshine!fem!reader, mentor!brendon park, whitaker & evil whitaker
contents: secret relationship, jealousy, age gap, humor, insecure!jack, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and r getting turned out that jack takes viagra
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Crybaby.
Dr. Park was the first to call you by that name — or Park the Shark, they called him, on account of his strong features, and the fact that he looked like he could swallow you whole without blinking.
It was your first rotation at the PTMC, when you screwed up a simple tibia plate fixation. The reduction looked clean, in your defense, straight and stable. “You got it?” the attending had asked. And you’d nodded as you adjusted your grip on the patient’s broken leg — only slightly.
The imaging still looked clear from your angle, as the drill went into the bone. But then you looked down, realizing you had forgotten to account for rotation, and found the patient’s foot slightly turned. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and then to your ass at the look Dr. Park gave you when his screw went in off-axis.
“Everyone take a good look!” he’d announced to the crowd of interns and med students watching after the fact. “If anyone here was wondering how to invent a new way to misalign a fracture, congratulations— You just got a live demonstration.”
Your eyes stung with tears, until your attempt to blink them back had failed.
“If this is all it takes to rile you up, wait until something actually goes wrong,” Dr. Park had scolded. “Now do you want me to go easy on you, or do you wanna get better, Crybaby?”
You stayed. And he made you better. But the nickname stuck.
Crybaby became a term of endearment, a symbol of how far you’d come since your interning days, and was shortened to Baby somewhere down the line. “Baby, take this patient down to CT for me, will you?” and “Cut me an ET tube, Baby, six millimeters,” and—
“Good luck getting that consult, baby,” Jack Abbot says from the opposite side of the exam room, with his strong arms crossed over his chest. The nickname sounds different spilling from his lips. It always has. “The OR’s backed up with Westbridge patients. It could be hours before we get a room booked.”
“She doesn’t have hours…” you murmur under your breath, squeezing past Whitaker and Ogilvie as you part from your unconscious patient. “Excuse me…”
“W-What are you doing?” the former boy stammers.
“Getting us a consult…” you say, half-distracted, as you reach for the red telephone on the wall. You press the cool plastic to your ear and dial the ortho extension.
Jack watches attentively from the sidelines as you make the call upstairs.
“You already sound like you’re gonna say no, so I’m just gonna ask quickly,” you say. “I know, I know— Terrible timing. But we both know I’m your favorite, so just hear me out.”
“Favorite…?” Ogilvie murmurs. “Wait— Who is she calling?”
“Park the Shark,” Whitaker answers solemnly.
“Or as I like to call him— Doctor Dick,” Jack says with a cynical smile. “On account of him being a dick.”
Whitaker nods in concurrence. “To everyone but her.”
You hang up the phone and return to your spot at the patient’s bedside. “Ortho consult’s on its way,” you tell them, half-distracted, as you check the ketamine levels in her IV drip.
“How’d you do that?” Ogilivie squints.
“I asked nicely,” you shrug.
Brendon Park comes into the emergency department barely five minutes later, and brings a tense air in with him that matches the unsmiling look on his narrow face. The way his dark blue eyes lock on you the second he walks in can only be described as sharklike.
“What do we got, Baby?” he asks you, and only you, utterly ignoring the other bodies in the room as he makes a beeline to your side. He smells of sea salt and sandalwood when he towers just behind you, standing several inches taller.
Jack swallows down the anger that swells suddenly in his throat like bile.
“Ten-foot fall onto a metal fence,” you tell him. “Tib-fib amputation— Pretty clean cut.”
“Sliced right through the bone like a guillotine,” Whitaker adds.
Park turns slowly, dark eyes zeroing in on the mulleted boy. “Was I talking to you?”
The boy’s cheeks flare red. He clears his throat. “Uh— No. No, sir.”
“Let me see the X-ray,” the attending says to you, much softer in comparison, and follows you the short distance to the bulky machine in the corner.
“See?” you hum. “Not too bad, right?”
His eyes flit from the x-ray to your hopeful gaze. The corner of his mouth flickers faintly upward as he nods once in response. “Yeah. Should be pretty fun— Where’s the leg?”
“Double bagged on ice.” You motion across the room.
Whitaker watches the older man walk past him with an unblinking gaze. “I didn’t know he smiled…” he whispers incredulously under his breath.
“Yeah, me neither, kid,” Jack mumbles, swaying softly in place, as he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you.
His jealousy is misplaced, but inevitable. Everyone had a certain soft spot for you, but he couldn’t quite stand it from Park — the man who didn’t seem to like anyone or anything but his work and you. Jack knows it makes a part of you feel special, you are special, but he wants to be the only one making you feel that way.
“Tell him how we prepped the limb, Ogilivie,” you tell the MS3.
“Oh, please, not me,” the curly-haired boy mumbles under his breath, looking instinctively to Whitaker for assistance. He swallows hard when Brendon’s dark eyes snap to his. “Uh— Sterile saline in the inner bag, ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice to skin contact.”
Park nods and turns away, unwrapping the severed leg on the table below. “Good…”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” the attending snaps. His eyes soften the second he turns to you. “Let me guess— You wrapped this?”
“How’d you know?” you grin.
“Because it’s neat,” Park quips drily as he pulls the bluing limb from the plastic. “And I don’t think Abbot suddenly developed fine motor skills.”
“Stop flirting with me, Shark,” Jack monotones.
“Antibiotics?” the man squints.
“Cefazolin and gent,” you answer. “And we’re already cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”
Park nods to himself, examining the severed leg with his gloved hands. “Clean wound… No rush injury… Rapid transport time…” he mumbles to himself, visibly pleased in a way that makes your stomach do a backflip. “Replantation is a go. I’ll go ahead and book an OR, get it taken care of for you.”
“Thanks…” you say, smiling a little wider than you realize. Because ever since the day he embarrassed you in front of all your coworkers, you’ve made it your personal mission to impress him.
“What’s the catch?” Jack quips from across the room. “You already got a packed OR so… What? You’re just doing us a favor out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Hell, no,” Brendon scoffs. “Baby’s gonna scrub in with me.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re not sure whether to be happy or horrified, ‘cause you haven’t done a surgery with him since you were an intern.
“Holy shit— Really?”
“Yeah. As long as you promise not to fuck up again,” Park deadpans, though there’s something distinctly soft in his eyes as he quips, “And if you can keep your guard dog on a leash for a few hours.”
Your eyes turn instinctively to Jack. You find his features slightly hardened but mostly emotionless. He shrugs despite the distant searing in his chest.
“She doesn’t need my permission.”
“Then why are you glaring like I’m about to steal your favorite toy, old man?” Brendon scoffs.
Jack’s eyes widen. His head swivels slowly over his shoulder, as if he were looking for someone standing behind him. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he quips drily.
“I would love the opportunity to scrub in, Dr. Shark— I mean, Park,” you stammer.
“Alright, then. Let’s go,” he nods, pulling off his gloves with a low pop as he storms back towards the door. “The rest of you, irrigate the hell out of this with three liters.”
“Wait— three liters?” Whitaker blurts.
Park glares. “Of saline, genius.”
“I… I knew you meant saline…”
You stop short in the doorway with Jack at your side, right before you turn to follow Park into the elevator. You flash him a wide-eyed look full of hope and distant worry, “You’re not mad at me, are you? For doing this with Shark?”
“I couldn’t be,” Jack scoffs.
“Well, then, I’ll let you know how it goes later?” you murmur sheepishly, shifting on your feet like a shy child. “Over dinner?”
“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You know, to celebrate.”
He gives you a soft smile that fades the second you’ve turned the corner. He feels the weight of his own insecurity sitting heavy on his chest. The notion that he’s much too old for you tends to follow him like a shadow, but it rears its mean, green, ugly head a little extra now.
“Hey…” Robby greets, then slows his stride when he walks past the tree men leaving the exam room. “What’s the long faces for?”
Abbot flashes him an unamused gaze. “Shark attack,” he deadpans.
Robby nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it…”
The familiar chaos of the ED wraps around you like a blanket when you come down from the OR — the beeping monitors, the rolling stretchers, the hundred different conversations. It feels welcoming, in a strange sort of way; it fuels you in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. It feels less like you’re surviving your shift now, and more like you could solve every medical inquiry in this hospital if someone asked you to.
You feel ten feet tall and lighter than air as you weave your way through the crowded emergency department. Jack can see it from where he watches you at the workstation with an eagle-eyed stare. Your scrubs are creased from your hours in the OR; your eyes are as wild as the distant smile sitting crooked on the very edges of your mouth.
You plant yourself at the computer next to his, and Abbot pretends like he hasn’t been waiting for you this whole time.
“How’d it go?” he asks distantly, trying to be casual.
“Great,” you nod with a proud smile. “Like really great. There was a twisted artery, and I was the only one who caught it. I got to reroute it all on my own— It was crazy.”
Jack feels himself smiling despite himself, basking in the rays of your sunshine disposition.
“Really?” he hums, nodding once. “Good job, baby.”
You couldn’t possibly count how many times you hear that nickname on a daily basis, but it’s different coming from Jack. It’s warmer, more familiar — makes your stomach do backflips like it’s the first time you’re hearing the word from his mouth. You go dizzy accordingly, as your fingers flit across the keyboard below.
“I’m just glad I didn’t make a total fool of myself like I did the first time,” you scoff.
“Yeah, me too,” a familiar voice quips from behind you.
You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dr. Park as he appears suddenly behind you, dropping a file on the desk next to you mid-stride. His sea salt cologne pervades your senses instantly, clashing with Jack’s softer, muskier scent.
“I thought I heard the Jaws theme playing…” the older man quips in a dry monotone.
“You should be proud, Abbot— Your resident was a star in surgery today,” Park says with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth, so subtle it’s barely there. “Can’t wait for her to be my protégé in the OR someday.”
Jack’s frown deepens when the man claps him hard on the shoulder as he walks back for the elevator, though not without tossing a “let me know when you need a letter of rec for that fellowship, Baby,” over his shoulder as he goes.
He watches the younger attending until he turns the corner, and looks back at you with his jaw clenched a little tighter than before. His chest sears at the distant smile on your face, as the flames of his jealousy burn white-hot behind his ribcage
“Well,” Jack hums drily after a beat of silence. “You guys are getting awfully close, aren’t you?”
You scoff like it’s funny to you, because the thought of Park the Shark liking anyone is funny to you.
“What? No,” you laugh, then shrug at the unconvinced look Jack gives you in response. “He’s just nice to me. That’s all.”
Jack lets out a sharp exhale through his nose in place of a laugh. He turns back to his computer and deadpans, “Yeah. Because he likes you.”
You open your mouth to argue.
Jack beats you to the punch.
“And I don’t blame him, either. I think it’d make me a hypocrite if I did.”
Your face flares as a red-hot heat crawls up your neck. Your adrenaline-induced confidence fades into something softer as you struggle suddenly to meet the older man’s gaze. You glance down at the chart Park left, unable to hide the small smile on your mouth when you peer at Jack again from beneath your lashes.
“Where are we going for dinner after this again?” you wonder, half-sheepish.
The expression on his scruffy face shifts slightly, less tense but mischievous still. “We aren’t,” he says and logs out of the computer.
Your eyes narrow into a suspicious squint as you watch the man round the front desk. “What happened to ‘I’ll take you somewhere nice?’”
“Yeah…” Jack nods slowly, huffing sympathetically, as his hands curl around either end of his stethoscope. “I think we’re gonna miss that reservation, baby.”
Your stomach does a backflip.
By the time you make it to Jack’s place, the adrenaline has worn off just enough to leave you pleasantly exhausted.
He can feel it in your kiss, as you straddle him on his sunken couch in the middle of his dim living room — so quiet compared to the ER that it feels like stepping into a completely different world. You prop yourself over his lap with your palms cradling his silver scruff and lick into his parted mouth in slow, languid motions.
You’ve been at it for a while now. So long that Jack can feel your spit down to his chin. You could kiss him for hours and hours and never get bored — a testament to your youth, perhaps, because Jack doesn’t think he’s made out with someone this long since he was in college.
But, for you, he keeps his head tipped back against the sofa and his mouth obediently parted, letting you kiss him however you want — for however long you want. His wide hands fidget with anticipation on either side of your bare thighs, from where your shirt rides up to your hips.
You’d changed immediately into one of his old tees when you arrived, after a shower your body had been craving all day. You smell like his body wash and lotion as you sit on his lap, running your hands down his clothed chest like soft drops of summer rain.
Your fingers brush the tie in his dark navy sweatpants, and he tenses on instinct. You don’t seem to notice, though, as you leave a trail of wet kisses down his scruffy neck.
“Are you gonna fuck me tonight?” you mumble into his pulse. “’S why we didn’t go out for dinner tonight, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about it all day…”
Jack goes dizzy at your words — at the otherwise innocent mouth they spill from. His stomach warms, and he jerks back from you before he means to; his mouth wet and rosy from the intensity of your kisses.
“Yeah, fuck— Yeah, I just…” he trails off, though it’s more of a dismissal than a true affirmative. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick, yeah?”
“Okay,” you smile politely, unaware of his subdued panic that he’s learned to keep well-hidden. You slide off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. “Sure.”
Jack rises from the sunken sofa with a low grunt in the back of his throat. There’s a slight limp in his step from where the long day has taken a toll on his prosthetic. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone,” he tosses mindlessly over his shoulder, before he disappears down the dim hallway, making an immediate beeline for his lamplit bedroom.
There’s a bottle of sildenafil in his nightstand drawer, with only one pill taken out of it — which he thinks is somehow even more embarrassing. He’d only taken it to masturbate once, after his SSRIs plummeted his libido and he was itching for a release after a long day.
The small orange bottle feels strangely heavy in his hands now, as he tips his head back to shake one of the tiny blue pills into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows it dry. The pills rattle faintly when he sets the bottle down beside him again.
He drops onto the edge of his bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees and hunches over to dig his palms into his eyes. He tries to will himself hard for you, even though he knows that isn’t exactly how that works.
He thinks of you — all young and pretty and waiting for him out there — wasting your youth on an old man who can’t get hard to save his life. It leads to a cycle of self-hatred that prevents him from getting turned on at all. And it’s maddening.
The ajar door creaks quietly as you push it open without knocking.
You slink inside the dim bedroom and freeze at the sight of the man on the bed, like you weren’t expecting to find him there. Jack’s head whips to your form across the room and spins when he finds your underwear peeking out from the bottom of his shirt — a soft orange color patterned with dark black bats, several months out of season.
“What are you doing?” he squints teasingly, blanketed half by shadow and half by golden lamplight.
“What are you doing?” you retort. “I’ve been waiting out there forever.”
“It’s only been five minutes,” Jack scoffs.
“Yeah, tell me about it…”
You’re all but skipping to his side then, bare feet padding along the thin carpet as you go. The thin fabric of his shirt swishes around your thighs when you walk to stand between his. When you wrap your arms loosely around his neck and duck down to kiss him, Jack tips his chin back and opens his mouth to welcome you — until the open drawer beside you catches your attention, as well as the orange pill bottle sitting on the corner of the nightstand, as if he’d just pulled it out of there.
“What’s that—?”
“Nothing,” Jack answers, a little too quickly, and reaches less than casually around you to chuck the bottle into the drawer again. The pills rattle loudly in the quiet bedroom when he shoves it shut a second later.
He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the label. Your gaze is soft with sympathy and glittering with something wild that he can’t quite place.
Jack says nothing for several long moments, and instead waits for your response.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” you murmur when you catch his scruffy cheeks flaring a soft pink.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he blurts, less than convincingly, eyes shifting away and back again. “I’m just… selectively unthrilled with this timing…”
Your nose scrunches at the shy smile you give him. His warm hands settle again on your waist while your fingers twist in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. Your eyes soften with something tender when you wonder shyly, “Is that why… Is that why you haven’t wanted to… you know?”
“No,” Jack answers instantly, then tilts his head to think for a moment. “Well, I mean— a little, I guess, but… I only take ‘em ‘cause of my SSRIs, you know? It’s not… It’s not because of you or anything.”
“Okay…” you nod and struggle to meet his gaze when you ask, “Do you know, like, how long it takes to kick in… or whatever?”
“Last time I tried, it took about twenty minutes—”
“Last time?” you echo with raised brows.
“I was just trying it out!” Jack defends with a crooked smile, slightly egged on by your misplaced jealousy after stewing in his own all day. “I was by myself when I took it, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It does make me feel better, actually…”
Jack’s light eyes narrow. “What’s that look for, huh?”
“Nothin’…” you lilt quietly, with a poorly hidden smile. “I just… I think it’s kinda hot… That’s all…”
His expression flickers in an instant — surprise first, suspicion second, then something darker third. A white-hot desire threads through the distant embarrassment still swimming in his stomach.
“Yeah?” he presses lowly, with a voice like honey.
“Yeah…” you nod once, unable to take your eyes off his prying stare.
He studies you for another beat, before huffing a quiet laugh of disbelief.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby, you know that?” he mumbles with a shake of his head, smoothing his calloused palms slowly up your bare thighs until they disappear under his shirt.
“I know…” you mutter on bated breath, trying and failing to be casual when you ask, “What do you wanna do then, huh? You know, for the next twenty minutes, anyway?”
You fight back a shiver when his thumb brushes over the center of the delicate mound peeking beneath the hem of your t-shirt, concealed by the thin cotton panties you wear.
Jack hears your breath catch in his throat. His darkened gaze flits from your Halloween-patterned underwear to your heavy eyes, now glazed over with a layer of honeyed desire.
Brendon Park who’s secretly a little pathetic about you. Some smut, mostly aftercare. Kinda a sub drop?
Brendon Park fucks.
Obviously you expected that. You saw it coming. I mean, come on. You knew the guy. One look at him you knew he was getting laid often and putting it down. Hard. He was a hunky, charismatic, rich doctor. Whose biceps filled out his scrubs and whose ass did the same. Walked around the hospital with a cool and cocky demeanor. You saw it coming.
So yeah. You were sure he got around. And that was proved when he got you in bed.
He must have liked a challenge, that’s what it had to be. He could do better- do easier than you. But he was set on you for some reason. And now you were here, knees in your chest, ankles over those big broad shoulders as that massive fucking dick spears into you over and over again. And it’s good. It’s so fucking good. You’ve come… twice? Thrice? Already. But he’s still going. Still thumbing your clit as he fucking plows you just right. He’ had your hands pinned over your head a few minutes ago, on your knees, face in the pillows before he decided he needed to see you, hear you. He ate you out with his hands around your wrist again, keeping you at his mercy as he overstimulated you with a skilled tongue. You’ve been going for… fuck. A while. You’ve lost all track of time.
“Who’s your daddy, baby?” He panted in your ear, more like a growl. You couldn’t think, truly, not when he had you like this. But you managed to answer. “You are!”
He grunted in approval.
“Good girl.”
You had told him it took you a long time to cum sometimes before this. He said he was in no rush. You told him you didn’t like some things. He listened with an easy nod. Warned him you were the kinda girl who got clingy. He seemed unconcerned. Completely unconcerned. Told him you’ve been known to cry. He looked hungry.
Brendon Park was unfazed by every warning, and went to fucking town on you anyway.
And finally, with your ankles next to his head, he came.
He pulled out gingerly, careful and kind with his movements, easing your legs down for you, carefully rubbing your hips to ease the ache. He kissed your cheek. “I’m gonna go get a towel.” He explained, pushing himself off the bed.
Right.
You sat there awkwardly, unsure what to do with yourself as you waited. You settled on pulling your knees up to your chest against his headboard.
He looked surprised at your change in position.
“You okay?” He worried. “C’mon, lay back down and stay comfy. Lemme clean you up” he insisted, gently tugging on your ankle to coax you down. You let him, shyly. Despite him having you in every position 5 minutes ago, this was so embarrassing.
The aftermath always was.
“Don’t get shy on me, baby.” He insisted, kissing your knee. “Nothing I haven’t seen” as he swiped the towel through your tender folds, muttering an apology, kissing your knee.
He smiled at you. Hair sweat damp and wavy, skin glowing, he smiled at you.
Gone was his trademark scowl, or the focused flushed face he’d had during sex. He was smiling. And yeah, he smiled during the date, but you thought that was all part of the act. The seduction to get you into bed.
Why was he smiling now?
Once he’d cleaned you up, he was back out of bed, walking to a dresser and pulling out a pair of boxers to pull on.
Then another pair, and a tee shirt.
“You should really go pee still, but here. If you want a toothbrush I have the little goody bag from my last cleaning in my top drawer under the sink, and there’s cerave by the sink if you want to wash your face”. He rattled off, extending the clothing to you.
You looked between him and your clothes on the floor unsurely.
“What?”
“I should get going.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t drive here, remember?” He reminded you. His face fell uncertainly. Concerned. Brows creased. He came back to the bed, setting the clothes beside you and running a worried hand down your cheek.
“You feeling okay? That was kinda intense, huh?”
You ignored him.
“I’ll just… get an Uber or whatever.”
“You’re welcome to do whatever you need to but. You really don’t have to do that.” He said explicitly.
“I don’t want you in an uber like this. If you’re really uncomfortable I can drive you home, but I would rather you stayed here.” Brendon insisted.
“You would?”
He looked at you dumbly.
“Yes. Of corse I would. I want you to stay the night. But only if you’re okay with that of corse.” He said flat out.
A little smirk came to his lips.
“What, you thought I was gonna kick you out of my bed or something?”
It was a lighthearted joke to him.
Your face was straight.
His fell.
“Oh my god you thought I was just gonna kick you out of my bed?”
He looked… hurt, almost.
“Well you got what you wanted so…”
You still hadn’t taken the clothes, still naked back up against the headboard now.
He looked crushed.
“Is that the kind of guy you think I am?”
You didn’t know how to respond.
“Look, I know I’ve been known to be kinda douchey at the hospital but. I’m not like that in my personal life. Not with the women I date. I thought- we went out earlier, right? We had a nice date, we came back here and kept the fun going.” He explains, like he’s trying to prove he’s not the guy you think he is.
He looked unsure if his series of events was the same as yours.
“I don’t know how to prove it, but I’m not that guy. Really. I like you. Really like you. Have for some time.” He explained.
“I thought-“
You began. Than stopped.
He looked desperate for you to continue.
“What did you think, honey?”
Honey?
“That I was, I don’t know. Like. A challange.”
He muttered the word to himself.
“Jesus fuck. No. No you’re not just some challenge. Why the hell did you even go out with me- come home with me if you thought that?”
You shrugged.
“You’re very persuasive.”
“I was going for charming.” He dryly laughed.
“That too.”
He smiled softly.
“You’re pretty damn charming yourself.” He flirted.
You smiled shyly, and he felt a little better.
A little.
“Let me say it like this. I want you to stay the night with me. I want to cuddle and kiss you and sleep here together tonight, and in the morning I want to make you breakfast and drive you home like a gentleman, and maybe beg you to go out with me again sometimes. Is that okay?”
Shyly, you nodded.
And Brendon smiled gently.
Sighing in relief.
“We need to talk about this again, sometime. Maybe in the morning. But not right now, sweet girl”.
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
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