Before reading: English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
Overall Synopsis: A car accident leaves you with missing puzzle pieces to assemble—the stumble to blindly pick them out turns into the realization you have not only your career, places, and people to relearn, but also a boyfriend. Where will said puzzle pieces lead you to in the end? And to who, if anyone?
Overall Tropes: amnesia, second chance, strangers to friends, (more than) friends to lovers, idiots in love, slow burn (if you squint), forced proximity, workplace romance.
how brendon park and neurosurgeon!reader met + relationship timeline
warning: swearing, one dude being an ass, fluff
you met in medical school. first day.
you were talking to some guy, and he was on a rant about how "women should be in nursing or softer specialties" after you said that you plan to be a neurosurgeon. he said that you were too small and too nice (you were 5'4, not that small) for neurosurgery.
brendon came and told him to shut the fuck up, as well as, "if you can't handle women in surgery, maybe you should pick the softer specialty. " you remember that clear as day.
You two became inseparable. you had all the same classes, and he would let you draw little hearts and flowers on the corner of his notes because your page ran out of room. he'd hold the door for you, walk you to every class (though you had most of them together) and refused to let you carry your bookbag.
he'd sit in the courtyard with you and play with your hair while you laid under a tree in his lap and told him about the latest medical article you found or what your aunt did.
sure, he had his guy friends, but his everything was you. he'd go out to the bar every once in a while with his guys, and he'd bring you with your book. the first time he took you, he had to admit, your range was impressive, because you downed a beer then ordered an espresso martini. after the third time he brought you, you learned that arguing to pay wouldn't get anywhere with him.
whenever he got tired or burnt out, he'd pad his way (across campus, by the way) to your dorm, and come in and curl up on your chest. the moment you saw him walk in, you'd move over to the bed with your books, and he'd drop his head onto your chest and fall asleep almost instantly when your nails went into his hair.
you guys never officially started dating, so you mark that anniversary on the first day you kissed. your wedding was planned to be that same day.
in your fourth year of medical school, he was begging you to apply at PTMC with him for your residency. and you did.
the only reason he waited until you were attending to propose was himself and his worries. he worried that you would be done with him at the end of medical school (nope), that you wouldn't date him whole working at the same hospital (nope), that you would be done with him at the end of residency (nope).
on the dinner he was supposed to propose, he procrastinated it until you were getting up to leave. he forgot his speech, and just told you that he wouldn't know what to do without you, and that he can't live in a world without you now that you're in it, and that he needs you to marry him.
you didn't give him a chance to finish before flying into his arms crying. the suit jacket still has tear stains, and he doesn't plan on wearing it again any time soon.
English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
The text in small means they are speaking in Italian, and sometimes when Valentina talks, there will be literal translations from Italian (it's intentional).
Valentina was rushing to the auditorium. At the concierge, one of the scouts told her that the body was taken by Professor Blackwell, and he would perform the autopsy with some of his favorites. "Typical of him." She thought.
She managed to arrive before the students, while the professor was settling some things. "Good morning, Professor Blackwell."
He turned her way, confused. "Good morning, Miss Greco. If you're here to make another mess, you can go."
She made a fake smile, trying to contain herself. "I'm not here to 'make a mess', but to ask if I can attend the autopsy of Professor Thompson."
He regarded her with distaste. "This question is exactly what making a mess is. You know well that I don't like to have ladies distracting my students."
She was trying to maintain her smile, but her tone grew sharp. "And as I have always told you, 'I'm here to learn, not to distract.' If any of these young men get distracted, that's their problem, not mine."
"No." He barked.
She started to walk around the class, trying to remain composed. "You know, Professor Blackwell. In my short career, I have managed to get some powerful acquaintances. If you are not willing to allow me to attend the autopsy, I shall have the body transferred to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, so that I can do the autopsy myself. I don't imagine the college would be pleased to lose one of these precious bodies. Am I right?"
He laughed. “Nice bluff.”
“Are you willing to test your luck?” She said, stepping closer to him.
He watched her, disgusted. "Very well, you may stay."
She smiled, this time with joy, but he immediately destroyed that enthusiasm. "On one condition: you have to stay in your corner and not make a sound. Understood?"
She bit the inside of her cheek. "Yes, Professor Blackwell."
The class filled up fast. She was standing in her corner with her little notebook and her pen in her hands; she wasn't so far away from the table, but all the tall young gentlemen around her were making it a little difficult to see everything clearly.
That made her remember her days at Oxford: an unbearable professor who made it difficult for her to properly study, but it was fine; in the end, she always managed to do it. Like …
"Today, against my will, Miss Greco is going to be with us." Professor Blackwell's voice interrupted her memory.
All the boys were now facing her way, as if they were expecting something. Valentina smiled and gave a little wave. "Hi. It's a pleasure to be here."
They all responded to her with a hi, and some of them strangely waved back.
Blackwell sighed. "Let's start the lesson."
He started explaining the case using the blackboard, drawing the position in which the body was found: slumped over some papers, stained with blood, on his desk, and a blunt instrument stuck in his back; alongside, he noted the body temperature and the possible time of the death, between nine and eleven o'clock.
He turned to the students. "What can this suggest to us?"
She bit her lip. "It hit the lungs." She thought, then immediately wrote it down next to the drawing of the body.
Meanwhile, the class fell silent at the question. Some boys were mumbling to each other, some were unsure whether to say something, and others had no idea.
The professor got impatient. "The foreign object most probably hit the lungs." A murmur of surprise came up from the crowd. Valentina felt a broad smile coming, and immediately dropped her gaze to avoid being caught.
The body was already prepared by the professor, who had personally undressed it and removed the object before the class began. He invited one of the students to perform the autopsy under his guidance. Valentina noticed how scared the boy was doing the Y-shaped incision. It had to be perfect, or the dissection of the body would be a real mess, she knew this well.
Blackwell was focused on the student performing the incision, giving her the possibility to stealthily get close to the body. She managed to edge her way toward one of the boys standing furthest from the table.
After the student had finished, Blackwell congratulated him on a good job; then the student took the bone cutter and began to rip the cage. His face was marked by little drops of sweat, most probably caused by Blackwell's watchful stare.
When the last rib was removed, the sternum was completely visible.
The professor leaned toward the body. "What did you see?"
"I … There's blood around the lungs." The student responded, uncertain.
The professor waited for him to continue, but seeing that nothing would come out, he addressed the class. "Why is there blood around the lungs?"
The boys started to whisper to each other. Valentina wasn't so surprised by the behavior of the class; it had been the same back then, too: if you said something that Blackwell found foolish, you would be put on his blacklist.
She thought a little bit. Now that she had graduated, she was a doctor, a coroner, to be specific; if she said something, nothing bad could happen to her.
She took a big breath. "The theory holds." The whole class turned her way, and she felt herself flush. "The object hit the lungs, or at least one."
The professor watched her, not with anger, but with resignation. "Yes. Thank you, Miss Greco."
Valentina nodded, internally thanking whatever forces had kept her from being thrown out, while the class returned to face the corpse.
The student continued the autopsy, taking out the first organs: the left lung and the heart were pierced; meanwhile, the right lung was almost perfect.
“The killer must be left-handed.” She immediately thought, while writing that down, too.
Professor Blackwell continued the autopsy, explaining the possible cause, removing each organ in turn to show the students. All information that was completely unnecessary, in this case, for her.
She checked her clock and realized it was almost twelve, which was a big problem. She had to go to the crime scene, convince the police to let her enter, and go to Mycroft's apartment. Time wasn't on her side.
She sighed and watched the door. She had to leave now if she wanted to accomplish everything.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Professor Blackwell. Good day to you all.” She said hurriedly as she slipped out the door and started running, as much as decorum allowed, to the crime scene.
Valentina arrived at the room where two police officers were standing guard.
She took out her visiting card, which she always kept in her pocket, and approached the officer. "Good morning, constables. I'm Doctor Greco, a coroner. I would like to see the crime scene for personal investigation. Can I?"
The first officer took the card and examined it. "How amusing, a woman doctor."
Valentina sarcastically smiled at him.
The second one watched the card and then her. "Hold on, I think she may be telling the truth. I heard there is one who is Italian in London."
"Uhm, interesting." The first one said, composing himself. "Regardless, we can't let you enter, miss."
Valentina was ready to attack when someone came into the conversation.
"What is happening here?" It was Detective Fitget, directly from Scotland Yard. She wasn't so surprised by it.
He watched her, surprised. "Miss Greco, what are you doing here?"
"I was here for Sir Hodge's gala, sir. But now there has been a death and …."
"You thought of putting your nose here, too." He interrupted her.
She remained silent for a little bit, thinking whether to mention that she was there to help Mycroft.
"Yes. You know, I can't resist an unusual death." She said, preferring not to appear as a desperate creature seeking a man's attention.
"Ah, Miss Greco. I'm sorry to inform you, but this time your sixth sense misfired. It was the scout. We have all the evidence."
"I attended the autopsy early, and after I checked some information, I might be able to determine whether it was him."
"The autopsy isn't yet finished." He said, eyeing her strangely.
She thought about it. "I left early … but because Professor Blackwell was teaching about basic anatomy."
He sighed. "In any case, Miss Greco. Mr Holmes has escaped from prison, which makes him appear all the more guilty. But if you wish to waste your time, be my guest."
He signalled to the officer to let her through. "Don't touch anything."
She nodded. "Thank you. I will be careful."
She entered the room as the detective went on his way.
She took out her notebook and started to draw more details of the crime scene, which weren't mentioned during the lesson; most probably of little importance to the case, but she preferred to note them down anyway.
The crime scene was so clean: no signs of struggle, no signs of improvisation, no signs of the killer.
"Professor Thompson must not be his first victim." She thought while wandering around the room.
She sighed with irritation; there was nothing to exonerate Sherlock, just as there was nothing to incriminate him either.
"This must be a skilled killer for hire." She thought while burying her face in her hands.
She exited the room and, with an irritated stride, made her way to the carriages.
While walking, she was entirely absorbed in her thoughts and bumped into two constables.
"I'm so sorry." She said while looking up at them.
"Oh, it's my fault, ma'am." One of them said.
She stayed silent, analysing him; she was certain she had seen him somewhere before. "Have we met?"
They looked at each other, confused.
"I don't think so, ma'am. I have rather a common face." The first one said.
She made a puzzled sound, ready to say something, but the other one intervened. "I'm so sorry, ma'am, but we have to go."
The two officers rushed off to the concierge while whispering something to each other.
Valentina, now confused, kept on her way to Mycroft's apartment.
Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper, while waiting for Valentina in his apartment.
He checked the wall clock; it was almost two. He sighed while turning the page.
The doorbell rang, and the valet went to check. It was Valentina, he could tell by the amount of noise she was making.
“You finally arrived.” He said while she entered the room.
She was confused. “I wasn’t late.”
He sighed. “I didn’t say it.”
“You made it look.” She said, before noticing the food on the table. "Can I take one of these delicious sandwiches?"
He turned her way. "Yes, I had them made for you. I thought you would be running around all morning."
She took one. "You know me well, Mycroft."
In one bite, she ate the delicacy and took another one.
He watched her, annoyed. “That’s not ladylike.”
“Don’t start. I'm hungry.” She shouted while handing him her notebook open to the page with the notes.
Mycroft set aside the newspaper to take it. “Are these your findings?”
She nodded while chewing a piece of the new sandwich, then she got near the sofa and leaned against the back.
“Look here …” She started to explain all her notes to him, gesturing with the free hand and sometimes giving a bite to the food in the other.
At some point, her sharp perfume reached him and got him distracted. He was not a fan of heavy perfume, but on her it was nice. He gave her a quick look; her hair was all messy, and her make-up not retouched; most probably, she had run around all morning. For all the ways she tried to make herself look like she fit in the society, there was always something wild in her, which Mycroft always found rather endearing, but would never admit to her; he didn’t want to inflate her ego.
Something hit him on his shoulder, taking him by surprise; it was Valentina.
“Are you listening to me?” She screamed angrily.
He adjusted his jacket and looked ahead. "Yes, I just lost a sentence or two."
Valentina leaned ever more toward him. “Then what was I saying?”
The sudden approach unsettled him further. “Eeee … I … " He held a hand up between their faces. "Could you please move away?”
She did as asked and went to sit on the armchair in front of the sofa. "Mycroft, you are always the one to scold me for this when we work together."
"You talk fast, and sometimes your accent doesn't help out.” He was quiet for a moment, then looked at her. ”Could you let me pass this one?"
"Fine, just because I'm feeling generous today." She said, smiling, before growing serious. "Anyway, I was saying that the weapon only drilled the left lung and the heart; the right lung was intact, meaning that the object was most probably driven by the left hand, meaning that the killer was left-handed."
He hinted at a smile. "Sherlock is right-handed."
"Then most probably it wasn't him." She said with a triumphant smile.
He paused for a moment, thinking. "And that's everything?"
She finished chewing the sandwich. "Yes, Professor Thompson was sitting at the moment of the death, so the killer's height cannot be determined. But the crime scene was particularly tidy. Whoever it was, this was not their first time."
He sighed, looking worried. "The police are now using my mother's condition as further evidence."
She rolled her eyes and got up to go sit near the table with the food. "As in inheriting the same condition?"
He followed her with his eyes. "Yes"
"Why is your mother there?" She said while choosing her next victim.
He thought for a long time, choosing the right words. "We can say that she went crazy after a horrible accident."
She ate one of the biscuits while thinking about suitable medical terminology. "Like hysterical episodes?"
"We can say so."
She ate another biscuit to help her think better. "In my opinion, a person in a hysterical episode is not as careful as the one who killed Professor Thompson. Starting with the scene, the one I see is calculated; that wouldn't be the case. At least a fight should have happened. Another thing is the choice of the weapon, not random at all, it's so perfect for how the victim was at the moment of the killing."
He nodded, pleased. “Excellent job, Doctor Greco.”
“As always.” She modestly responded. “Did your brother come to you?”
“Not yet…" He paused. "How did you know?"
"I met Detective Fitget at the crime scene, and he told me."
Meanwhile, he got up with the newspaper in one hand and the notebook in the other, to go to the other chair at the table to give back her property.
"Thank you." She said while he returned to his newspaper.
She was choosing another thing to eat when the strange encounter from earlier returned to her mind. "Did you think your brother would be capable of going to the crime scene?"
He thought about it, amazed. "I don't think he would do something so stupid."
"I believe I saw him there with another person."
He sighed. "It isn't that I doubt you, Valentina. It's just that I prefer to believe that you may have mistaken him for someone else."
“As you wish." She said, laughing. "What’s your next move?"
He took his time to respond; she had already helped him enough, and there was nothing she could do at the asylum. "Tomorrow I will follow Sir Hodge in London at the Foreign Office. I wish to understand what he is planning.”
She looked at him, suspiciously. "Your brother is a fugitive, and you are going to do nothing all afternoon?"
"Yes." He responded dryly, without taking his eyes from the newspaper.
She knew that was a lie. He was hiding something from her, and that made her really irritated. "And you expect me to believe that?"
"Yes." He responded with a steady voice, glancing at her.
Valentina opened her mouth, ready to say something, then paused and thought: two arguments in two days, especially given what he was going through, wasn't the right thing. She took a deep breath. "If you consider yourself so far above everything that my help is not needed, I'm going to accept it."
"I'm impressed, Greco. Did you grow up overnight?" He said sarcastically.
She smiled. She didn't have enough self-control to take this.
"No." She started while pouring a cup of tea. "I'm tired of always arguing with you over trivial matters." She took the spoon and stirred her cup. "I want to know you, to help you, but every time I try, you just shut the door in my face." She continued, then sipped her tea.
He put down the newspaper and looked her in the eyes. "You mean pushing people?"
"You were the one who first showed an interest in me; you were the one who wanted me to open up to you, but you never did. I really care for you, and I want to know." She said, surprised, raising her voice.
"I don't want to do it." He responded with a harder tone.
She threw the cup on the table and leaned on the table to come closer to him. "You are a control freak. Maybe Sherlock didn't take your mother's issue, but you definitely did." She said acidly.
He did the same. "You're one to talk, the one that likes dismembered bodies, the one who finds the dead more interesting than the living, the one with a personal organs collection." He responded coldly.
She smiled and got up. "It seems like our relationship can only ever be professional. Have a nice day, Mr Holmes."
She walked angrily out of the room and went to the entrance door, waiting for the valet to bring her things, while he stayed silent in the living room.
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.”
Workout session - Brendon Park x f!resident!reader - Part 2
Masterlist - Main | Part 1
Summary: During your medical rotation, you develop a crush on Doctor Park, ‘The Shark’, and it never quite goes away. During your residency, you find yourself coming up with any excuse to call for his consult. Eventually, this habit leads to an complete workout session.
Warnings: public sex; reader is a little garrulous; power dynamics; use of y/n and y/s/n; reader is not athletic; medical inaccuracy; she/her reader; choking.
Author’s note: Sorry for the long wait. The only thing I was sure about when I began this was that it would be in two parts. I wasn't sure how to write the second one. I spent 2 months rewriting it. I'm exhausted. Hope you will enjoy it.
Before reading: English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
MDNI 18+
This shift looked like it didn’t want to finish. A trauma came in just before seven o’clock; you were finishing your last chart, and looked at the PC clock. "Shit, it’s eight o’clock." You rushed to the lockers to grab your things and head downstairs to the basement.
You didn’t know where his parking spot was, but it wasn’t difficult to figure it out; there weren’t a lot of tall, hot men angrily leaning on a luxury car.
He watches you angrily. “You’re late.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry. I was going to close everything, but then …”
“Get in.” He interrupts you while he opens the car door for you.
You enter the car. “Wow, didn’t expect you to be a gentle…” he shut the door, interrupting you.
While he was getting in, you could admire his marvelous luxurious car; orthopedics are really well paid.
He started the car and began your awkward drive.
You watch a little bit outside the window and then decide to break the ice. “Listen, I’m sorry. I was going to be on time, but then a trauma came in, and I had to go.”
“You could have let me know.”
“How? I don’t have your number, and even if I had it, I wouldn't have had time to do that.”
He sighs, and the awkward silence returns. You may be too chatty, but you really couldn't take all that silence. “Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to Extreme Gym, it’s a little outside the city. In fact, we’re going to take a little bit, but it’s worth it.”
You stretch and yawn. “Oh wow, can’t wait to see it.”
He gives you a quick glance. “Are you already tired?”
“What? No, no … It’s just that I made a double shift.” You respond while trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
You see that he gets a little angry. “What, you made a double shift and agreed to come?”
“Yes, you asked me, and I was worried that if I said no, there wouldn’t be any other possibility.”
His expression softened quickly. “That’s even more pathetic… Sleep, it's going to take a little while. I'll wake you up when we arrive.”
“Are you sure? Isn't it rude? I should keep you company while you’re driving.”
“It’s fine, y/n. Most likely, you’re going to talk all the time at the gym, too. At least I’m not going to listen to the same things.”
You smile, embarrassed. “I don’t always say the same thing. Anyway, wake me up when we arrive.”
You lean your head against the window and fall asleep, cradled by the movement of the car.
You arrive at the gym. As you enter, you realize it is really expensive and that you can't afford it.
You take Brendon’s arm and whisper, “Hey, I don’t think I can afford this, and I don’t have the clothes anyway.”
He looks at you without caring much about what you say. “It’s fine. I take care of it.”
He goes to the reception. “I have a friend with me tonight. It was a last-minute thing, and she didn’t have the right clothes. Do you have anything for her?”
The receptionist smiles at him. “Yes. What size do you need?”
“Wait… ” he says while gesturing for you to go there with him.
You notice it and walk over, leaning on the desk beside him. “Yes..?”
She smiles at you. “Could you please give me your size?”
You tell her. A little while after, she returns with a bunch of sets of different colors, and you take the one you like the most.
She checks the screen. “Ok, perfect. Then it’s the gym set + the entrance, right?”
“Let’s add a protein bar too,” he responds.
The receptionist taps on the cash register and tells him the total, which Brendon pays. You squint your eyes; that is actually a lot of money.
She hands the receipt to him. “Enjoy your workout.”
“Thank you.” You respond simultaneously while going to the changing room.
Even this is luxurious. You check a little bit around: clean toilets, functional hair dryers, showers that don't look like you could catch foot fungus, and there is even a sauna.
You put everything on the bench and eat the protein bar while opening your new gym set, which is composed of a top, a pair of leggings, and a tight sweatshirt. You change and put your hair up in a high ponytail.
Before heading out, you glance at yourself in the mirror and notice that not only is the top a push-up bra, but even the leggings too, not to mention how tight they are. You try to adjust it a bit, but you give up quickly and get out of the room.
In front of the door, there is Park with some knee-length leggings under short pants and a tight t-shirt, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for you. “You’re late, again.”
You look at him, confused. “How? I changed as fast as possible.”
He ignores it. “Did you eat?”
“Yes, thank you. Not just for the protein bar, but for the set and the entrance too.”
“Mmm … Let’s move now, you already took enough time.”
You whine. "You're so mean."
He laughs a little.
Brendon starts to talk about his routine, and you start to grow more worried. You usually have to ask for help to move patients; you really can't imagine doing all those things.
Brendon watches you, irritated. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, yes. It's just that I don't know if I can do all of those things."
"You're gonna be fine." He finishes while going on the treadmill.
He explains to you a little bit about how it works, and you two finally start your workout with a simple walk.
Brendon isn't a talker, and the silence starts again, but you really can't take it for much longer, and start to talk about some gossip that Princess and Perlah told you.
At some point, he had enough of your endless chat. "Ok, I think you walked sufficiently."
He pushes some buttons on your device, increasing your speed. Not expecting that, you almost fall, but you grab onto the bars just in time. You become out of breath really fast, being unable to continue talking.
When the first exercise is finished, you are already exhausted.
You grab his arm and whine. "That … was .. so … mean."
A smile starts to form on his face. “Let’s go do something simple, this way you can recover a little bit.”
You go to the bars, and he starts to explain the next exercise: weighted squat.
He enjoys how worried your face looks right now. "I start first, this way I'll show you."
You nod.
He starts doing his series, and you watch carefully to better understand how to do it, but your focus shifts rapidly. How he does the movement, how his muscles contract, and the sounds that he makes every time he moves.
He notices it immediately by watching your reflection in the mirror. "Are you watching, y/n?"
You tilt your head. "Yes."
"Not me, the exercise."
You nod animatedly.
He smiles and returns to do the squat.
“Ok, now it's your turn. You do the same, but with less weight.” He says while removing the weight plates from the barbell.
You get near the equipment. “What?! Are you crazy? I've never done this, you're going to hurt my back.”
“First, the weight is on the shoulders; second, if you keep your back in the right position, everything is going to be fine; and third", he goes behind you, leans a little near you, "I’m going to be here for safety.”
You go between the two columns, as he did before, position yourself, and take the bar in your hands.
“Wait, let me adjust your back.” He says before you can begin.
He puts his big hands at the height of the ribs and makes them slide all over your belly until he arrives at your hips, where he whispers in your ear, “Try tensing the muscle a little bit.”
You can see his predatory gaze, fixed on you, reflected in the mirror, and that gets you chills.
“Like this?” You say with a broken voice, meanwhile, your muscles are trying to follow his hands.
“Almost.” He responds by putting one hand on your stomach and the other one sliding on your ass. He adjusts your posture slightly. “Now you're perfect. Try to move.”
He turns serious and puts his hands parallel to the bars.
You try to do exactly as he has done: go down, and then push up, with all your strength. After making it, you exhale. “Oh, .. shit … that was … pretty hard.”
He watches you, a little confused. “You just began, you need to do the other 14.”
You open your eyes and exclaim, “14?!"
“Yes, and after that, 2 more blocks.”
“ 2 more?! They are 30, no wait … 45 in total.”
“Yes, this is how working out works. Is this your first time doing any kind of physical activity?”
You look at him in the mirror, embarrassed. “Yes.”
He sighs and watches you. “I know you weren’t athletic, but I didn't expect this. It’s not good for your health.”
You look at him, not knowing what to say, because he is right.
“Come on, continue to do the other 14, maybe I will give you a discount during the other blocks.”
Between squats and his hands finding increasingly inappropriate positions, you finish your 45 squats.
You two go to another device, and you go pale at how complicated it seems. He notices it. "I'm not gonna make you do this. You can sit and take a pause while you're waiting for me."
You let out something that resembles a thank you.
The rest of the workout feels like an excuse for touching you; you are pretty sure he has found a reason to touch every part of you. He even makes you do "a special exercise for the glutes", as he describes it, but you catch him watching your ass a couple of times.
“Ok, let’s do some stretching, and we should be finished.” He says while going to the mats.
You just nod. After all the things he has made you do, you don’t have enough breath to talk anymore.
He smiles maliciously. “Cat got your tongue?”
You give him a look.
“Come on, sit on the mat with your legs stretched out and try to reach for your feet.”
You do as he says, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t manage to reach your feet.
He notices it. “Seriously, y/n. You can’t even do this?”
You turn your head toward him. “It’s difficult!”
He sighs while shaking his head and comes behind you. He puts his big, rough hands on your back, making you shiver, and starts to push you down.
You start to go down, but your leg muscles start to pull tight. “Hey, stop. It’s hurting."
He ignores you, pulling you down more. "I’m serious, Brendon. Please …”
"I would save your prayers for later if I were you." He whispers in your ear.
You turn red and swallow.
After the stretching, you go to the changing room direction, followed by him.
“There are many women?” He asks you from behind.
You look at him, confused. “No, I think it's just me. I didn’t see anyone before.”
“Good.” He pushes you inside. “Let’s finish our workout with cardio.”
On his face now, a malicious smile and predatory eyes are analysing you.
You look at him, confused, and open your mouth to say something, but he is faster. He takes you by the hips and puts his lips on yours. Without time to process it, he puts his tongue in your mouth, and caught up in the moment, you go with the flow.
You put your hands around his neck, while his hands are going down on your ass.
You come off the kiss to catch breath. He's going to restart, but you put your hands between you.
"Wait. I don't understand." You say while trying to catch your breath.
He looks at you, annoyed. "What do you have to understand?"
"Like ... you want to have sex … with me?"
"Yes, why do you think I did all of this?"
"I don't know … get a revenge on me … by making me more pathetic?"
He laughs. "You're not just pathetic, you are a pervert too."
He lifts you. You gasp and hold on to him.
He is taking you to the shower when a doubt comes to you. “Wait … What if someone sees or hears us?”
"Now it's a problem?" He says acidly, then he sees your worried face, and gets a little softer. "It's fine. There are not a lot of people at this hour … You didn't see any woman in there, and I didn't see them in the gym either."
He arrives at a cabin, the one farthest from the locker, and puts you down.
He takes off his shoes, and you do the same.
You two start to kiss again and enter the shower. Meanwhile, you open the water to be sure that you two can be less audible.
The kiss becomes little by little more intense, your tongues are dancing together, while your bodies become steamy, and the water wets you.
“Kneel.” He commands with a raspy voice while breaking the kiss.
You don’t let him repeat himself and do as he says.
He brushes your face with his hands and puts a thumb on your mouth. “Let’s see if this chatty mouth of yours is good at blowing too.”
He puts his pants down enough to let his semi-erect dick out. You stare at it; you didn’t expect to be this big.
You put a hand at the end, while with the other one you start to move up and down on his length. He strongly huffs, takes your hair, and places your head near his tip. You start to lick it, then put your lips on it, and look up at him. He strongly huffs again.
You start to take his dick in your mouth, sucking every inch of it, while going up and down as far as you can, without taking your eyes off him.
He smiles. "And you are pornographic too."
You continue between his wet sounds, when at some point he pushes your head deeper. You feel like you miss the air, and something is trembling. You put a hand between your thighs and start to squeeze them as hard as you can.
He takes out your head from his dick and comes on your face. “Fuck, you're good.”
You start panting while registering what just happened.
He takes off his shirt and takes your face in his hands. “Come here, let me clean you.”
He cleans everything up, and while helping you get up, he sees your hands between your thighs. “What you got here?"
Your face starts to turn red while you think about what just happened to you.
“Fuck.” You whisper while leaning against the wall.
He laughs. "Don’t tell me you just came?”
He puts a hand between your legs and his mouth on your ear. “That’s pretty hot.”
His hand finds your heat. "Why don't I take care of it?”
Your body shivers, and you can see how it is waiting for your response. You nod.
"With your words."
"Yes."
He starts by slowly putting a finger in you, moving it up and down, gently, and brushing your clitoris with his thumb. Your hips start to move a little, and a moan comes out of you.
Pleased by that sound, he puts another finger inside you and moves it faster.
Your hips follow his rhythm, while you feel all your body tingling, and the heat between your legs explodes throughout your body.
“Brendon …” You moan.
He looks at you, intensely. “With your words.”
“I’m … going … to come.” You say between your wet sounds.
He smiles and moves his fingers even faster, while his lips start to come down on your neck, leaving little hickeys all around it.
His rough fingers push deeper inside you until you come.
A little scream is coming from you, but you muffle it on his shoulder.
You look exhausted, your body is all sweaty, and you’re basically melting for him. This view gets him hard pretty fast.
“We need to work better on your stamina, or I'm gonna do all the work here.” He says while taking your hips. ”But for today, it can pass; you did a pretty good job.”
He kisses you, this time even more passionately.
You try to hint an ok, but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a gasp.
You can feel his lips rise while he takes your leggings. He starts to pull them down while kissing all your body, until he reaches your folds. He bites your inner thigh, and you moan while taking his hair with your hand.
He gets up and puts your hands on his neck. “Hold on to me.”
You do as told, and he takes one of your legs up, at the level of his hips. You gasp and risk slipping, but he catches you in time, and you squeeze the grip hard. “Careful.”
He positions his pulsing, hard dick in front of your opening, sliding it inside you. His gaze is fixed on yours, your nose brushes, and your lips touch each other.
This time, you start the kiss, your mouth touches, and your tongues intertwine. Meanwhile, he is completely inside you.
He starts to slowly move, and your breath becomes heavy. With each push comes a moan from you and a growl from him.
He moves faster, you grip harder on his shoulder, and more moans come from you. He smiles, pleased by that.
The more he pushes inside you, the more you can feel the fire inside you coming to an edge.
“I’m coming.” You breathe out.
“Me too.” He answers roughly.
You try to keep your voice down, but your moans become louder. Your grip on his shoulders becomes stronger as you feel your cunt tighten around him as he explodes inside you, while a rough sound comes from him.
He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, both of you catching your breath, before he pulls back and looks at you. “You did a pretty good job.” He kisses your lips. “Now let’s wash you.”
Warnings: explosion, historical inaccuracies, sherlock doesn’t like physical touch, slow burn but not really, not proof read
Word Count: 3.9k
Summary: Sherlock Holmes attempts to be apart of your life again.
a/n: I keep taking forever to write this fic, I’m sorry, I just want it to be good so I overthink everything
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Classes and studying took up most of your time at Oxford, but the times you found yourself wandering the campus suddenly felt too frequent. Now knowing that Sherlock Holmes was somewhere around the university was a bit startling.
You’d come to realize, during your short conversation with the Holmes boy, that you did not have any interest in speaking with him. A bitterness that had been buried deep within you suddenly reemerged, resentment that you carried for Sherlock after he left you in that countryside years ago. While you understood the circumstances of his departure, it never sat right with you. He never said goodbye to his friend, he had just forsaken you.
Now, his attempts to rekindle whatever friendship you once had would be neglected by you.
You’d spotted Sherlock a few times along the campus streets. Once when he was collecting trash, another as he raked the leaves along a courtyard, and a third time delivering fresh toiletries to a public lavatory. Each time, you failed to evade his gaze. It was like Sherlock had a sixth sense for you. Nevertheless, each time, you would quickly pivot and shift your course away from his. Of course he called out for you, but you knew the campus better than he did and you managed to escape.
A couple days after you first reunited with the youngest Holmes brother, you had been departing from your residence hall when you ran into yet another familiar face. You were surprised to recognize Mycroft Holmes so quickly, but the confident, composed nature of how he presented himself had always been so irresistible when you were younger. You would recognize it anywhere. Mycroft strode along the cobblestone streets, cane in hand, no doubt only to show off the aristocratic man he’d become. His suit had been tailored to perfection, and a hat that further embraced his respectable status. Mycroft Holmes was still, if not even more compelling than last you saw him. Even if you had outgrown your silly infatuation with the eldest Holmes, you found yourself unintentionally moving towards him. You weren’t upset with him like you were with Sherlock, Mycroft had left the countryside to pursue work long before the incident. At least he said goodbye.
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?” You approached him, a delighted grin pulling at the corners of your lips. Mycroft turned at the sound of his name, squinting slightly as his eyes landed on you. It had been years since you had last seen each other, and you weren’t the young girl he remembered. While he donned a new mustache above his upper lip, you changed in more ways than one.
It took Mycroft a moment longer than Sherlock before he spoke your name, expression lighting up with surprise. “How remiss of me to forget you attend this University!” A polite smile replaced his previous countenance as he removed his hat before tipping his head respectfully.
You bowed your head in return, “It’s lovely to see you.”
“And you as well.”
“What brings you here?” You inquire, brows furrowing curiously, though a slight smile remained on your face. “I don’t suppose you’re here as a scout too?” You teased, earning a slight chuckle from the older gentleman.
“Business for the foreign office.” Mycroft answered simply, carefully placing his hat back on his head. “I’m on the way to attend Professor Hodge’s gala opening for the new science building.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you any longer then.” You moved to step back, excusing yourself from the conversation.
Mycroft shook his head, “No, join me, I insist. I could use a friend.” He smiled again, more genuine than the first, indicating he truly meant his offer. He extended his arm out to you.
You took a short moment to think it over. “Sherlock won’t be there?” You asked, framing the question as a casual inquiry, although there was much more intent behind it.
Mycroft sighed like he knew something, shaking his head as if your question was ridiculous. “For both of our sakes, I certainly hope not.” He lifted his arm a little higher, extending the offer to you once more.
You gave in and accepted, nodding your head and looped your arm around his.
The Gala was a polished, yet pretentious event, full of professors and other high society members, all gathered in one place to celebrate Oxford's newest accomplishment. It was the kind of place your parents wanted you to be, and the kind that Sherlock would argue you aren’t made for.
You sat beside Mycroft at a table near the back of the room, seated with Professor Hodge’s assistant you knew as Edie, a few professors you weren’t familiar with, and a couple of men who aided in funding the building.
“Nothing has such power to broaden the mind as the ability to investigate.” Professor Hodge stood upon the stage, arms resting atop a podium as he addressed the crowd. You found yourself giving the professor barely a fraction of your attention, eyes wandering around the room as you inadvertently searched for Sherlock among the sea of faces. Although you knew events like this weren’t exactly his cup of tea, the chance of his arrival was not unlikely.
Hodge continued, “I must now make mention of our brilliant mathematician, Professor Charles Thompson, for his invaluable contribution. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to charge your glasses-” A resounding thump interrupted the professor's speech, startling you along with a few other guests. The noise came from the wall behind Professor Hodge, brick and mortar crumbling as the structure collapsed more and more with each thud. You had to crane your neck, sitting taller in your seat as you attempted to get a better look at the commotion.
“Holmes, what the devil are you doing in my chimney?” You overheard the professor before Sherlock came into view, heading poking out of the opening he had created in the wall. Your eyes flew wide and you turned to look at Mycroft, who let out a defeated sigh, now hiding his face behind his hand.
“Sorry to bother you, sir! A rather pressing issue,” Sherlock replied, voice strained with effort as he continued to break the wall down.
“Well, I hope it is for your sake. What is it?”
“A bomb!” Sherlock spoke louder now, a more desperate tone to his voice. “A bomb is an incendiary device-”
“I know what a bloody bomb is, Holmes! What has that got to do with interrupting my speech and destroying my chimney?”
“Proximity, sir. It’s likely to go off within the next thirty seconds, killing anyone within the blast radius, which I would assume is likely to be… pretty likely this whole room, sir.” Sherlock emerged from behind what used to be the chimney.
Professor Hodge responded quietly, something you couldn’t hear from where you were sitting. Your eyes passed over the guests who made no effort to heed Sherlock’s warning. To be fair, it sounded ridiculous.
“Should we be moving?” You whispered to Mycroft, slight panic in your voice.
James Moriarty stepped out from behind Sherlock, much more urgency in his tone. “For God’s sake, would you stop being so English! There’s a bomb!” With that, the room erupted into screams of panic. Mycroft quickly urged you up and out of your seat, trying his best to guide you through the crowd as people began to run. Chairs screeched against the floor as guests shuffled to get out. Everyone made for the door, some tripping over themselves as they pushed past others.
You barely made it out of the room before an explosion went off behind you, bursting with fire and soot. The detonation left a ringing in your ears, the world becoming quieter, the guests frightened screams fading into no more than a fuzzy white noise. You looked around, slightly disoriented. Mycroft was beside you still, already looking down at you and asking if you were okay. You only nodded, bringing a hand up to rub your temple in efforts to soothe a subtle throb that had begun to develop.
Once again, you found yourself searching the crowd for Sherlock. Unlike the last few times, you realized you wanted to find him. Your heart rate began to pick up when he was nowhere to be found. Sherlock’s name slipped from your lips unintentionally. Mycroft noticed and placed his hand on your shoulder in a comforting manner. He said something to you, but you couldn’t focus beyond the loud ringing in your ears. You turned, looking back towards the smoking entrance of the science building, and as if on cue, Sherlock Holmes emerged from inside with James Moriarty by his side.
He was wiping soot from his face when his gaze caught your own. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, afraid that if he moved any closer, you would disappear like all the other times. This time, you didn’t turn away. You felt your concern ease, instead replaced by something else.
Much to Sherlock’s surprise, you approached him in a quick, dire stride. He almost smiled, thrilled that you had come to your senses and decided to speak with him again, but he recognized your expression, and any trace of a grin faded in an instant. “Oh no,” he muttered, horror crossing over his features.
“What?” James questioned, turning to follow his friend’s line of sight, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for.
Before Sherlock had time to answer, you were in front of the two men, hands flying out to hit Sherlock on the chest over and over again. “You absolute fool! What is wrong with you?” You scolded him, releasing your pent up anger through the light blows to his chest.
Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, his eyes shutting as he took the strikes without complaint. Of course it wasn’t an enjoyable sensation for him, but he didn’t have the guts to tell you to stop. “I’m not sure I understand this reaction?” He forced the words, peaking through a squinted eye.
You stopped hitting him, though the angry glare hurt him just as bad. “Really? You think you can show up without warning after six years! And on top of that, barge into this gala, blow it up, and still have the nerve to act like everything is fine and you’re the hero!”
“For your information, I did no such thing. I had no part in this explosion, James and I were attempting to stop it.” Sherlock defended, rolling his shoulders back in efforts to remove the tension. You gave him another sharp look which earned an amused snicker from James. Sherlock quickly swallowed his words, realizing his mistake. He adjusted his coat and cleared his throat as he regained his composure. “James, would you give us a moment?” Sherlock spoke staidly, looking towards his friend, who teased shamelessly,
“Oh, of course, don’t let me keep you two lovebirds.” He bowed his head, feigning politeness before backing away slowly and disappearing into the chaos of the explosion aftermath.
Sherlock let out a huff, nostrils flared with his momentary irritation before his gaze caught yours once more. Something softened, though he looked at you now with uncertainty. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock shook his head. “You have been avoiding me for days. What’s changed?”
“Oh, don’t be a hypocrite. If distance is what is confusing you, then you should not have disappeared six years ago.” The words hit Sherlock hard, realization rushing over him all at once.
He blinked, for once at a loss for words. “No, that…” Sherlock shook his head, regret overwhelming him suddenly. He longed to reach out to you, as if that would be any reconciliation for how you were feeling, for this misunderstanding, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Words didn’t feel like enough with you, they never did, but that’s the only way he ever knew. “That’s not what happened,” He began to protest, but was unable to when his name was called somewhere in the distance.
It was a very dishevelled looking Professor Hodge, accompanied by Edie and Mycroft, all whose patience seemed to be a short fuse. Sherlock looked back and forth, torn between his options. He opened his mouth to speak, but was once again interrupted by the sound of his name, this time from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, knowing he wouldn’t have much time before being rudely interrupted once again. “I can assure you, I never intended for that to happen. Allow me time to explain. I’ll find you later. Just promise you’ll listen?”
You looked at him, eyebrows a tense line as you considered his advance. You didn’t answer, but something in you softened, and of course Sherlock noticed. He always noticed. “Thank you.” He said softly before making his way towards Hodge and the others.
Sherlock didn’t find you in your dorm later that night. He knocked on the door once and waited, but there was no response. He knocked a second time, telling himself you just needed a moment to compose yourself. Still, there was no answer. Then he knocked a third time, and once more after that for good measure. You never answered and he felt his heart falter with defeat. It was simply too late. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had lost you for good.
When he returned to his room later that night with James Moriarty at his side once more, he slumped into a lopsided chair beside his desk and sighed deeply. Guilt and frustration overcame him, a frown pulling at his lips and a deep crease forming between his brows. He discarded his jacket, tossing it lazily onto the foot of his bed before running a hand through his hair as James approached him with a drink.
“You look rather down in the dumps for a man who should be celebrating.” James remarked, sitting down on the armchair across from Sherlock, looking rather proud with that signature smirk he always wore.
“And what exactly should we be celebrating?” Sherlock inquired, picking up his drink and swirling the liquid inside the glass as he looked down at it. “We haven’t exactly solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?”
“And that is not our concern.” James countered, nonchalance radiating from him as he comfortably reclined back in his seat.
“Not our concern?” Sherlock repeated, leaning forward in contrast to James.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I’m not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison. So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James retorted, lifting his glass and taking a sip of his drink with a look of assurity on his face.
Sherlock didn’t argue. He turned, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his gaze roamed over the window. The room was silent for a moment before James began humming to himself. Sherlock was moments away from slipping away into the safety of his overactive imagination and hyperanalyze every action of his day when a knock sounded at the door.
James and Sherlock shared a look before the Irishman spoke, “Are you expecting company?”
Sherlock stood, shaking his head as he made his way to the door, “I am not.” He eyed the door suspiciously, taking hold of the knob before twisting it open to reveal you. Your name passed from his lips, his tone the most encouraged it had sounded in hours. “You weren’t in your room?” He recalled, brows furrowing with curiosity as he looked at you.
“I was not.” You shook your head. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to face you.”
“And now?”
You held his gaze for a long moment, your expression finally free of any animosity or preconceptions. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing you into the room. He watched as you entered, his gaze burned to you like he was afraid if he blinked you would be gone again. He closed the door behind, flexing his fingers as he released the handle.
“Oh, I was not aware anyone else was here.” You look between James and Sherlock, deciding whether you should stay or come back another time.
“Don’t mind me,” James waved it off, now on his feet and approaching the floor mirror which held his jacket. “I have a previous arrangement to get to."
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, agreeing though he had no such knowledge of these arrangements James spoke of. “He was just leaving.”
James smiled in the way he always does, first to Sherlock then to you as he shimmed into his jacket. “So, Romeo, Juliet, good night, good night.” He teased, backing towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night… ‘Cause I am off to the pub.” With that, the door swung close behind him and you and Sherlock were left alone.
The room almost felt smaller now. Filled with a tension so great it was almost palpable. The silence was deafening and your heart threatened to escape from your chest. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what to say, where to begin. All he knew was that he was treading on thin ice. “Would you like something to drink?” He finally spoke, the words coming out strained.
You nodded quickly, “Yes, please.” While you would usually say no, the situation at hand felt in dire need of one.
In an instant, Sherlock was moving towards his liquor table to fix you something. You stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, looking around at nothing in particular. The walls were bare and the room itself lacked personality, yet you found it easier to observe rather than the man in front of you.
“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be occupied on pouring a drink, not yet having the courage to look at you just yet.
“Mycroft mentioned something earlier.” You shrugged, fidgeting with your hands idly as you turned to look at Sherlock- or more so his back, which your eyes inadvertently roamed over, his white undershirt not leaving much to imagination. You cleared your throat when you caught yourself, quickly peeling your eyes away when he turned.
“Ah, of course he did.” Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “What more did brother dear say about me?” He inquired, handing you your drink.
You looked down at the cup, “To be truthful, there was minimal interest in the topic. Just a few fleeting mentions here and there.” You took a sip of the strong liquid, the drink burning the back of your throat, just delightfully enough to distract you from the tension between you and Sherlock.
“Right then…” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, picking up his own drink before suddenly becoming aware of the fact that you were both still standing in the middle of his room. “Oh, please sit. Do make yourself comfortable.” He stretched an arm out, pointing towards the armchair James sat on only moments before.
You sighed and made no movement toward the chair, just shaking your head before saying, “Sherlock, we both know I’m not here to catch up.”
“Yes, you’re right,” He exhaled, knowing he couldn’t avoid anything any longer. Sherlock took a step, finding his chair before slumping into it like before. He took a moment, going over the millions of things he could say, thinking back on the speech he’d prepared to say to you earlier, but once again, the words didn’t seem adequate. He began despite, “I never meant to leave you so suddenly, those six years ago.”
“You did not intend to, yet you did.” You spoke defensively, the words leaving your mouth before you could suppress the reaction. “You disappeared Sherlock. You did not have to. You could have written at least.”
“You are right. I should have. I was foolish not to.” Sherlock placed his drink down, looking at you with the most sincerity you had ever seen from him. “After everything that happened that summer. After Beatrice, then my mother, everything became disoriented.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Father told me he was sending me to finishing school that very same day I left, it was all so sudden. I wanted to say goodbye, I did, but I thought that maybe it would be better if I just disappeared. Your life had a clear path, mine did not. I always knew your parents disliked my interference, in fear that your life would become disorderly like mine. So I decided to step back. Your life would be better without me. I acted in your best interest.”
“You acted in my best interest?” You repeated, almost dropping your glass. “Your disappearance was you being gracious to me?” You took a few steps closer, looking down at him with your brows raised.
“Yes…” Sherlock nodded, confusion spreading across his features, like he wasn’t quite sure what he had said wrong.
You continued looking at Sherlock with absolute disbelief. “You thought you could just decide what is best for me, and I would just accept it? Just move on and forget about you so easily like you never meant anything to me?”
“Well… when you put it like that-”
“Sherlock, you were my best friend! I was never afraid of your mess, I didn’t care! I don’t! So do not try to act in my best interest. The life I wanted was never about order or the things you felt you could not offer me. The life I wanted always involved you!” You spoke firmly now, voice raised the slighted bit, though there was a desperate frailty to it.
Sherlock stood there just looking at you, his eyes wandering over your face, trying to find the right words to respond. Eventually, he managed, “I am so sorry.” The words came out weak and broken. “I’m not sure what I can say now to make things right. I’m not sure anything could ever suffice for what I did to you… All I ask is another chance?”
You didn’t answer instantly, although you knew you wanted the same thing. Him back in your life. Your gaze travelled across his face, eventually lingering on a patch of dried blood over his temple. “You missed some,” You said softly, turning to the wash basin behind you and reaching for the face cloth beside it. Tenderly, you brought your free hand to his chin, tilting his face upwards before bringing the cloth up to his temple to rub at the blood stained there.
Sherlock’s eyes were glued to you. Your touch burned into his skin. Unlike other times, he found himself dreading the moment you would inevitably move away. He leaned into you, wanting to be close, needing to. The six years without you were not without his own displeasures. He missed you dearly throughout it all. Despite his uncertainty as you delicately held him, and the racing of his heart from being so close to you, he savored the feeling and didn’t want you to let go.
To his disappointment, you did eventually pull away, placing the wash cloth down and stepping back before softly speaking, “I should go.”
Sherlock swallowed, “Alright.” It was all he could manage at the moment, looking up at you through half lidded eyes.
You slowly turned, moving towards the door and fidgeting with your fingers as you debated whether or not to speak again. “I suppose I will see you tomorrow.” You finally said, hands on the doorknob, turning over your shoulder to look at him one last time.
Sherlock nodded, a small smile finding its way onto his lips. “I look forward to it.”
English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
The text in small means they are speaking in Italian, and sometimes when Valentina talks, there will be literal translations from Italian (it's intentional).
Adelaide, Valentina, and Miss Campbell were downstairs in the little living room, having breakfast at the table near the window.
Valentina was thinking about the other night's debate with Mycroft. They always argued about little things, mainly because of their opposing temperaments: he always approached with caution, while she was more direct. While working, it was fine, but outside of it, this difference always led to antagonism.
“I should tidy up this apartment, it’s so boring. What do you think, Miss Campbell?” Adelaide said while watching around the room.
“A little redecorating could make it more livable.”
Adelaide nodded, starting to think of what changes she might make.
Valentina watched a little around too and entered the conversation. “I have to say that I agree with you. All the rooms are rather gloomy.”
"What did you do last night?" Adelaide said quickly, eyeing her suspiciously.
Valentina stayed silent for a fraction of a second, considering whether to mention or not the umpteenth discussion. "Nothing interesting."
Adelaide glared at her. "Then why did you come home so late?"
"I was waiting for you to calm down."
"With whom? Mycroft?"
Valentina sighed, desperate; there was no escaping Lady Ashcombe's sixth sense for gossip. "Yes."
Adelaide smiled. "What did you do?"
"Nothing, we just had a drink and a chat at his apartment."
"Delicate."
"I swear…" Valentina paused, thinking about a way to distract her friend. "Actually, we argued."
"Did you drive him to exasperation again?" Adelaide exclaimed to her, not so surprised.
"That is not how it went. I was just asking about his brother."
"He has a brother?"
Valentina smiled, offering her something more enticing was always a nice move. "Yes, he was the first young man who came out of the hole at the ceremony."
Adelaide nodded. "What was the argument about?"
Valentina sighed. Unfortunately, this time the change of subject didn't work. "Can we stop talking about this? The one driving someone to exasperation right now is you. When I'm ready, I will talk."
"All right, all right." Adelaide stirred her spoon in her cup and turned back to Miss Campbell. "As I was saying…"
While the three ladies were chatting about how to make the apartment more comfortable, people on the street began to stir.
“What is happening outside?” Valentina said, glancing at the windows. Not seeing anything of note, she leaned out of the window and called down to someone. “Excuse me, kid. What is happening?”
The young boy turned in her direction. “They found a professor dead in Magdalen College, ma’am.”
“What?!” She responded, surprised, as her curiosity grew.
“You don’t need to be scared, ma’am. The killer has already been caught.”
“Who was it?”
”If I’m not wrong, he was a scout. I think his name is Sherlock.”
“What?!” Valentina got up from the chair, shocked, and ran to the exit door.
“What are you doing?” Screamed Adelaide, confused.
Valentina was at the door putting on her shoes. “He is Mycroft‘s brother. I am just going to check on something.”
She rushed out into the street and hailed a carriage to go to Mycroft's apartment.
The carriage was going to Magdalen College. At Mycroft’s apartment, they told her that he had gone there shortly before she arrived to try to fix his brother's mess.
Valentina was watching outside, thinking about how foolish she was being. The other night, they argued, neither had apologised, both too proud to do so, and now she was rushing to him. She didn’t want to look like a desperate creature …
“We have arrived, ma'am.” The coachman interrupted her train of thought.
She was stepping out when someone approached her from behind. “Greco, what are you doing here?”
She didn’t need to turn to know who it was; that faintly irritated tone could belong to only one man. “Mycroft, I was looking for you. What happened with your brother?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She made a face, irritated. “Yes, you can! I’m a coroner.”
He gave a quick look around, as though he were about to do something illegal, and drew closer to her. "They found Professor Thompson dead and suspect Sherlock, as he was found with traces of blood on his shirt and face."
Her expression shifted entirely, becoming more serious. "Mm … interesting.” She quickly thought of what she could do to help. ”I shall attend the autopsy and see if I can have a look at the crime scene."
"There is no need." He responded, surprised.
She looked at him, concerned. "Yes, there is. You cannot do all of this alone; this isn't taking him out of prison for some foolishness. This is a murder. You are just his brother; it ought to be your father's place to sort this out."
His expression softened. "Valentina, listen, Sir Hodge told me that keeping my brother locked up suits his own purpose. I don't know what you can do."
She laughed. "The same as you, and you are going to try regardless. Then let me help you out; you already helped me in the past, allow me to return the favour."
"I will say it again, there is no need for you to get involved in this."
She hesitated for a moment, then put her hand on his shoulder. "Let's meet at your apartment in the afternoon."
"Very well. I'm going to speak with my brother, then." He said without much conviction.
Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x (female) wife! deaf! reader.
Summary: There's a multi-vehicle accident, and the ER staff is taken aback when Park “The Shark” refuses to treat one of the patients. They're even more surprised when they discover she's his wife.
Warning: Possible medical inaccuracies. Possible inaccuracies about deafness. Swearing. Brendon Park himself. Age difference, height difference. References to sex, but nothing explicit. Hurt/Comfort
Words: 5586.
Taglist: @my-whole-brain-is-crying @celestephung @leksi-rae @chelle-1515 @minienix @mythologicallyversed @mxtokko @tears-of-acid-and-sluts @susp3ndedindusk @helenaellie @rei-scorpio @ivy-stuffs @dutch3-10 @catharticdesire @sidneysidney123 @fics-from-the-dead @eddiemunsonguitar @thedragonsrose @mynameisbaby9 @simply-lovley44 @dr3obsessed @mayabbot @bbblackmamba @harryswizzle @miichelleswriting @alphafemale-15 @rabbotseatcarrots @b38596012 @lipsunsmokedcigarette @pastlecow @kingtitus @stevieharrington71 @asfaraslifegets @noyaisasimp @loki-trickst3r @miahelen @xoxoloverb @brown-eyes-cello-and-books @seitmai @boricuas-fic-recs
I tried to follow everything you told me to make it as accurate as possible, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Anyway, thank you very much for replying to me @brown-eyes-cello-and-books
The sunlight filtered timidly through the fissures of the heavy blackout curtains, tracing gilded lines across the rumpled blankets. That morning, like so many others before it, the world did not yet fully exist; there was only the pervasive warmth and the steady, grounding presence at your back.
Brendon woke you as he always did. He used no words, favoring the language you both mastered best: touch. It began with soft, lingering kisses along the curve of your neck as his hand descended to squeeze your hips with possessive affection. It was a silent gesture—an unspoken “I’m here, Doll”—as he drew you flush against his naked heat, letting you feel his morning arousal brushing against the small of your back.
It wasn’t a demand for sex, but a tether—a life-affirming reminder of the electric intimacy that, even after two years of marriage, remained vibrantly intact.
You buried your face in the pillow with a languid, muffled sigh, shivering at the sensation of his calloused fingertips against your skin. Brendon was in no rush. He took his time, dragging the tip of his nose along your jawline to inhale your natural scent before it was camouflaged by the citrus perfume you always asked him to buy.
After assuring himself—with one last firm squeeze and a delicate kiss to the nape of your neck—that you wouldn’t drift back to sleep, he finally pulled away. The mattress felt cavernous without his massive frame filling his side of the bed. He stood and moved with an agility that defied his sheer size; even after all this time, and despite accompanying him to the gym, you couldn't fathom how a man of his build could move so gracefully.
He lingered for a moment at the foot of the bed, watching you as he stretched his muscles, before pulling on a pair of briefs that did little to hide his hardness—though he seemed entirely indifferent to it. His blue eyes glinted with that specific blend of adoration and mischief he reserved solely for you and your shared mornings. He gave you a slow, knowing smile, well aware that in this precise moment, the world was "silent" for you.
He knew—not for nothing had he been married to you for years—that wearing your cochlear implants for more than six hours at a time was a sensory nightmare. Usually, you only removed them when the noise became a physical torture of overstimulation. Or, more often, he would remove them himself, having learned to read every micro-expression of discomfort on your face.
He strode from the room, granting you those final minutes of absolute peace. By habit, you knew he was heading straight for the kitchen. Though you couldn't hear it, your mind reconstructed the soundtrack of his actions with crystalline clarity: the electric roar of the grinder pulverizing specialty coffee beans—ridiculously expensive in your opinion, but purchased because he preferred the best—and the delicate clink of ceramic mugs meeting the black marble island.
It was a ritual, a domestic choreography executed with a precision born of devotion. Black, potent coffee for him; a thick, velvety hot chocolate for you. This was his nonverbal syntax, his way of tending to you, of reminding you that you were his—that he chose you above all else, every single day.
You lingered a moment longer amidst the Egyptian cotton—another luxury Brendon insisted upon, and a far cry from the scratchy linens you'd known in the system—feeling his residual warmth fade. You wondered what he was "inventing" for breakfast. Brendon was not a man for simple toast; for him, the kitchen was another theatre of mastery. He was as deft with a chef’s knife as he was with a scalpel in the operating room.
Gradually, the aroma of his cooking began to seep beneath the door. You rose and donned one of his oversized shirts, ignoring the silk robes in your own dressing room. The fabric draped over your bare skin, concealing the handprints, love bites, and bruises Brendon had marked you with the night before.
You moved slowly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and a lingering tenderness from your husband's attentions. Reaching for the hard case on the nightstand, your fingers closed around it with mechanical familiarity. You snapped the processors behind your ears, feeling the faint click of the magnets engaging.
A soft electronic beep signaled the end of your silence. Suddenly, the stillness was replaced by the low hum of the radio and the distant murmur of Brendon’s voice as he mentally retraced the steps of his first scheduled surgery.
You walked barefoot, the chill of the dark hardwood floors biting at your soles. Brendon’s shirt, made of an impossibly soft weave, brushed against your knees as you padded down the hallway. The scent was now unmistakable: fresh coffee, rich chocolate, and the savory salt of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs on seeded toast.
At the kitchen threshold, you paused, leaning against the frame of the French doors. He stood with his back to you, focused on the stove, his broad, muscular shoulders bathed in the clear morning light. Across his shoulder blades, you could see the evidence of your own passion: long, crimson furrows where your nails had dug in, as if he’d been marked by a wolf. They were the silent testimony of the pleasure he had elicited with his hands, his tongue, and his body. Had it been four orgasms? Five?
He didn't need you to speak to know you were there; it was a sixth sense he’d developed over their time together. He turned slowly, spatula in hand, wearing that half-smile he kept only for you.
"Good morning, Doll," he said, his voice reaching your implants with a vibrant, resonant warmth. "I was starting to think I’d have to bring breakfast to you."
His gaze raked over the shirt—recognizing his own garment—and the flare of heat in his eyes at the sight of his marks on your skin almost made you wish for more.
"Good morning, Big Guy," you murmured lazily, stepping forward to curl into his chest.
He welcomed you with a protective arm, hooking it around your waist to haul you flush against him while his other hand remained busy with the pan. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating. As you pressed your face into his bare chest, Brendon let out a low, rumbling laugh—a deep vibration you felt against your cheek before your implants even processed the sound. It was your favorite sound in the world.
"It looks better on you than it does on me, Babydoll," he said, setting the spatula aside to thread his fingers through your sleep-muddled hair, gently tilting your head back to meet his gaze. "I could get used to this view, though I’d run out of clothes in a week."
He looked at you with a predatory intensity, savoring the contrast of his massive shirt against your petite frame. His thumb traced the edge of a bruise on your neck—a mark he had carved there himself. An electric shiver of possession raced down your spine, a reminder that while the outside world was a chaotic mess, here, there was only the two of you.
"Now, breakfast," he said, punctuated by a firm swat to your backside—hard enough to sting and leave yet another mark.
You let out a small gasp, half-startled and half-delighted. The echo of the impact resonated in your implants with startling clarity. Brendon Park never did anything halfway; every caress, however blunt, was a signature—a way of marking his territory and reminding you that you had belonged to him from the moment you said "I do."
"Brendon!" you protested with a mischievous grin, though you made no move to retreat.
He laughed, guiding you toward a stool at the island. He moved with practiced efficiency, plating the eggs and bacon on white porcelain adorned with cherry blossoms—your choice, not his. Left to his own devices, everything he owned would have been black, but he used these because he knew they made you happy.
"Sit, Doll. You need to recharge," he said, setting the steaming plate and matching cup of chocolate before you.
You settled onto the stool, the shirt riding up to reveal the bites on your pale thighs. Watching him move in the morning light—so domestic yet radiating that dangerous, coiled energy—your heart hammered. You couldn't help but marvel at your luck that a man like this was yours alone.
Brendon sat beside you, but not before pressing a chaste, firm kiss to the crown of your head. He didn't eat immediately. Instead, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied you with the same critical, discerning gaze he used on surgical interns. He knew your every habit. He knew that you sometimes drifted away from the physical world, forgetting basic needs like sustenance.
"Eat, Doll. Don't you dare leave half of that," he warned, gesturing to the plate with his chin. "I know you. You’ll drink the chocolate, decide the sugar is enough to last ten hours, and think you’re fine. You know I don't like that."
He reached out and, with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the raw power of the night before, cut a piece of toast and held it to your lips. He waited patiently for you to accept it. It was a command wrapped in devotion. Only when he saw you chew and swallow did he grunt in satisfaction and begin his own meal.
He ensured not a scrap was left on your plate before draining his coffee in one long draught. Once finished, he cleared the space with methodical precision, loading the dishwasher with surgical efficiency.
"I’m going to shower. I won't be long," he announced, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before heading toward the primary ensuite.
You rose to prepare his clothes for the day. You walked barefoot into his dressing room—a space that smelled of sandalwood, cedar, and expensive, spicy cologne. You knew his routine by heart: today was a long day in the theater, which meant hours of standing under relentless lights, maintaining microscopic accuracy as he reconstructed bone and joint.
You sifted through the hangers carefully, mindful of the perfect order he maintained—a sharp contrast to the beautiful chaos of your own closet. You selected a deep navy Egyptian cotton shirt that matched the hue of his eyes and trousers of a soft, elegantly tailored black fabric. You laid them out on the bed, smoothing every phantom wrinkle with your palm.
Just as you finished setting out his socks and silk briefs, the sound of the water cut off. Moments later, Brendon emerged, a towel knotted loosely at his hips. His torso was still beaded with water, and his damp hair dripped onto his broad shoulders. He paused when he saw the clothes waiting for him.
"You're too good to me, Babydoll," he sighed, though the curve of his lips betrayed how much the gesture touched him. "And you know me too well. After a long shift, the last thing I want to do is fight with a wardrobe."
He walked up to you, his damp hands resting on your waist, just above where you both knew the marks of his possession remained etched into your skin.
"Thank you, precious," he continued, his tone softening for a fleeting second. "Now, let me get dressed before I decide that surgeries can wait—and you can't."
"I could cover my eyes, if you're too embarrassed for me to see you naked," you teased affectionately. You shielded your face with your hands, but left purposeful slits between your fingers so as not to miss a single detail of his formidable anatomy.
Brendon shook his head, clearly amused by your mischief, a spark of adoration igniting in his eyes.
"You are incorrigible, Doll—absolutely and truly incorrigible," he murmured. He dropped the towel without a trace of modesty, knowing full well you were devouring every line of his body with your gaze.
You watched him dress with practiced speed. There was something hypnotic about a man of his bulk slipping into the clothes you had curated for him. He pulled on the cotton T-shirt, which clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin; then his briefs, concealing a frame that—even at rest—was considerable; and finally, his trousers, which he drew up over his powerful legs.
Once dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes. The atmosphere shifted subtly; his expression grew somber, his mind already navigating through X-rays and surgical protocols with the clinical efficiency that characterized him at the PTMC. In an instant, he transitioned from the tender, possessive husband to the meticulous, predatory surgeon capable of silencing a room with his mere presence.
He stood and approached you one last time, wrapping one large hand around the nape of your neck to draw you into his space until you shared the same air. You couldn't help but shudder—not from fear, for you would never fear him—but from the sheer electricity his proximity always sparked.
"Take advantage of your day off. Rest. Stay in bed all day if you want," he ordered, his lips brushing yours with every syllable.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself be intoxicated by that balance of tenderness and dominance only Brendon could strike. You felt small beneath his touch, yet immensely secure.
"Understood?" he insisted, pressing his lips against yours in a slow, possessive kiss that forced you to grip his massive forearms just to keep your balance.
"Understood, Big Guy," you murmured against his mouth, your voice barely a breath.
He let out a grunt of satisfaction. With one final, stinging swat to your backside that made you arch your back with a moan, he laughed and pulled away. He strode out of the room, and seconds later, you heard the heavy thud of the front door. Finally alone, you collapsed back onto the unmade bed, enveloped in the fading scent of him.
What you wouldn't give to be back there again.
What a fool you had been.
Silly and careless.
You shouldn't have done it. But he pampered you with such devotion that you hadn't wanted to be left behind. As a token of gratitude, you had decided on a gesture of your own: you would take your old car and bring him a homemade lunch. It was a rarity; you both preferred to keep your marriage private, shielded from the prying eyes of "gossipy colleagues."
The intention had been pure—an act of love for the man who adored you. You had prepared his favorite meal, ignoring the pull of exhaustion, the ache in your muscles, and his direct command to remain in bed.
But fate—or rather, a drunk driver blowing through a stop sign—had other plans.
A flash of red. The harrowing screech of rubber against asphalt. The cacophony of blaring horns. Then, the thunderous explosion of metal yielding to metal—a dull, bone-deep impact that seemed to shift the very axis of the universe.
And then, the nothingness.
That was how you ended up here.
The first sensation to register as you drifted into consciousness within the disoriented haze of the trauma room was the scent: a sterile, sharp medicinal smell that you associated so deeply with your husband. You were surrounded by a frantic blur of doctors and nurses, their mouths moving with urgent speed, but you heard nothing. Where were your implants? Had they been lost in the wreckage? You couldn't think clearly, and the silence was absolute—a rising wall that severed you from the world, leaving you skin-raw and vulnerable.
A stabbing headache made reason impossible. You tried to lift your arms to sign, to tell them you couldn't hear, but a pair of hands pinned you down, obstructing your only means of expression.
Panic flared. You were trapped in a ring of people who wanted to help but couldn't comprehend why you wouldn't—or couldn't—answer.
"It’s useless; she’s too disoriented from the impact," Dr. Al-Hashimi said. You couldn't hear her, of course, but you saw her lips moving too fast to read as you struggled against the restraints.
"Ortho is on their way down," Perlah confirmed, hanging up the red trauma phone.
It was then, in the middle of the struggle, that the agony in your hip finally surged through the adrenaline. For the first time since waking, you thought of Brendon. He would be frantic. Had the paramedics salvaged your bag, or was it still crushed in the footwell of the car? You should have been wearing the medical alert bracelet he’d bought you for exactly this scenario, but you’d forgotten it again. The universe seemed to be mocking your negligence, leaving you helpless and mute at the moment you most needed a voice. A lump of sheer helplessness tightened in your throat.
"We can’t stabilize her if she won't stop fighting," Santos muttered, though Perlah heard her clearly.
It took only minutes for Brendon Park to arrive.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. You couldn't hear the sudden hush that fell over the trauma bay when he entered, but you felt the change in pressure. It was like a shark dispersing a school of silverfish, or the shockwave of a blast leveling an idyllic landscape. Drs. Al-Hashimi and Santos tensed, their shoulders hunching as their gazes darted toward the double doors. Whitaker practically recoiled into a corner, looking like a gazelle in the presence of an apex predator.
"Call Ortho again and tell Dr. Brennan to get down here," he ordered, offering no explanation and looking at no one but you. He moved with predatory focus until he was at eye level with your stretcher.
"What? But you’re already here, Dr. Park," Al-Hashimi interjected, her confusion palpable. "I don’t believe her injuries are severe enough to require two attending surgeons—"
He didn't deign to answer her. He scanned you with a surgical eye, not touching you yet, before realizing that your agitation was born of pure, silent terror. He correctly guessed that the magnets of your implants hadn't survived the G-force of the collision.
"I’m here, Doll. Look at me. Only me," he signed, ensuring his hands were within your line of sight while simultaneously speaking with a loud, commanding clarity. He cared nothing for the stunned expressions of his colleagues.
"Since when do you know ASL?" Whitaker stammered, too shocked to filter his thoughts. Seeing Park—the "Shark"—signing with fluid grace was like seeing a statue start to breathe.
"Since my wife is deaf, genius," Brendon snapped, turning a steel-blue gaze on every medical professional in the bay. "And you’re terrifying her. How is it that not one of you noticed she can’t hear a word you’re saying? Am I surrounded by total incompetents?"
The silence in the trauma room deepened, spreading like a cold front across the faces of the staff. Dr. Al-Hashimi’s mouth hung open as she processed the revelation. Santos looked equally horrified, and Whitaker turned a shade of pale that nearly matched the hospital walls.
No one in the hospital knew that the cold, caustic, and brusque Dr. Park even had a personal life, let alone a wife—and certainly not that his wife was currently bleeding out on an ER gurney.
"Dr. Brennan is coming, but she’s not happy about the summons," Perlah said, returning from the phone.
"As if I give a damn about her mood. The bylaws forbid me from operating on my own wife," Brendon dismissed her. Even without hearing the thunder in his voice, you saw the granite set of his jaw. The staff shrank back as if they were on a sinking vessel surrounded by white sharks. "And I’m certainly not leaving her in the hands of incompetent residents. Brennan is the only one I trust for this, besides myself."
His gaze returned to you, transforming in a heartbeat. The "Shark" vanished, replaced by the man who adored you. He leaned in, invading your space with that familiar, possessive heat, ignoring the half-dozen witnesses who were still reeling from the word wife.
"Look at me, Doll. You’re going to be fine. Dr. Brennan is going to fix your hip, and I’m going to be right there, watching her every move. Don't worry about anything. Do you understand?" He signed slowly, allowing your concussed brain to track his movements.
You nodded, the knot of panic in your chest finally loosening. Seeing him sign in the middle of this sterile chaos was the anchor that kept you from drowning in the quiet. You didn't care that his coworkers were seeing a side of him they didn't believe existed.
"Park is married..." Whitaker whispered, utterly floored by the sight of the brutal surgeon being so tender. "I never thought it was possible."
"Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have a life outside these walls; though I fail to see why that matters right now," Brendon replied, his voice regaining its icy edge. "You should be focused on the patient, not gossiping like schoolboys."
He never took his eyes off you, even as he hurled barbs at the staff. You watched the resident who looked like a character from Ratatouille stumble backward, nearly tripping over a blue-eyed doctor, while Al-Hashimi tried to regain her professional composure.
"The boy from Ratatouille looks like he’s about to faint. Don’t be mean, Bren," you signed weakly, your arms feeling like lead.
A brief, dry laugh shook Brendon’s chest—a vibration you felt against your arm before you saw his lips curl into a genuine, if ironic, smile.
"Then... you were the one who left those marks," Santos blurted out, her eyes traveling over the dark bruises on your neck and chest. The evidence of the previous night was everywhere: shoulders, abdomen, thighs. The most prominent were the unmistakable shadows of large fingers wrapped around your waist. "It looks more like a brutal assault than a consensual act."
Brendon didn't flinch, but his eyes turned lethal. You couldn't hear the accusation, but you could intuit the tension surrounding the marks of his passion. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the hospital sheet up to your chin, veiling every trace of his possession from their judgmental eyes.
"What happens between our sheets is none of your concern, Dr. Santos," he said, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "My wife is here because of a car accident, not because of her sex life."
The rear doors hissed open. Dr. Brennan entered like a Category 5 hurricane in a small frame. She was tiny compared to the other surgeons, but she had carved out her reputation with steel. If Brendon was the Shark, she was the Orca. Her grey eyes swept the room, taking in the cowering Whitaker and the standoff between Brendon and Santos.
"That’s enough, Dr. Park. We’re taking her to the OR," Brennan said. You couldn't hear her, but the authority in her expression was absolute. She moved to the stretcher, physically nudging Santos out of the way.
She didn't waste a second, signaling the orderlies to unlock the wheels. The ceiling began to move—a blurring sequence of white panels and flickering fluorescent lights that made your head spin.
Brendon didn't leave your side. He walked flush against the gurney, his hand crushed tightly in yours, his blue eyes searching your face for any flicker of pain.
You reached the heavy steel doors of the elevator. The wait for the car to descend felt like an eternity in the absolute silence.
"We're almost there, Doll," his lips articulated. There was a softness in his expression that masked the tension in his frame. "Don't worry. I trust Brennan. She’s the best—after me."
The doors slid open, and the stretcher was pushed into the cramped, metallic box, followed by Brennan and two nurses. The space was claustrophobic. Brendon placed his free hand on the back of your neck—the exact same caress from that morning. He knew you hated confined spaces; he knew the trauma of being locked in cupboards as a child in the system.
As the familiar tremor began at the base of your spine, your pupils dilated with terror. The steel walls seemed to shrink, shifting into the dark, damp shadows of your childhood. Your breathing hitched—a silent, jagged gasp that signaled the onset of hyperventilation.
But then, Brendon’s hand squeezed firmly at the nape of your neck. His fingers were more than a caress; they were an anchor to the now, demanding your attention and pulling you back from the precipice of that dark, traumatic abyss. He stepped between you and the closed elevator doors, his massive frame becoming your entire horizon—your beacon in the storm of your own thoughts.
He knew every one of your ghosts; he had spent countless nights cradling you through the tremors of your nightmares. Seeing that glint of primal terror in your eyes made his jaw tighten to the limit, his teeth grinding with a raw, barely contained fury at the world that had hurt you.
"Look at me, Doll. Only me," he signed with one hand, the other maintaining that heavy, grounding warmth against your skin. "You aren't there. You are here with me. These doors won't stay closed for long. No one here will ever hurt you again."
His blue eyes burned with a protective ferocity. He knew how to soothe you better than you knew yourself. He forced you to synchronize with the rhythm of his own breathing, which you could feel against your face as he leaned in close. You inhaled, mimicking him, and the ghost of the cupboard began to dissolve against the reality of his presence.
"We’re almost out, my little doll," he promised, his voice a low rumble. "I’m not letting go. I’m with you until the end. You’ve always been a survivor—a fighter."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. It was a gesture so profoundly intimate that Dr. Brennan and the orderlies averted their eyes in a rare, respectful silence.
When the elevator doors finally slid open onto the surgical floor, the relief was instantaneous. The world seemed to expand, and the sterile, chilled air filled your lungs. The stretcher rattled out of the metal cage—a vibration you felt deep in your bones. Brendon stepped back just enough to allow the orderlies to maneuver you toward Operating Room 5.
"Dr. Brennan is an exceptional surgeon," he said, knowing he had to head to the scrub sinks if he was to join you. "But I will be right there. I’ll be your voice while you sleep. I won't let anyone make a single misstep. I promise you, Doll."
You watched him stand still for a heartbeat, watching as you were wheeled toward the theater, before he turned on his heel. He strode toward the scrub room with the determination of a man who would not let fate, the universe, or any god take away the only thing in the world he truly loved.
The double doors of the OR swung wide. Inside, the lights were a raw, blinding white. They transferred you to the operating table—a transition to a cold, metallic surface that made you shudder as it met the bare skin of your back. Panic thrummed in your chest like a muffled drum, a primal response to the hostile environment, but deep down, you knew you were in the safest hands in the city.
To your left, the anesthesiologist approached, precisely adjusting the IV manifolds. Almost instantly, a glacial chill began to invade your veins, racing up your arm like a frozen river.
Your eyelids grew heavy, weighted with lead. You tried to fight it—one last desperate effort to stay awake, to stay here. With fingers numbed by the onset of the drugs, you managed to lift your hand just a few inches. The movement was clumsy and slow, but you managed to sign a final "I love you" to the imposing figure of your husband, who had just appeared at your side.
That was the last thing you remembered before the world slipped away.
You didn't see his answer.
Only darkness.
A dreamless sleep.
The next time you opened your eyes, it felt as though only minutes had passed. However, the leaden weight of your eyelids, the dry, tacky sensation in your mouth, and the scratchiness in your throat betrayed the truth: it had been hours.
You were bathed in a soft, amber gloom—a merciful reprieve from the violent white glare of the operating room. The first thing you registered was a familiar touch: warm, rough, and grounding. His hand was clamped over yours. You turned your head slowly, battling the residual vertigo of the anesthesia.
There he was.
Brendon hadn’t moved. He was slumped in the armchair pulled flush against your bedside, still clad in his surgical scrubs. His normally immaculate hair was a mess of curls; you could tell he had run his hands through it repeatedly, rubbing away the gel until it looked entirely natural. The shadows beneath his blue eyes were bruised and deep, as if the weight of the last few hours had physically aged him.
The moment he noticed you stir, he bolted upright. His eyes scanned your face with clinical intensity, searching for any flicker of pain or lingering delirium.
"Hello, Doll," he signed, a smile of pure, jagged relief breaking across his lips. "Welcome back. The surgery was a success. Dr. Brennan did an inspired job. You’re going to make a full recovery, little doll."
You tried to speak, but only a fractured, hoarse moan escaped your throat. He anticipated the need, gently guiding a straw to your lips to offer a few precious drops of water. Once you had swallowed, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an object that made your heart skip a beat.
Your cochlear processors.
They were scuffed, and one had a hairline fracture along the protective casing, but they were whole.
"I got them back from the car," you read on his lips, a spark of grim triumph in his gaze. "Well, I sent Ratatouille to fetch them. I refused to leave your side."
He leaned over you with infinite care. You felt the familiar magnetic click against your skull, and suddenly, the world rushed back in. The rhythmic, electronic chirp of the heart monitor, the distant bustle of the hallway, and—above all—the sound you had hungered for since the moment of the crash.
"Can you hear me, Doll?" His voice reached you—low, gravelly, and frayed by an exhaustion born of near-loss.
"Yes, Big Guy. I hear you," you managed to whisper. You were still floating in an anesthetic haze, but the relief of hearing him again was an instantaneous balm.
Brendon let out a long, shuddering sigh, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours. His shoulders, which had been braced like granite since he first saw you on that trauma gurney, finally slumped.
"Don't ever give me a fright like that again," he growled against your lips, punctuated by a tender, lingering kiss. "God... when I walked in and saw you lying there, I thought... I thought I’d lost you. Don’t do it again. I’m begging you."
"I’m so sorry... I only wanted to bring you lunch. To thank you for taking such good care of me." Tears pricked your eyes. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
He silenced your guilt with another kiss—one that sought to overwrite your apologies with his devotion.
"Hush, baby. Don't you dare apologize for loving me. The only thing that matters is that you're alive, that you're going to heal, and that you're coming home with me," he said. He traced the line of your cheek with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. "I only need you. Whole. Safe. Under our roof and between our sheets."
"Brendon," you murmured, your voice sounding small and fragile. You tugged weakly at the V-neck of his scrubs. "Come up here. Please."
He hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the door of the private room. As a senior surgeon, he was flouting every protocol in the hospital handbook, but one look at your pale face and trembling lip ended his resistance. He kicked off his shoes and carefully maneuvered his massive frame into the narrow space on the hospital bed, curling around you with exquisite care to avoid your operated hip.
You tucked your head into the hollow of his chest. Brendon pulled you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where his lips brushed against one of the marks he had left the night before.
"Rest, Doll," he whispered against your skin, the vibration of his voice resonating through your own chest. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I love you too, Big Guy."
You closed your eyes, lulled by the radiating heat of his body and the absolute security of his embrace. The chaos, the sterile hospital, and that terrifying, lonely silence were all behind you. Here, in this small room, held fast by the man they called "The Shark," you were finally home. You were safe.
basil absolutely loves you, you simply can't escape him ─── and you don't really want to.
he loves showing you off. not because you're a trophy, but because you were the first one who truly captivated him and managed to ruin him for any other woman who laid hands on him before he realized why his little friend didn't want to rise when he most wanted to. god, poor women after you who wanted a taste of that cookie, bas almost felt bad thinking about you while he was fucking them real good...looking on the bright side, at least they had a good fuck.
he loved it when you got a little shy with all the attention you were getting. no matter how hard you tried to hide it, he noticed every detail in your reactions, whether facial or bodily. it is no wonder the man spent so much time staring at you, rupert always jumped at the first opportunity to tease him on public, looking him up and down with that sly and irritating smile.
basil always keeps a hand on the small of your back, anywhere and at any time, as if he needed to feel you. he was quite fond of physical contact, especially with you. his hand would sometimes stray onto the delicious curve of your ass and squeeze it quickly before you went into an important party or any other occasion, always letting a slight chuckle after receiving a light tap on the arm for having done what he had done. he is even worse when something extremely good happens to him after a long day, and all he wants is to feel your skin and hear your voice, and maybe a sweet moan or something like that from you.
he wanted you to be at your best whenever you went out, even if it was just for a walk, even if he was the one who had to leave. he would shower you with compliments until you couldn't take anymore. bas is certainly your biggest fan, and seeing him always made your day better. sex is just an extra, but an extremely necessary extra.
you need anything? bas already took care of that. oh, it's in your room and ready to use, ok? ok. you don't even need to open your mouth, bas is often in your place just as you are in his, he already has a good portion of your necessities and other things in mind.
at parties, he likes to joke around and play pranks whenever he feels like it. you clearly remember when he decided to cause a funny "accident" to a certain rival of his, and ended up with that rival leaving the party feeling completely humiliated without even knowing who had plotted against him, you two had already run to one of the rooms and hidden, leaving behind a few giggles here and there through the corridors. and since you were in the room, it's likely that you two fucked each other's brains from all the making out. such good memories.
throughout his entire life, he thought he would always be stuck in a cycle of sex with multiple women and lots of alcohol. he didn't even believe in actual, proper love, until you came along and turned his world upside down. you were hard to win over, but you were the best thing that ever happened. and now you belonged only to him, until his last breath.
a serious promise is this: if you're with him, you'll never bored. he will always take care of it.
Summary: A month after letting Dennis in, June is trying to adjust to how safe and steady their relationship has become. Small routines, coffee deliveries, sleepovers, babysitting, and quiet acts of care start to feel normal, even if part of her is still waiting for something to go wrong. But between lingering insecurity around Amy, and a pediatric case that hits too close to home, June is forced to confront how much she’s changed. She still has sharp edges, but she’s learning that love doesn’t have to be something she survives. Sometimes, it can be something she chooses to trust.
Warnings: hospital/medical setting, lots of medical terminology, pediatric injury, pain medication mention, scared child + parent, tense patient care situation, medical student mistake, public confrontation/yelling, anxiety/panic spiral, emotional shutdown, mild jealousy/insecurity, relationship vulnerability, sibling protectiveness, soft hurt/comfort. Yelling at Olgilvie, sorry I just needed someone for June to yell at and he was the easiest target <3
Side note: How good does Dennis baby look in that picture!
Part1•Part2•Part3•Part4•Part5• Part 6•Part 7•Part 8•Part 10•
Main Masterlist <--- check out my other stories
One month after you fell asleep in Dennis Whitaker’s arms. You’ve come to accept the fact that he makes you feel safe. Your brain still wants to leave a wall up, but he’s slowly tearing them down one board at a time.
Feeling safe in his arms isn’t terrifying. What is terrifying is that you’ve come to expect it. Not in the loud and dramatic way that romance novels capture, or in a swoony cinematic way. Although Yolanda has threatened to make an edit to “Lover” by Taylor Swift just to ruin your life.
It happens in pieces. Small things normal people would not recognize in the moment. But you do, you recognize every step to something more. Your brain is hardwired to over analyze every moment. But those pieces add up in the end.
A coffee cup waiting for you on the nurses’ station counter with “June” written in Dennis’ blocky handwriting, when you come down in between OR cases. Dennis extra hoodie living in the back seat of your car like it’s always belonged there.
Your toothbrush beside his sink. His hand on the small of your back when the ED gets too crowded. Not steering you, not claiming you, just a reminder that he’s there.
Sleepovers that start with, “I’m just going to sit down for five minutes,” and with you waking up in his sheets, cold brushing over your bare skin, and your face smashed into his chest. Dennis pretending that waking up to you isn’t his favorite thing, because he doesn’t want to scare you away.
Coffee runs.
Late night grilled cheese.
Morning elevator kisses that you swear are private, despite the fact the Trinity has caught you twice. She once said, “Some of us are trying to maintain a hostile workplace environment. If you don’t mind.”
Dennis helps you babysit now more often than not, whether it's at Frank’s or your apartment. Penny and Tanner lose all manners when he shows up, and would rather be feral. The second time he comes to help babysit. Penny has decided that Dennis is also hers and that he can also be the perfect climbing structure.
“Up,” she demards, little toddler arms lifted high. Dennis looks down at her tiny figure, “Hi.” “Uppies pwease." Since Dennis apparently goes soft for women with the last name of Langdon, he picks her up and she snuggles into him. You have to put down the apple you’re cutting for safety. Something about a man being good with kids, especially the kids you love like they’re your own, makes your stomach do something funny.
By the end of the evening, Tanner has a toy stethoscope around his neck, and Penny has placed three stickers on Dennis’ forehead. Dennis is laying flat on his back laughing while both children use him as a human jungle gym.
Frank walks in and takes one look at your face and points. “No.” You look up from your spot on the couch where you’re pretending to read your book and not watching Dennis while Penny is trying to get him to have a tea party with her dolls and Tanner’s dinosaurs.
“What” Frank narrows his eyes. “Do not look at him like that in my house and my children.” “I’m reading,” you say, gesturing to your book. “You are not reading. You’re making heart eyes at Nebraska while my children torture him.”
Dennis, who is “pinned” under Tanner’s tiny elbow, raises a hand. “I’m okay.” Frank points at him, “stop enabling this.” Penny presses another sticker to Dennis’ cheek. “Pwetty.” Dennis closes his eyes, a soft smile on his lips. “Thank you, Penny.” You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.
That's the worst part. It is easy. Being with Dennis is easy.
But it is not simple. No relationship is ever simple. There are still things to uncover under the surface with him. Quiet places that he doesn’t always allow people to touch. Old habits of carrying to much and asking for too little. Which is scary because you know you can be a bit much. And you don’t want to be something he feels like he has to fix.
But for now, being with him is not a fight. It’s not a performance. You’re not waiting for the floor to drop out beneath your feet. It’s just you and him.
It’s him texting you a reminder to eat. Its you texting back, “did you stop looking at chest x-rays like they wronged you.” It’s him leaving a protein bar in the side pocket of your backpack.
It’s surprisingly good. The kind of good that makes your guard sit up straighter. Because you trust Dennis, you do. But that doesn’t mean you trust the world around him. Which is why Amy Miller is still a problem in the back of your head.
Its not a cruel and obvious problem. She isn’t one of those women that size you up like she’s deciding which part of you is easiest to break. That would almost be better.
Amy is a pretty in a sunburned, practical, farm girl kind of way, with her strawberry blonde hair braided down her back and a toddler on her hip. With a warmth that makes people want to help her before she even has to ask.
She lives outside the city on an old family farm with too many chickens, two goats named Dolly and Parton, and a son named Theo who is about a year and a half old and deeply committed to throwing blueberries onto the floor.
You finally meet her on a Sunday afternoon because Dennis asks if you want to come with him when he drops off some parts for her tractor. You say yes, because that’s what a normal girlfriend would do. You spend the entire drive trying not to be weird.
“You’re quiet,” Dennis says, tapping your knee with his finger, while the other is on the wheel of your car. “I’m observing the scenery.” “Sounds dangerous.” You look at him, “I’m a doctor. Observation is literally part of the job.”
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?”
“The one where you’re pretending you’re not thinking sixteen things at once.” You turn and look at him. “You are very brave for a man currently operating a vehicle.” His mouth twitches. “June.” “I’m fine.” “You sure?”
You are not sure. You are especially not sure because Amy hugs Dennis when you arrive. It’s not inappropriate, it's not even long. She’s holding Theo and Dennis is holding a box of tractor parts. But still, it happens.
Amy smiles at him like she knows where to put her hands in his life. “Dennis,” she says relieved. “You’re a life savor.” He shrugs, “it’s just a belt and a few bolts.” “It’s greek to me.” “You’re smarter than half the men I know who pretend otherwise.” That gets a little smile out of her. You are just watching.
Theo reaches for Dennis, and Dennis’ whole face softens. “Hey, buddy,” he says, taking him carefully. “You get bigger every time I see you.” Theo grabs his nose. You feel something sour and ugly twist under your ribs. It is not jealousy.
At least, that is what you tell yourself.
It is not that Amy is beautiful or that her farm smells like hay and sunshine and the kind of life Dennis probably understands down in his bones. It is not that Theo lights up when Dennis bounces him once, or that Amy looks at Dennis like he is the kind of man she already knows will show up.
It is that you cannot tell if Amy is still in love with him.
Or maybe it is worse than that.
Maybe Amy just likes being taken care of.
You know women like that. People like that. People who do not always mean harm but know exactly who will come running when they call. Dennis does not give you a reason to doubt him.
That is the irritating thing.
He introduces you immediately, hand warm at the back of your waist. “Amy, this is June,” he says. “My girlfriend.” Your stomach does something embarrassing. Amy smiles at you. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Dennis talks about you all the time.” You glance at him. “Does he?” Dennis looks down at Theo like the toddler might save him. Theo says, “Ba.”
Coward.
Amy is kind. She shows you around the farm. You feed Theo bites of banana while Dennis gets dirty fixing the tractor. She asks about your work, cause Dennis’ had mentioned you also work at the hospital. When you tell her you’re in orthopedic surgery, she says, “Oh, so you’re the person everyone sees after deciding ladders are a good idea.”
You like her. You don’t want to like her, but despite yourself you do. That doesn’t make it easier.
On the drive home, Dennis reaches across the center console and threads his fingers through yours. “You okay?” he asks. You stare out at the darkening fields. “I like Theo.” “He likes you. You gave him a banana. It’s his favorite.” “I’m very charming.” “You are.”
You make a face. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Be sincere while I’m trying to be emotionally evasive.” He squeezes your hand once. You sigh. “Amy’s nice.” “She is.”
“I’m glad she has you to help, especially after what happened,” you say while staring at your intertwined hands. He glances over at you with a small frown. “I’m not in love with Amy.” “I didn’t say you were.” “No,” he says gently. “But I think you needed to hear it anyway.”
That shuts you up.
Dennis keeps his eyes on the road, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m with you,” he says. “Not because you need me. Not because you make me feel useful. Not because you’re convenient or familiar or easy.” You let out a dry laugh. “I am definitely not easy.” “No,” he says, smiling softly. “You are a nightmare.”
You smack his arm.
He catches your hand before you can pull away and kisses your knuckles. “I’m with you because I want you,” he says. “Even when you’re prickly. Especially then, sometimes.” “That sounds like a medical condition.” “Probably terminal.”
You look out the window again, but this time your chest does not feel quite as tight. You trust him. You do. But you keep one hand near the wall anyway. Just in case.
By the time Monday rolls around, you are back to the kind of shift that makes you wonder if every elderly person in Pittsburgh has collectively decided that gravity is optional.
The day starts before seven with a text from Dennis.
Dennis💕 : You working upstairs today?
You: unfortunately
You: park has entered his “hips are temporary, cement is forever” era
Dennis💕 : Coffee?
You: already got yours
You: because i am kind and beautiful
Dennis💕 : And humble.
You: don’t flirt with me this early. I'll fall in love.
Dennis💕 : Too late.
You stare at your phone in the elevator for a second too long. Then the doors open, and you nearly walk into a transport cart. “Doctor Langdon,” the transporter says, amused. You clear your throat. “I meant to do that.”
The ED is already loud when you step off downstairs with Dennis’s coffee in one hand and your own iced vanilla latte in the other. It smells like antiseptic, burnt coffee, wet coats, and the faint metallic panic of a hospital that has been awake too long.
Home, unfortunately.
Dana is at the charge desk, headset on, expression flat enough to cut glass. She spots you immediately. “Langdon. Tell ortho to stop admitting grandmas to my ED.” “I’ll let the bones know they’re being inconsiderate.” “Tell your brother to stop being irritable.” “It is seven in the morning.” “Your point?” You lift Dennis’s coffee. “This is a delivery mission.”
Jesse passes behind the desk with a stack of blankets. “Oh look, ortho Barbie came to flirt.”
You point at him. “I can still order you to do wound care on a diabetic ulcer” “You cannot.” “I know Park. I can do anything.” “Terrifying sentence,” Donnie says without looking up from the computer.
Frank is near Curtain Three, talking to Javadi and looking irritatingly awake for someone who probably got tackled by two small children before sunrise.
You make a beeline for him first, because annoying Frank is one of the few consistent joys in your life. “Good morning, failure of an eldest son.” Frank turns slowly. “You know, most siblings lead with hello.” “Most siblings are not you.” Victoria grins into her coffee.
Frank’s eyes drop to the cup in your hand. “Is that for me?” “No.” “Rude.” “You have a wife.” “Abby does not deliver coffee to my workplace.” “That sounds like a marital issue.” Frank reaches for the coffee. You pull it back.
He gasps. “In my workplace?” “You cannot keep calling the ED your workplace like the rest of us are just guest stars.” “I am a senior resident.” “You are a public safety hazard with a badge reel.” Victoria coughs into her sleeve. Frank points at her. “Do not encourage her.” You lean closer to Victoria. “Blink twice if he’s being unbearable.” She blinks aggressively. Frank looks offended. “Javadi!’
Dennis appears from a room looking painfully handsome in black scrubs, stethoscope around his next, his hair doing the thing where it refuses to fully cooperate. Your entire nervous system betrays you. Frank notices immediately. “Oh, gross,” he says.
Dennis stops beside you, eyes flickering to your face to the coffee in your hand. The way his expression softens makes you feel like he’s opened a window into your chest and is seeing you completely. Terrifying.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey.” You hold out the cup. “For you.” He takes it, fingers brushing against yours and applies a quick peck to your lips. Frank makes a gagging sound. “Do you need Zofran? I know plenty of doctors who can prescribe you some,” you say looking over your shoulder at him.
”what i need is my sister to stop looking at my coworker like she wants to climb him in tramua two.” “Frankie Langdon!” Dennis chokes on absolutely nothing. Victoria makes a delighted noise. “Oh, I’m so glad I came to work today.”
Dana calls from the desk, “Langdon, leave the poor boy alone.” Frank and you both answer, “Which one?” Dana points at Frank. “The annoying one.” You beam, “Thank you.”
Dennis takes a sip of his coffee, then leans closer to you. “ You heading upstairs?” “Three hip ORIFs, one nailing, and Park already being unbearable. Dennis winces, “Long day.”
”Yeah, well. Somebody has to fix all the broken grandmas and grandpas who decided to fall in a synchronized formation.”
“Well maybe if we both have time we can attempt to get something to eat later.” he says while looking down at you. “Is that just your way to make sure I eat something?” Dennis smiles, “maybe.”
Frank watches you two with half suspicion, half reluctant acceptance, and sighs. You smile sweetly, “Aw, are you approving of my boyfriend.” Frank points a finger in your face. “Don’t use that word around me.”
Dennis looks down into his coffee, but not fast enough to hide the blush crawling up his neck. You see it. So does Trinity, who passes by at exactly the wrong moment. “Oh my God,” she says. “Huckleberry’s buffering.” Dennis sighs. “Good morning, Santos.”
Is it?” She looks between you. “Because I just saw romance happen before caffeine. That feels like a reportable offense.” You take your latte and back away. “I have bones to fix.” Frank calls after you, “Do not terrorize my staff!” You flip him off without turning around. Dana yells, “I saw that!” “You were supposed to!”
Upstairs, the OR board looks like a geriatric disaster drill.
Hip fracture.
Hip fracture.
Intertrochanteric femur fracture.
Periprosthetic femur fracture that makes Park stand silently in front of the imaging for forty-five seconds before muttering, “Whoever did this index arthroplasty owes me an apology.”
The morning becomes a blur of lead aprons, C-arm positioning, sterile drapes, time-outs, fracture tables, traction boots, and the low mechanical rhythm of orthopedic surgery.
Your first case is an elderly woman with a displaced femoral neck fracture after a fall in her bathroom at three in the morning. She is tiny, sharp-tongued, and deeply offended by the idea of needing help.
“I told my son not to call an ambulance,” she tells you pre-op. You stand beside her stretcher, marking her operative hip. “And how did that go?”
“He called anyway.” “Sounds like he loves you.” “He’s bossy.” “Sounds like he loves you a lot.”
She eyes you. “You married?” “No.” “Good. Men are bossy.” Park walks by and says, “She’s not wrong.” You look over your shoulder. “Did you just agree with a patient?”
“I contain multitudes,” Park says, then points at the imaging. “Langdon. Plan.”
You step toward the screen and talk through it cleanly. “Displaced intracapsular femoral neck fracture. Given age, baseline function, and fracture pattern, hemiarthroplasty is reasonable over fixation. Cemented stem likely. Need to confirm medical clearance, antibiotics in, TXA unless contraindicated, DVT prophylaxis post-op per protocol.”
Park watches you like a hawk. Then he grunts. “Fine.” Which is the highest approval to ever come from Brendan Park.
The next case is an intertrochanteric fracture, unstable pattern, lesser trochanter blown off, leg shortened and externally rotated when you saw him in pre-op. You take the lead under Park’s supervision, positioning carefully on the fracture table, padding every pressure point, checking the perineal post, boot secured, traction applied.
The C-arm tech gives you AP and lateral images. “Too much varus,” Park says. “I know.” You adjust. “Can we come out of traction slightly and internally rotate?” Park says nothing. That means keep going.
You reduce under fluoro until the neck-shaft angle looks acceptable, the calcar alignment better, the lateral view less embarrassing. You make your incision, split fascia, guidewire down to the tip of the greater trochanter, confirm start point on AP and lateral.
Park stands across from you, scrubbed in, eyes narrowed above his mask. “Don’t chase a bad start point,” he says.
“I’m not.” “You were thinking about it.” “I was thinking about how peaceful this room would be if you developed laryngitis.” The scrub tech snorts. Park looks at her. “Don’t encourage my resident.”
“You encourage me by being wrong,” you tell him. “You’re very mouthy for someone holding a guidewire.” “Motivational tool.”
He lets you take the lead through opening reamer, nail insertion, lag screw measurement, drilling, placement, distal locking. He corrects you when you need it, grumbles when you do not, and only takes over once when the reduction starts to drift and he decides his blood pressure deserves mercy.
By noon, you have sweat dried under your lead, your shoulders ache, and you have eaten exactly half a granola bar because Dana appeared at the OR front desk like a maternal jump scare and physically handed it to you.
“You scare me,” you told her. “Good,” Dana said. “Eat.”
Yolanda would normally be the person you text between cases. She would send something obscene about Park’s lack of emotional vulnerability, or a selfie from wherever she was hiding, or a voice memo calling you “lover girl” until you threatened legal action.
But Yolanda is off for the week. PTO. Self-care. Suspicious. Like what is that? Are you not supposed to spend almost everyday for the rest of your life at work?
You: i don’t trust self-care yolanda
You: feels fake
You: feels government planted
No response. You stare at your phone. Park appears beside you. “Are you texting Garcia?” “No.” “Yes, you are.”
“She’s off,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “She earned that.” “She abandoned me.” “She took PTO.” Park says while crossing his arms. “Same thing.” Park looks at you over his coffee. “Do you require a friend to function?” You put a hand over your heart. “That was so mean Sharkie.”
“You’ll live.” “Will I?” “Unfortunately.”
Your pager goes off before you can respond.
ED consult. Possible distal radius fracture. Elderly female. Fall from standing. Routine.
You sigh. “The grandmas are unionizing.” Park takes the chart from you, scans it, and hands it back. “Go.” “You’re not coming?” “For a distal radius?” “You love me.” “I tolerate you because Gloria said I had to.”
You head down to the ED and find Dennis at the physician station dictating something while Trinity argues with pharmacy on the phone and Mel tries to find a working otoscope.
Dennis looks up the second you arrive. It is embarrassing how quickly his face changes. “Hi,” he says. You lean on the counter. “Hi.”
Trinity covers the phone receiver. “I’m begging you both to be less emotionally moist in public.” Mel turns. “Emotionally moist is upsetting.” “It’s accurate,” Trinity says.
Dennis ignores them both. “Consult?”
“Distal radius. Apparently every person over sixty-five in Allegheny County has decided that staying upright is an option.” He smiles. “You need anything?” “A vacation. New feet. Maybe a spine that doesn’t sound like bubble wrap when I bend.” “I can offer a hug and coffee.”
“I can offer a kiss in the stairwell.”
Dennis pauses.
Trinity slams a hand on the desk. “No. Absolutely not. Some of us are single and thriving and do not need this heterosexual farmer nonsense.” You grin. “You say that like you aren’t emotionally entangled with my best friend.”
“I am not.” Mel whispers, “You sure?” Dennis rubs a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh.
Then Park’s voice cuts from behind you.
“Orca.” You close your eyes. “He spawned.” Park stands near the ambulance bay entrance with a chart in his hand, expression unimpressed. “Your distal radius is waiting.” “I was consulting.” “You were flirting.” “Both can be true.”
Dennis takes a sip of coffee, eyes bright. “She’s very good at multitasking.” Park looks at him. “Don’t enable her.” “Yes, sir.” You gasp. “Coward.” Dennis mouths, Sorry.
He is not sorry.
The afternoon keeps going like that. Up and down. OR to ED. ED to PACU. PACU back to OR. A splint check. A toddler with a clavicle fracture from falling off a couch. A nursing home patient whose hip x-ray makes you say, “Oh, buddy,” under your breath before calling Park.
You and Dennis steal thirty seconds near the clean utility room around 1500. He hands you a cup of water. You hand him half a protein bar. “This is romantic,” you say. “This is very romantic.” “We’re like Romeo and Juliet, if they had pagers and mild dehydration.”
Dennis smiles, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “How are you holding up?” “I’m fine.” “June.” You look at him. He waits, because he’s Dennis and Dennis does not push.
You huff. “I’m tired. Yolanda is gone. Park is being Park. Every hip in this city is broken. My feet hurt. And I think Amy Miller might still be in love with you, but I’m trying to be emotionally mature and not make it weird.”
Dennis blinks. Then his mouth opens. Then it closes.
You point at him. “Do not say something sweet. I am too dehydrated.” His expression softens anyway. “I love that you tell me the truth now,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
You hate him.
You love him.
You absolutely cannot process that in a hallway while wearing lead sweat and smelling faintly like chlorhexidine. So you say, “That was dangerously close to emotional sincerity.” “I know.”
“Gross.” “Yeah.”
He reaches for your hand, just two fingers hooked around yours, quick and hidden. You let him. Then Park appears at the end of the hall like a curse.
“Langdon.” You snatch your hand back. “I hate this hospital.” Dennis laughs softly.
At 1730, the consult comes through.
Ortho consult: Arm fracture. 5 y/o male. Routine.
You are scrubbed into the tail end of another hip case when your pager vibrates against your waistband. Park glances toward the circulator, who reads it out. “ED consult. Arm fracture. Five-year-old male. Routine.”
Park snorts. “They can wait until we close.” You nod because, on paper, they can.
Routine pediatric arm fractures are common. Kids fall off monkey bars. Couches. Beds. Siblings. Their own feet. Most of them need x-rays, pain control, splinting, follow-up, sometimes reduction depending on the fracture.
Routine means not open. Not pulseless. Not compartment syndrome. Not emergent. Routine means there are other fires first.
So you close. You dictate. You check post-op films. You speak with a daughter who wants to know if her father will walk again and a husband who cannot stop wringing his hands at the PACU desk.
By the time you get back down to the ED, it is 1815. You are tired enough that your eyes burn.
The ED is worse than it was this morning. Every bay isfull. Monitors keep beeping. Someone coughing hard behind a curtain. A psych patient yelling that his socks have been stolen. Dana at the desk looking like she is one inconvenience away from committing a felony.
You scan the board for your consult. Arm fracture. Five-year-old male. Curtain Seven. A very tall med student steps into your path before you can get there.
Ogilvie.
You know him mostly because Dennis complains about him with the exhausted restraint of a man trying not to say something unkind about a learner.
Ogilvie is tall in a way that feels deliberate. His scrubs unwrinkled. His badge is perfectly straight. He always has atleast one pen visible and an expression that suggests he believes he is one pimp question away from being named Surgeon General.
“Doctor Langdon,” he says, already holding an iPad. “I’m Ogilvie. I saw the pediatric arm fracture. Pretty straightforward supracondylar. I put it in routine since he was stable.”
You reach for the iPad. “Pain meds?” “Tylenol ordered. He seemed okay.” You stop. “Neurovascular exam?” He hesitates for half a second too long. “I mean, he was moving his fingers.”
Your head lifts slowly. “Was he pink? Warm? Cap refill? Radial pulse? Median, radial, ulnar nerve function?” Ogilvie shifts. “He was crying a lot, so it was limited.”
You take the iPad from him and pull up the images. For a second, the noise of the ED goes weirdly distant. AP and lateral elbow. Pediatric supracondylar humerus fracture.
Extension-type. Displaced.
Anterior humeral line not intersecting the middle third of the capitellum. The posterior cortex is likely still hinged, but alignment is bad enough that your stomach drops. Gartland II, maybe bordering on III depending on the view, with significant swelling clinically per the note. You can see the soft tissue swelling in the xray.
You look toward Curtain Seven. “Show me the kid.” Ogilvie starts talking again. “So I figured outpatient follow-up versus splinting, maybe—”
You are already moving. You push into the room and everything in you goes cold.
The boy is sitting upright on the stretcher, face blotchy from crying, his injured arm held stiffly against his body. His mother is beside him, pale and scared, one hand hovering because she does not know where she is allowed to touch.
The arm is swollen around the elbow. Too swollen. His forearm looks tense. His hand is dusky. Not dramatically blue like a textbook. Worse. Real. A mottled, gray-blue shade that does not belong on a child.
You are at the bedside in two seconds.
“Hi, buddy,” you say, voice changing automatically. Soft but fast. “I’m June. I’m going to check your hand, okay?”
He sobs. “I know. I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You touch his fingers. Cool. Your own pulse kicks hard. You press on his nail beds. Cap refill delayed. You palpate for radial pulse. Nothing obvious. You try Doppler from the wall unit because you do not trust your fingers through the swelling and panic in the room. Faint. Maybe. Not good enough.
Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” you ask. He cries harder. His fingers barely flex. “Can you give me a thumbs up? Like this?” He cannot. “Can you cross your fingers?” No. His mother’s voice shakes. “Is he okay?”
You look at her.
This is the moment. The one where you cannot let your face scare her, but you also cannot lie.
“His elbow is broken, and the swelling and position of the fracture are affecting blood flow to his hand,” you say. “This is not something we wait on. We need to take him to the operating room urgently to realign and stabilize the bone. That should relieve pressure on the artery. We’re going to move quickly.”
Her eyes fill. “He could lose his hand?” Your chest clenches.
“We are going to do everything right now to prevent that,” you say. “I need to call my attending and get the OR ready. I’m also going to make sure the ED team gives him stronger pain medicine and keeps him from eating or drinking. Has he had anything to eat recently?”
“A few crackers in the waiting room,” she says, panicked. “I didn’t know..”
“That’s okay. You did nothing wrong. We’ll tell anesthesia.” You turn. Ogilvie is standing in the doorway, still holding his pen.
Your voice snaps sharp enough that the nurse at the next curtain looks over.
“Call Park. Now. Tell him we have a five-year-old with a displaced supracondylar humerus fracture and vascular compromise. Cool, dusky hand, delayed cap refill, weak or absent radial pulse. We need the OR ready for emergent closed reduction and percutaneous pinning, possible open reduction, and I want vascular aware if perfusion doesn’t return after reduction.”
Ogilvie stares. You step toward him. “Now.” He move quickly, like a dog who’s just been scolded.
You call Dennis without even thinking because he is here in the ED and you can trust him, and he appears almost immediately with Robby behind him.
Dennis’s face changes when he sees yours. Not boyfriend first. Doctor first. “What do you need?” he asks.
“IV access if not already. Morphine or fentanyl, weight-based. Keep him NPO. Repeat vitals. I need documentation of neurovascular status before transport. Hand is cool and dusky. Delayed cap refill. Weak Doppler if anything. I’m calling Park and OR.”
Robby is already nodding. “I’ll get moving.” The boy starts crying harder when another nurse comes in.
You crouch down beside him. “Hey. Hey, look at me.” You hold up your hand. “You know what this is?” He sniffles. “A hand.” “Correct. Very medically advanced. Can you tell I’m impressed?”
He hiccups.
You pull one of your emergency peds stickers from your scrub pocket. A tiny shark. One of the ones Tanner picked because, according to him, sharks are “ocean dinosaurs with bad manners.”
“I have a shark sticker,” you tell him. “But this is a very brave shark sticker, so I have to give it to brave people only.” His lower lip trembles. “I’m not brave.” “Oh, buddy.” Your throat tightens. “Brave just means scared and doing it anyway.”
His mother starts crying silently. You place the sticker gently on his hospital gown, away from all the chaos. “There,” you say. “Official.”
Park arrives in under seven minutes. For Park, that is basically teleportation. He takes one look at the hand, one look at the films, and his jaw tightens.
“OR ready?” “Moving,” you say. “Anesthesia aware. Vascular on standby if perfusion doesn’t return after reduction.”
Park nods once. No grumbling. No sarcasm. That is how you know it is bad. He steps to the mother and explains in his blunt but steady way.
“Your son has a fracture just above the elbow. In children, this can injure or kink the brachial artery, which supplies blood to the hand. His hand is not perfusing normally. We need to take him to the OR now. We will attempt a closed reduction, meaning realign the bone without opening, and stabilize with pins through the skin. If we cannot restore alignment or blood flow, we may need to open or have vascular surgery assist.”
The mother nods like she understands every other word and is terrified of all of them. You stay with her while she signs consent with shaking hands. “It’s fast,” you say quietly. “That is good. Fast is what we want.”
She grips the pen so hard her knuckles pale. “He was just on the monkey bars.” “I know.” “He was just playing.” You swallow, “I know.”
You ride up with them to the OR because you cannot make yourself leave until he is physically in the hands of the team. It scares you, because this little boy could have very well been Tanner. And if someone failed to recognize it…
The case moves like an emergency should: clipped, focused, no wasted motion.
The little boy is transferred carefully. Anesthesia takes over. Monitors placed. Mask induction because he is young and terrified, IV secured, airway managed. The arm is prepped and draped. C-arm comes in.
Park lets you stand across from him. “Talk me through it,” he says, because he knows it will help ground you. So you do, voice steadier than you feel.
“Extension-type supracondylar humerus fracture with vascular compromise. Gentle longitudinal traction, correct medial-lateral displacement, then flexion while controlling distal fragment. Confirm reduction on AP and lateral. Percutaneous pinning, typically lateral-entry pins to avoid ulnar nerve injury unless unstable pattern requires medial pin with precautions. Reassess perfusion immediately after reduction and fixation.”
“Good,” Park says.
You reduce under his direction. Carefully. Gently. The fracture shifts back into alignment on fluoro, and the whole room seems to hold its breath.
Pins placed. Images acceptable. Then the drapes lower enough to assess the hand. Warmth begins to creep back. Cap refill improves. The radial pulse is stronger, that you can faintly feel it without a doppler..
You close your eyes for one half-second. Park sees it, but he says nothing.
Which is mercy, from him.
When the patient is stabilized and the plan is set for close monitoring post-op, serial neurovascular checks, and admission, you finally step out into the hall.
Your hands are shaking. You stare down at them like they belong to someone else.
Park comes out behind you. “Go,” he says. “I need to update—” “I’ll update the family first. You’ll come after.” “I can do it.” “I know.” His voice lowers. “Go breathe for two minutes before you bite someone.”
Too late, probably.
By the time you make it back to the ED, the adrenaline has curdled into something hot and ugly. Ogilvie is at the physician station. Dennis is there too, talking with Frank. Dana stands nearby, eyes narrowed like she can feel a storm coming through the walls.
Ogilvie looks up when he sees you. “Doctor Langdon, I—” You do not even let him finish.
“What part of that seemed routine to you?” The station goes quiet. Ogilvie’s face drains. You stop a few feet from him, your voice sharp and carrying. “A five-year-old had a displaced supracondylar fracture with a cold, dusky hand and delayed cap refill, and you put it in as routine?”
He opens his mouth. “I didn’t realize—” “That is the problem.” Your pulse is hammering in your throat. “You did not realize because you did not do the exam. You looked at an x-ray, decided it was straightforward, and failed to recognize a vascular emergency.”
Dennis straightens. “June—” You do not look at him, because if you do you will lose all the heat and break down.
“You need to learn the difference between routine and stat,” you snap. “Routine is a stable fracture with an intact neurovascular exam. Stat is a child with compromised perfusion. Stat is a hand changing color. Stat is when waiting means ischemia, compartment syndrome, nerve injury, limb loss.”
Ogilvie swallows hard.
You are aware, distantly, of everyone watching. You cannot stop.
“You are a medical student,” you say. “You are here to learn, not to posture. If you do not know, you ask. If you are unsure, you get someone senior. You do not sit on a pediatric fracture with vascular compromise because you want to look confident.”
His eyes flicker down.
“That kid could have lost his arm,” you say, voice cracking around the edge. “Because you didn’t want to admit you didn’t know what you were looking at.” The second the words leave your mouth, the anger drops out from under you.
Not because you are not angry. You are. You are furious.
But now the ED is silent. And everyone is staring. Your skin goes too tight. Your chest is too small. The room is too bright.
Frank says your name first, softly like he knows you’ll break with any stronger of a tone. “June.” Dennis steps toward you. “Hey.”
Nope. Absolutely not doing this here.
You turn and walk. Fast.
“June,” Dennis calls. You keep moving. Frank is behind him now. “Bug.” That almost gets you. Almost.
But if you turn around, you are going to break open in the middle of the ED, and you have already done enough damage for one day.
You push through the stairwell door and take the stairs too fast, your clogs loud against concrete. Someone follows. Maybe both of them.
“June, stop for a second,” Dennis says, breathless behind you. “Not now.” “Just talk to me.” “I said not now.” Frank’s voice comes from below. “Junebug, hey. You’re not in trouble.”
That makes it worse. You hit the next floor, shove through the door, and head straight for the nearest on-call room. You barely get inside before Dennis catches the door with one hand. His face is open and worried. “June.”
You cannot handle it. Not him. Not his gentleness. Not his ability to make you melt into a pool of feelings. Not Frank behind him looking like he already knows exactly where this is headed because he has seen every version of you fall apart since you were a kid.
“I can’t,” you say.
Dennis freezes.
You close the door. Lock it.
For one second, there is silence. Then Dennis knocks gently. “June, honey.” Your hand flies to your mouth.
Honey.
You slide down the door before your knees can give out. “I’m okay,” you lie, voice strangled, tears threatening to spill. Frank says, “No, you’re not,” from the other side of the door.
You press your forehead to your knees. I wish Yolanda was here…
Dennis’s voice is low through the door. “I’m not leaving.” “I don’t need you to fix it.” “I know.” “I yelled at a med student.”
“Yeah.” “I was awful.” “You were scared.” “That’s not an excuse.” “No,” Dennis says gently. “But it is a reason.”
You close your eyes.
Frank mutters something, then you hear footsteps retreat. For a horrible second, you think he gave up. He did not. Frank Langdon is a menace, and unfortunately, he knows all your weak spots.
Because ten minutes later, there is a different knock. Firm. Irritated. Familiar.
“Langdon.” You lift your head.
No. Absolutely not.
“Go away,” you say. Park’s voice comes through the door. “Open it.” “I’m busy.” “Having a breakdown?” You glare at the door through wet eyes. “Your bedside manner is garbage.” “Yes. Open the door.” “No.”
There is a pause. Then Park says, “Orca.” Your breath catches.
You hate him.
You hate him so much.
He has called you that for years, usually with the emotional warmth of a man naming a mildly inconvenient zoo animal. Because you had once told him, sleep-deprived after a twenty-hour trauma call, that you wanted to be a marine biologist as a kid before bones ruined your life. Because he decided you were too stubborn to be a dolphin and too loud to be a whale.
Orca.
You stand slowly and unlock the door. Park is alone in the hallway. Dennis and Frank are farther down, both watching like badly disguised guard dogs.
Park looks at your face, then past you into the on-call room. “Move,” he says. You step back. He comes inside and shuts the door behind him.
For a few seconds, neither of you says anything. Then your face crumples.
“I messed up,” you whisper.
Park looks deeply uncomfortable.
Which would be funny, if you were not currently falling apart in an on-call room that smells like old coffee and industrial detergent.
“You yelled,” he says. “I screamed.” “You advocated aggressively.” “I humiliated him.” “Yes.” You let out a broken laugh. “You are so bad at this.” “I’m aware.”
Your laugh turns into a sob before you can stop it.
Park stands there for one full second like someone has handed him an explosive device. Then he opens his arms stiffly. You stare at him. He looks pained. “Do not make this weird.” You step forward and hug him. Park freezes.
Then, awkwardly, one hand lands between your shoulder blades. It is not smooth. It is not natural. It is very much like being comforted by a grizzly bear who attended one communication seminar under duress.
But it works.
You cry into his scrub top, humiliated and exhausted and furious and so relieved that the boy’s hand pinked up after reduction that you cannot breathe around it.
Park pats your back once. Then twice.
“I know I call you Orca,” he says finally, voice dry, “but I didn’t think you actually had it in you.” You make a wet, offended sound against his chest. “Did you just make a killer whale joke while I’m crying?”
“Yes.” “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” “I might.” “You won’t.”
You pull back eventually, wiping your face with your sleeve.
Park looks at you with the closest thing to softness he can manage without needing a medical consult.
“The hand reperfused,” he says. “Good Doppler. Cap refill under two. Fingers warming. We’ll watch him overnight. If anything changes, vascular is aware.”
You nod, tears still falling. “Okay.” “You caught it.” “Late.” “You caught it.” “He sat down there for forty-five minutes.” “Yes.”
“He could have—” “But he didn’t.” Park’s voice cuts cleanly through the spiral. “Because you went down, did the exam, identified the emergency, and moved. That is the job. You are a good surgeon Orca.”
You press your palms into your eyes.
“I lost it.” “Yes.” “I don’t usually yell at students.” “No.” Park crosses his arms. “Usually you psychologically dismantle residents and attending physicians.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. He waits until your breathing steadies.
Then he says, “You’re going to apologize to the stupid med student, aren’t you?” You groan. “Don’t call him stupid.” “You did fifteen minutes ago.” “I was mad.” “He was stupid.” “Park.” He shrugs. “Fine. He was unsafe.”
You exhale. That is the word to describe the situation. Unsafe.
And beneath all your anger, that is what really broke you. You were not mad because Ogilvie was annoying. You were mad because for one moment, a child was unsafe because someone wanted to seem like they knew more than they did.
“I have to apologize,” you say quietly. “For yelling,” Park says. “Not for being right.” You look at him. He points at you. “Do not overcorrect into taking blame that isn’t yours. He needed the lesson. He did not need the volume.”
Your mouth twitches. “That was almost emotionally intelligent.” “I’m furious about it.” You wipe your face again. “Did Frank text you?” “Yes, he did.” “That traitor.”
“He said you locked yourself in an on-call room and Whitaker looked like someone kicked a farm dog.” You close your eyes. “Oh my God.” Park opens the door. “Go find your men.” “My men?” “Your brother and the boyfriend currently wearing a hole in the floor.”
You step out into the hallway.
Dennis is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, but he straightens immediately when he sees you. Frank is beside him, phone in hand, trying and failing to look casual.
Your heart gives a painful little twist. There they are. The two men who make you feel safe in completely different ways.
Frank, who has known you since you were small and furious and convinced needing anyone was a weakness. Dennis, who has known you for a fraction of that time and somehow looks at you like every sharp edge is worth learning carefully.
Frank moves first. “You good?” he asks. You nod. His eyes narrow. “That was not convincing.” “I’m better.”
He steps closer and pulls you into his chest without asking. You let him. Because he is Frank. Because he has been doing this since you were a kid. Because sometimes being a little sister means you can be thirty seconds from falling apart and still become twelve years old the second your brother wraps an arm around your shoulders.
“You scared me,” he mutters into your hair. “I yelled in public.” “You’ve bitten me over a Pop-Tart. Public yelling is not what scared me.” You pinch his side. He grunts. “There’s my sister.”
When you pull back, Dennis is still standing a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, giving you space even though every line of him wants to come closer.
It undoes you more than if he had rushed in.
“Hi,” you say softly. His eyes search your face. “Hi.” “I’m sorry I shut you out.”“You said you couldn’t,” he says. “I believed you.”
Your throat tightens.
Frank looks between you and makes a face. “I’m going to stand over there before I experience any more emotion.” Park, from behind you, says, “Too late.” Frank points at him. “You are not part of this family.” Park says, “Thank God.”
You almost laugh, almost.
Then you take the few steps to Dennis. He does not touch you until you reach for him first.
The second your fingers hook into the front of his scrub top, his arms come around you, firm and warm and careful. You press your face into his chest. He smells like coffee, hospital soap, and the laundry detergent from his apartment.
Safe.
Stupid word.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. His hand moves over your back once. “I know.” “You don’t know that.” “No,” he says quietly. “But I’m letting you say it until it feels true.”
You close your eyes. Frank makes a pained sound. “I hate that he’s good at this.” “Shut up,” you mumble into Dennis’s chest.
Dennis’s laugh rumbles under your cheek.
Eventually, you pull away because there is still one more thing to do.
Ogilvie is at the ED station when you come back down. He looks like he has aged several years in the last hour. His scrubs are wrinkled now. His perfect badge is crooked.
Good.
No, not good.
You inhale. “Ogilvie.” He stands immediately. “Dr. Langdon.” The ED goes a little quieter again, because apparently everyone in this hospital lives for drama and privacy is a rumor.
You keep your voice even.
“I owe you an apology,” you say. His eyes widen. “I should not have yelled at you in front of the department. That was unprofessional. You are a learner, and I should have handled it differently.”
He swallows. “I’m sorry too. I should have asked someone. I didn’t do a complete neurovascular exam.” “No,” you say, not unkindly. “You didn’t.” He nods, face red. You step closer, lowering your voice enough that it becomes a teaching moment instead of a public execution.
“Pediatric supracondylar fractures can go bad fast. Especially extension-type injuries. You always document neurovascular status. Radial pulse. Cap refill. Skin temperature and color. Median nerve, especially anterior interosseous function — thumbs up, okay sign, finger crossing if they can cooperate. Radial and ulnar motor and sensation as best you can. Pain out of proportion. Increasing analgesic needs. Tense compartments. If the hand is cold, pale, blue, pulseless, or cap refill is delayed, that is not routine. That is an immediate senior evaluation.”
“I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t care if you wake up an attending from the dead,” you say. “If you are worried about perfusion in a child’s limb, you escalate.” He nods again. “I will.”
You hold his gaze for one more second. Then you soften, just a little.
“You’re going to make mistakes,” you say. “Everyone does. The dangerous thing is pretending you’re too smart to make them.” His mouth tightens. “Yes, ma’am.” You grimace. “Do not call me ma’am. I already had four hip fractures today. I feel ancient.”
Robby steps forward and gives Ogilvie a look that is kind but not gentle. “We’ll review the case tomorrow. You’ll present the fracture classification, neurovascular exam, and indications for emergent operative management.”
Ogilvie nods. “Yes, Dr. Robby.”
Frank leans toward you and whispers, “Look at you, apologizing and teaching. Growth.” You elbow him.
Dennis watches you with that soft, proud look again. You point at him. “Do not.” He lifts both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were thinking it loudly.” “I’m proud of you,” he says anyway.
You glare.
It is completely ineffective.
By the time your shift finally ends, you are moving like a person held together by caffeine, spite, and compression socks. Park signs out the post-ops. The little boy’s hand remains warm with good cap refill and a Dopplerable pulse. He is admitted for monitoring, arm elevated, splint in place, neurovascular checks ordered, pain controlled.
You update his mother after Park does, and she hugs you so hard you forget how to breathe.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
You pat her back gently.
In the hallway after, Park looks at you. You look back. He says, “Don’t cry again.” “I wasn’t going to.” “You were.” “I hate that you know me.” “How unfortunate for both of us.”
When you make it back downstairs, Dennis is waiting near the ambulance bay with two coffees.
One hot. One iced vanilla latte.
You stare at him. “It is almost eight at night.” “I know.” “How did you even get them when the cafeteria is closed.” He shrugs, “I called Shen when you locked yourself in the on call room.” How dare he be so cute and know you so well.
You take the latte anyway.
Frank appears behind him with his jacket over one shoulder. “I’m walking you to your car.” “You are not my dad.” “No, but I am the reason you survived middle school.” “That is debatable.”
Dennis looks between you. “Do you want to come over tonight?” You glance at him. Frank makes a choking noise. “I’m still standing here.” Dennis flushes. “I meant..” “I know what you meant,” Frank says. “Unfortunately.”
You sip your latte to hide your smile. Dennis tries again, softer. “No pressure. Just…you had a day. I can make toast.” There it is.
That stupid, unsexy, devastating sentence.
You look at him, at the tired kindness in his face, at the way he is asking without pulling, offering without assuming.
You think about Amy Miller and Theo’s blueberry-sticky fingers.
You think about locked doors.
You think about Park awkwardly hugging you in an on-call room.
You think about Frank texting for help because he knows when you are too far gone to ask.
You think about the little boy’s hand warming under your fingers.
Then you step closer to Dennis and steal his hot coffee too.
His eyebrows lift. “Both?” “I had a traumatic day.” “That’s fair.” Frank groans. “She’s going to be unbearable now.” You look at your brother. “I am always unbearable.” “True.”
Dennis smiles down at you. “My place?” You nod. Frank points at Dennis. “No funny business.”
You and Dennis both freeze.
Frank looks horrified by his own words. “Actually, forget I said that. I don’t want to know. I want to know nothing. I am a man of peace.” “You are absolutely not,” you say. “I am tonight.”
Dennis, bless him, looks like he would rather intubate himself awake than continue this conversation. You take pity on him and grab his hand. “Come on, Huckleberry.” He lets you pull him towards the parking garage.
“Text me when you get there!” You roll your eyes, but you will. Dennis’s hand tightens around yours as you walk into the cool evening air.
For once, you do not pull away.
At his apartment, he does make toast.
He also makes scrambled eggs, and he puts one of his old sweatshirts on the edge of the couch without saying a word. When you put it on, he pretends not to look pleased.
You eat with your legs tucked under you while some terrible home renovation show plays quietly on the TV. Dennis sits beside you, close enough that your knee rests against his thigh.
After a while, he says, “That kid is going to be okay?” You nod. “Hand pinked up after reduction. Good cap refill. They’ll watch him close, but yeah. He should be okay.”
Dennis exhales. “Good.”
You look down at your plate. “I keep thinking about how scared he was.” “I know.” “And his mom. God, Dennis, she looked at me like I could promise her the universe wouldn’t be cruel to him.”
His hand covers yours.
“You promised what you could,” he says. “Then you did it.” You stare at his hand over yours.
“I was mean today.” “You were human today.” “That is not as comforting as you think it is.” He smiles faintly. “Sorry.”
You lean into him. He shifts immediately, arm coming around your shoulders.
No hesitation now. No awkwardness.
One month ago, you fell asleep in his arms by accident. Tonight, you curl into him on purpose.
Dennis kisses the top of your head.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes.
For once, you believe him.
And later, when you fall asleep halfway through the episode, a plate abandoned on the coffee table and his sweatshirt swallowing your hands, Dennis does not wake you.
He only pulls the blanket higher, turns down the volume, and stays exactly where he is. Like he has nowhere else he would rather be.
Like loving you, even on the days you come home sharp and scared and shaking, is not something he survives.
It is something he chooses.Maybe it is okay to let someone in. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be chosen. You let yourself open that door in the wall, because you love Dennis Whitaker
So sorry it took so long for a new chapter! I've been picking up more shifts are work. Please forgive me! I really enjoyed writing this one! I hope you like it too!
English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
The text in small means they are speaking in Italian, and sometimes when Valentina talks, there will be literal translations from Italian (it's intentional).
As the university was some distance from the residential district, they opted to take a carriage. Mycroft's apartment was not further away from Ashcombe's one; only the one where Valentina was staying was closer to the shops.
Inside it, she could feel his presence in the decor: plain furniture, nothing too ostentatious, and everything tidy. Much like his London apartment, only less personal.
She saw the armchair and sat on it. She loved armchairs; they were cosy, convenient for reading, and perfectly suited to resting one's feet on the footrest, for even more cosiness.
Meanwhile, Mycroft went to the cabinet to take some alcohol. He turned with two drinks, gave her one, and sat on the sofa, undoing the top button of his jacket; she noticed that he would do that gesture every time something was on his mind, like a tic.
She raised her glass. “To this wonderful gala.”
The corners of his lips lifted, and he raised his glass.
They took a sip at the same time, and the silence returned.
She watched him carefully, over the rim of her glass, trying to understand what was troubling him. "A penny for your thoughts."
He took a sip and looked at her, confused. "I'm fine."
She was absently swirling the liquid in her glass. "You don't look like it … Is this about your brother and the bomb?"
"Ah, Sherlock. How did you know it was him?"
"I remember him from a picture in your apartment in London." She took a sip while thinking. "You know, now that I think about it, you never talked about your family."
"There is nothing interesting to say about it." He replied, growing uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
She noticed it, but insisted. "I'm curious. I talked to you about my family, but you never mentioned yours."
His irritation grew. "That's because you tend to overshare."
She noticed that too, but decided to insist even more, to see how far she could push before it snapped. "It's a normal topic for conversation."
He watched her, starting to get irritated, but politely smiled. "Also work."
She paused while glaring at him. "You want to talk about work?"
She took a long sip while thinking about the things most likely to unsettle Mycroft. "A few days ago, this man came in, and his liver was horrible." She put down the glass on the small table near her to gesture better. "It was all lumpy, dry, and had this strange pinky colour. It was a ghastly sight …"
"I understand." He said dryly, but this didn't make her shut up.
"And then the other day a body came in, the neck mutilated, most probably they used a blunt knife, so it was all a mess …."
"I understand." He said, his voice steady enough to silence her.
She shot him a look and raised her voice. "You were the one who suggested the topic. If you don't want to hear about my job, let's talk about yours. Oh, right. You can't …"
"Very well.” He composed himself on the sofa, took a sip, and sighed. "My younger brother, Sherlock, is … a law unto himself. He ended up in prison for pickpocketing, and to teach him a lesson, I gave him a job as a scout in Oxford. Then the princess's scroll disappeared, and he was blamed. He tried to clear his name, and then there was the bomb. Are you happy now?"
"Pickpocket?" She asked, confused.
"Yes, he said that he read Oliver Twist and wanted to try it himself."
She started laughing. "I'm sorry … Are you sure you are related?"
He laughed quietly, shaking his head.
She continued. "What did your parents say?"
He fell silent. "My father is away on business and …" He took a long breath. "My mother is … in … an asylum." He wiped his face. "I would rather not have told them; my mother especially."
She felt as though she had been struck and suspected she had gone too far this time. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention to put you on the spot …" she took a sip, "… but if someone had told me from the beginning."
He buried his face in his hand, shook his head, and took a sip."Why are you like this?"
"What?" She asked, confused.
He looked bothered by the question. "You always do everything in your power to start an argument."
She thought a bit while drinking, and made a face."That isn't true."
"You always want to push more, to put people in the corner, always want the last word … You're insufferable." He took a sip, finishing his drink, and shifted in his seat."That is why Inspector Grale is always at odds with you."
The silence settled; she fixed him with the most withering look she could manage, without dropping her gaze, and she took another sip. "Inspector Grale hates the idea that a woman has more power than him."
Silence was all that remained; this time, it had an edge to it. Valentina had pushed too far, but Mycroft had pushed back harder.
The clock struck, announcing the new hour. She checked it while finishing her drink. “It’s getting late. I had better return to the apartment. Adelaide will be calm by now.”
"Let me accompany you to the carriage." He said while getting up from the sofa, to make his way toward her, but she was faster, brushing past him, and reached the room's door first.
"I want to walk, it isn't far." She responded.
He drew closer. "Then let me walk with you."
She turned his way. "If I say no, are you going to follow me anyway?"
"Yes."
She angrily puffed and went to the exit, followed by him.
Valentina was a fast walker, and for the entire walk she stayed ahead, and behind her was Mycroft. He tried to offer her his arm, but before he even had the chance to ask, she had already set off.
Both of them were in the wrong, but they were too proud to say something first. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement, his walking stick tapped roughly against the tiles, and the silence of the night only made them seem noisier.
Valentina stopped suddenly and turned to Mycroft. "I thought about your words, and perhaps you have a point." She took a breath, trying not to sacrifice her pride entirely, even in the act of 'apologising'. "I have some bad habits, … I think I developed them out of a desperate need to be heard…"
Her mouth remained open for a little bit while she thought carefully about her next words. But, deciding it was better not to add more irons to the fire, she resumed walking.
He hurried to catch up with her. "Just say it."
"What?" She said without stopping.
He took her arm, bringing her to a stop."You want to say something, say it at this point."
She pulled her arm away and huffed. "You have bad habits too, like controlling everything and wanting to do everything alone. As I said before: same dreadful character."
He smiled at her, accepting the criticism. "You are not entirely wrong either. I'm sorry about the Inspector Grale thing."
“By now I’m used to this kind of comment …” She said, gesturing and then hitting his chest. “… but not from you, Mycroft. I didn't expect it from you.”
He looked at her, confused, as she reached Ashcombe's house.
“Here we are. You may return home now.” She said while approaching the stairs.
He watched her while she was going up the stairs. She was going slowly, as though she were waiting for something. He didn’t want the night to conclude on bad terms.
“That dress is really beautiful.” He said, the first thing that came to his mind. ”Especially on you.”
She turned his way, smiling. “Oh, I know.” She lingered, thinking whether to say something or not. ”I have to say that I really enjoy seeing you in the Tailcoat, too … I do not often have the occasion to see you so elegantly dressed.”
Mycroft smiled. “The same could be said for me.”
She knocked at the door and returned to face his way. "Good night, Mr Holmes."
"Good night, Miss Greco."
A servant came to open the door, and she entered the house.
English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
The text in small means they are speaking in Italian, and sometimes when Valentina talks, there will be literal translations from Italian (it's intentional).
A week passed, and finally the day of the gala came. Valentina was in the guest room of Ashcombe’s house in Oxford, preparing herself.
In the end, the dress chosen by Adelaide was fine; it was a classic gala style, all fluffy, the fabric chosen, night-sky blue, was beautiful on her, and the silver floral embroidery on the bodice illuminated the dress. Her hair was pulled high with a silver floral pin, but some curls were left loose. For the face, she put on her usual make-up, kajal for her eyes, and a touch of pink on her cheeks and lips.
She went out of her room. “Adelaide, I’m ready.”
Adelaide and Miss Campbell came out. The viscountess was wearing a light pink frothy dress with some bows. Her hair was pulled up by some pinky pins, her make-up was a little bit heavier than Valentina's, but not excessive. The lady’s maid was wearing a simpler dress, pink too, with a nice pattern on the fabric, her hair was pulled straight up with some pins, and a little make-up to brighten her.
Adelaide always liked going to parties with matching dresses, but Valentina found it horrible. Luckily, there was Miss Campbell to indulge her eccentricity.
Adelaide let out a despairing sigh.“Are you wearing those things in your eyes again? ”
“Yes, I like it. I think that makes my eyes stand out.”
Adelaide snorted and rolled her eyes, “Let's go, before I splash some water on that face and remove those horrible black things.”
Valentina smiled. “I cannot wait for you to have that baby. You have been unbearable.”
Adelaide gave her an indignant slap on the shoulder.
They all proceeded outside to the carriage that was waiting for them.
The carriage arrived in front of the building. Valentina was the first to step down from it. She caught sight of Mycroft in the distance, and, surprised, she ran toward him.
She hugged him and kissed his cheek, “Good evening, Mr Holmes. I didn’t expect you to be here.”
Mycroft looked at her, confused. “Nor did I, Miss Greco. I had thought your presence would not be welcomed in Oxford.”
“I personally wished her to be here.” Sir Hodge said, interrupting their reunion. “Today we are celebrating the future, and Miss Greco is … how shall I put it … an interesting example of it.”
She turned his way. “Oh, thank you, Sir. I think this is the kindest thing any man has ever said to me about my work.” She extended her hand, expecting a handshake, “Sir Hodge, am I right?”
He regarded it for a moment, then shook it reluctantly. ”Yes.”
Mycroft composed himself. "I’m sorry. This is Sir Bucephalus Hodge, Miss Edie, his secretary, and the Princess Gulun Shou'an.”
Valentina shook Miss Edie's hand and made a little bow to the Princess. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”
Meanwhile, Adelaide and Miss Campbell caught up with her. Seeing that her friend was not paying attention to her, she began to cough pointedly. Valentina noticed it. “Oh … I’m so sorry. I quite forgot myself."
She gestured toward the ladies. "This is my dearest friend, the Viscountess Adelaide Ashcombe, and her lady's maid, Miss Campbell.”
Adelaide smiled, everyone greeted her, and they exchanged pleasantries.
“Let’s go inside. My feet hurt.” Adelaide interrupted Valentina while she was talking.
“Very well … We shall speak later.” Valentina said, turning to Mycroft.
He didn't have the time to respond to her, as they had already gone inside.
"I cannot stand them." Sir Hodge said, exasperated, to Mycroft.
Mycroft thought about it. "Excuse me, Sir. Who are we talking about?"
"Italians, Mycroft. They are so rude, so touchy, and so loud. I cannot bear them."
The three ladies' table was near the big window. Valentina was happy about that placement, so that she could glance outside if she grew bored.
"When are we going to start to eat?" Adelaide said, irritated.
Miss Campbell rolled her eyes. "I believe we must sit through Sir Hodge's speech first, my lady."
"What a shame."
Miss Campbell tried to contain herself. "I know, my lady. But I already advised you that this gala was not going to be the one you are used to."
Adelaide gave her a look. "Today we woke up smarty-pants."
Miss Campbell sighed. "I am merely stating the fact, as you said, my lady."
Adelaide puffed.
Since the viscountess was starting to get nervous, Valentina decided it was the right moment to intervene. "Leave Miss Campbell alone, would you. You know, you are fortunate that we are a pack of wicked women. Otherwise, you would be alone."
Adelaide didn't say anything and turned her attention to studying the people around her.
The last person remaining entered the salon, and Sir Hodge called attention and began his speech. He thanked the people who contributed to the new building, then talked about the future, the Great Britain Empire, and how all of this was going to …
"How is that woman dressed?" Adelaide whispered, pointing toward her with a tilt of her head.
Valentina gave a quick look in that direction. "Even I could dress better than that."
They contained a little laugh.
Miss Campbell turned their way. "What?"
Valentina leaned toward her. "Just poor taste."
Miss Campbell sighed and returned to listen to Sir Hodge.
Thanks to her friend, Valentina had lost the thread of Sir Hodge's speech entirely and was trying to find it again, but …
Bum. Something hit the wall of the fireplace.
Valentina took Adelaide's arms and pointed in that direction. "Are those bricks moving?"
Bum.
Adelaide tried to watch closely. "Yes, I think so."
Bum.
"What is happening?" Adelaide said while getting agitated.
Bum.
"I don't know." Miss Campbell and Valentina responded together.
Bum.
Now some bricks were down, and Sir Hodge turned his attention toward it.
Bum. Bum.
Valentina tried to catch the conversation, but with that loud noise, it was difficult to hear anything.
Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.
Finally, they stopped that noise, and a boy came out of the hole.
By now, the conversation between him and Sir Hodge was no longer of her interest; she was too focused on trying to place that young man's face. She was certain she had seen that face before, it looked so familiar, but she could not place where. Finally, the memories came: she had seen him in a picture in Mycroft's house. "He must be his younger brother, Sherlock." She thought.
Her train of thought was interrupted by another young man who came out from the same hole. "… There is a bomb." He screamed.
Valentina snapped back to the present. Everyone was rushing outside in a general chaos.
She took Adelaide by the arm. "Move."
The three ladies managed to go outside in time, before the bomb exploded, though not far enough.
Valentina's ears were ringing. She gave a quick look around. There was dust everywhere, and she coughed a little. Then she noticed it; Adelaide was hyperventilating. She took her by the shoulders. "Hey, Dela. Breathe with me."
Adelaide was scared and confused, but managed to do as she was told, slowly steadying herself. Miss Campbell noticed it too, took out her fan, and began to fan her.
After a few moments, Adelaide calmed down.
"Take the Viscountess back to the apartment and call a doctor." Valentina said, addressing Miss Campbell.
She watched her, irritated. "You are a doctor."
"Not the one she needs." It was a lie. Valentina sometimes helped in the maternity department of the hospital, so she was perfectly capable of giving basic care to Adelaide, but she didn't want to. She simply could not face her friend's hysteria.
Outside, it was growing dark, and Valentina was sitting in the stairway outside the building, smoking a cigarette. She was killing time while waiting for the right time to return to the apartment.
She checked her clock, it had been over thirty minutes. She didn't know if that was enough time for Adelaide to calm down; it was the first time they had witnessed a bomb exploding, and it wasn't a normal thing that could happen at a gala.
"What are you doing here, Valentina? Shouldn't you be trying to calm down Lady Ashcombe?" She looked up and saw Mycroft. She never saw him that messy; it was clear he had tried to tidy himself up, but most of the soot still clung to him.
She took a drag. "That's Miss Campbell's work, not mine. That woman loses her mind when things do not go her way."
He laughed. "That is real, I recall some of her parties … How are you two even friends?"
She smiled and gave another puff. "We are two shrews."
He looked surprised. "That is an inappropriate word for a lady, much like that cigarette."
She finished her cigarettes and got up. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
“I'm just being a Gentleman. I saw a lady all alone in the dark, and came to check if she was all right.”
"I'm fine."
"Good."
An embarrassed silence grew between them. After four years of knowing each other, there would always come a point where an awkward silence fell, and neither of them knew what to say.
He broke it first. "May I offer you a drink?"
She gave him a sardonic look. “This is so inappropriate, Mr Holmes. Are you trying to ruin my reputation?“
He looked up, pretending to think. “As you didn’t manage to do it yourself.”
She struck him on the chest. “How dare you?!”
He caught her wrist. "As I said, I'm just trying to be a Gentleman. I want to be sure that you are safe while Lady Ashcombe calms down."
She pulled free of his grip. “You are fortunate that my character is as dreadful as yours. Let’s go.”
Mycroft followed her orders, offering his arm, which she accepted, and led the way to his apartment.
English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
The text in small means they are speaking in Italian, and sometimes when Valentina talks, there will be literal translations from Italian (it's intentional).
The officer entered, interrupting the silence of the dead with his clicking heels, “Doctor Greco, the secretary told me to give you this note. It's from Ashcombe's House.”
“Thank you, Officer Higgins.” She took the note and cast a glance at the clock on her desk, almost twelve, she had not expected her to reply so quickly.
He nodded and stepped outside, and she opened the letter:
Dear Valentina Greco,
It will be wonderful to attend the gala with you.
I will come to the hospital to take you out for lunch and shopping. Never mind what you think, events of this importance need new clothes, I don't want people to think that I associate myself with a barbarian.
I expect you to be ready at one o’clock. When I open that door I don’t want to find any open bodies on that table.
Your dearest friend,
Viscountess Adelaide Ashcombe
As expected, Adelaide would take her shopping. She snorted and put a hand on her face. She liked to buy new clothes, but doing so with Lady Ashcombe was more torture than pleasure. She always needed to see every fabric, every ribbon, every …
“Is everything all right, Greco?” Her colleague brought her back to the present.
“Yes, Pembrook. I just put myself in a trap, again.”
“Ah, did you object to Inspector Grale again ?”
“Worse, I made plans with Lady Ashcombe."
He laughed from his chair, putting a hand on his chest.
Valentina carried on, "Is there any problem if I go out for lunch, and maybe do a little shopping? I will not be long.”
“Absolutely no, Greco. You ought to have some womanly pursuits. I will send Officer Higgins to you if something interesting is coming.”
She rolled her eyes up, “Thank you.”
Time flew, and another body came in, a dead patient this time. Deciding that it was an interesting case, they proceeded to do the autopsy together. Unfortunately, they were right, and between one tick of the clock and another, they became completely absorbed in the case.
Meanwhile, outside the hospital, Lady Ashcombe and Miss Campbell, her lady’s maid, arrived in a carriage. They entered the building and made their way to the mortuary.
Officer Higgins stepped in front of them, before they could take another step toward the room, “Oh, excuse me, ladies. You can’t enter.”
Adelaide grimaced, “Excuse me?! Don’t you know who I am?? I’m the Viscountess Adelaide Ashcombe. Is this how you greet me?”
From inside, they could tell that something was happening. Valentina checked the clock on the wall. “Shit. It’s already one o’clock. Sorry, Pembrook, I will just go and tell Lady Ashcombe that I need more time."
Without stopping to wash herself first, she went to the door and pushed it with her back. When she leaned outside, she saw Adelaide screaming at the poor police officer for the grave crime of failing to recognise her.
She tried to contain a smile, “Adelaide, stop it. I think Officer Higgins understands his error, and it will never happen again. Am I right?”
The officer nodded animatedly, “Absolutely, Viscountess Ashcombe. I will never make this kind of mistake again.”
Adelaide watched him angrily. “See that it stays that way.” She turned her head in Valentina’s direction, ”And you! What is all that blood on you?!? I told you I would come at one o’clock and you should be ready.”
It was funny how she would speak to her in English, just when she wanted people around them to listen to take her side.
“I’m really sorry, but something came up. Why don’t you wait here while I finish this case? I will be as quick as I can. Maybe Officer Higgins can get you a cup of tea?”
Adelaide gestured, “The cup of tea is fine, but hurry up.”
Valentina rolled her eyes and returned inside, while she could hear her friend complain to Miss Campbell.
When the autopsy was done, she went to the washbasin and started to wash her arms as much as possible. When Adelaide was pregnant, her senses became unnaturally sharp; at that time, she was always complaining that Valentina smelled of death.
She put on all the necessary items for going out, took out a bottle of her perfume, and started to spray it on herself. “Pembrook, could you please not put away these petri dishes? I would like to have another look at them when I return from lunch.”
“With pleasure.”
Valentina smiled and went to the door. “Shouldn’t you be going to lunch too?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. My wife put me on a diet, again.”
She finally got out of the room, and Adelaide came to her, kissing her cheeks, “Finally. You take such a long time.”
Valentina checked her clock, “Only half an hour.”
Adelaide gave her a sideways look, “I remind you that finding you a dress that you like is as great a feat as crossing the Atlantic.”
“I think you are exaggerating now.”
Adelaide sniffed her, “Did you put on that dreadful lemon perfume again?!” She shook her head and started to walk to the exit, followed by Miss Campbell and Valentina, “Later, Officer Higgins.”
“Later, Mi-Doctor Greco. Sorry.”
Valentina snorted and rolled her eyes.
For the entire carriage ride, Adelaide complained about Mrs Smith, her cook, and the way she was cooking everything poorly. Valentina did not quite believe her; most probably, it was just the pregnancy.
The carriage finally arrived at the Trattoria Lombardi in Soho. It was a middle-class restaurant, but the food was so good that even the viscountess had accepted to lower her aristocratic ego, and her husband could not say much on the matter, as if he really cared, if his wife was happy, then he was happy too.
They entered the building, and the landlady greeted them, "Good afternoon, Tina, Adelaide. You are a little late, but it's fine. We managed to hold your usual spot."
The ladies smiled, thanked her, and made their way to the table near the window. There, they ordered the food.
While waiting for it, cradled by the familiar scents and sounds of home, Adelaide updated Valentina on all the gossip from last week, which she missed because of work. She always appreciated gossip; it lifted her spirits, but only if it was good, and Adelaide had just the most precious gossip you could find in all of London.
The waiter arrived with the delicious dishes.
“But let's stop talking about me. Tell me about this Gala.” Adelaide said while twirling some pasta on her fork.
Valentina adjusted her napkin, “It’s a gala for the new building in Oxford.”
Adelaide sighed, “Yes, I read it. But like … who will be there?”
Valentina thought while eating, and then made a face, “I don’t know, professors, students, and alumni, like me … Oh, and maybe some important people.”
Adelaide gave a devilish smile, “Will Mr. Holmes be there too?”
Valentina flushed slightly, “I don’t know. He said that he will be in Oxford, but didn’t tell me why.”
Adelaide threw down the fork, “I cannot bear you two anymore. What’s his problem?”
Valentina looked at her, confused, “What?”
Adelaide sighed desperately, "Why hasn't he asked for your hand yet?"
Valentina buried her face in one hand, "Adelaide, I already told you that Mycroft and I are just friends."
“Mmm, and what about your secret meetings?”
Valentina flushed. She got closer and whispered, “Don’t say that out loud, it was told in confidence. And anyway, it happened only a handful of times, a long time ago.”
Adelaide leaned toward her and whispered, “You mean every time you happened to work together?!”
“Can we just change the subject? Maybe your lady’s maid is not understanding us, but everyone else does.” She returned to her place and smiled at Miss Campbell.
Adelaide returned with a normal tone, “Ok, ok, fine."
They started to eat again, though not for long, before Adelaide returned to the subject, "Then let me find you a husband."
Valentina set down her fork, "You already tried it, and none of them wanted to see me a second time."
"Yes, because you talk about your disgusting job."
"First, they are the ones who want to know; second, if you were to start telling them about my work, before introducing them to me, maybe they will be less shocked."
Adelaide grew agitated, "I can't do that, they run away before they even meet you. I was thinking that if they see your pretty face first, maybe they could overlook your work."
Valentina sighed and returned to eat.
"Then did you already think about the dress?” Valentina asked raising a hand to her mouth as she was still chewing.
Adelaide wiped her mouth with her napkin, “Yes, I browsed through some magazines. You?”
"Oh, I didn't. I was thinking you were going to check for me."
Adelaide grimaced, “You don't even try to make any effort?! Anyway, yes. I checked for you, too.”
Valentina smiled.
After lunch, the carriage took them to Regent Street, where they went to Madame Elise, one of the best tailors for high society women.
Valentina wasn't noble; she grew up in the countryside of Northern Italy, until one day Lord Coldwell, while traveling through the peninsula, found himself by chance in a small village, where he met her sister, Margherita, and they fell in love. It was no simple matter, but society was slowly changing, and in the end, Coldwell's parents gave their blessing. Margherita took Valentina with her to London, to their father's wish, for a better life than the one that awaited her at home.
Adelaide's story was completely different; she came from a noble family in Venice, and married Viscount Ashcombe for family reasons. Even if it was a marriage of convenience, they suited each other well: the Viscount had a lot of money that Adelaide could spend, and the Viscountess kept everything in order, leaving the Viscount free to devote himself to his beloved insects. But there must have been something between them, they already had one child, and were waiting for the second.
Inside the shop, they started their research: Adelaide was the first to see something, "You should go for this pastel pink, and add some bow."
"Absolutely not, it's too much. What about this?" Valentina said while pointing to a dark purple fabric.
"No one will ever ask for a dance in such a sombre colour."
"I don't need that. I just need a dress that doesn't make me look like a wedding favour. And I don't think there will be a dance."
"Why not? It's a gala." Adelaide said while showing a blue one with a strange pattern on it.
"Too tacky." They returned to face the wall full of fabric, and Valentina continued, "Yes, but it's for a new building in Oxford. There will be nothing but a gathering of old men talking about science."
"That's so sad. I do not understand how you managed to stay there for three years."
"It was not that bad, and anyway students would usually throw parties."
Adelaide took a strong green, "What about this one?"
"I'm not a lawn."
Valentina saw a beautiful night-sky blue fabric and took it, "Look at this. You can't tell it's not beautiful."
Adelaide watched it for a little bit, "Very well. But I shall choose the rest."
"Fine, just no bows."
Adelaide made a vague gesture and accepted it.
After she had made certain she had seen every model in the tailor’s possession, they placed their order, and each woman returned to her routine.
Before reading: English is not my first language, so grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing may occasionally appear throughout the story. I apologize in advance.
