Brendon "The Shark" Park x Foc (Sammy)
[Ao3], Masterlist, Series Masterlist, First Chapter, Prev
warnings: please forgive medical inaccuracies <3
Summary: Park likes to send interns who annoy him to do consults.
Word Count: 1,162
She had spent her three days off hunting for a new place to live, finding a decent apartment on the bus line. Thankfully, Jack resisted sleeping; she had managed to drag him to help her tour before final approval. The ability to have an apartment secured next month made her feel lighter. Only a few more weeks, and she wouldn't be living out of a damn hotel. Both Jack and Robby had offered their place, but she hated to impose and loved having a space for herself.
A new day in the ED; she had tried to start the day off on a positive note. She knew the mood would tank through the shift, but she figured it was worth a try.
Robby was off for the day, but she fully suspected he would pop in at random. Hopefully, he was teaching today and actually keeping busy.
She did hand off with Shen, going through rotations before sending all the residents and students off for their assignments.
Dana had the phone to her ear, listening before she turned to Sammy as she approached. "Trauma incoming, crush injury."
"Cool," Sammy said, looking around and spotting Javadi sitting at the desk. "Hey, why don't you hop in?"
The younger woman looked up, shocked, "uh- me?"
"Yeah, you," Sammy smiled. "Common, it'll be fun,"
Javadi moved away from the computer, fixing her hoodie as she moved around the hub to join. "You and I have a different definition of fun."
The patient was wheeled into trauma one. A beautiful dance as everyone worked in sync. Every so often, Sammy asked Javadi questions to test her knowledge, giving the younger woman a smile every time. Vermont hadn't been a teaching hospital, but she remembered what it had felt like to have questions thrown her way when she was working.
"Princess, can you page Garcia?"
"On it," Princess responded. Sammy nodded as they continued to work. X-ray was taken. Crush injury for sure. Fucking hell. Princess huffed, hanging the phone up. "She's in the OR."
"Shit," Sammy looked at the patient's leg, concerned. It shouldn't wait. She couldn't let it. The longer they waited, the more dangerous it would be. "Call Ortho, it's a crush injury."
Princess nodded. Sammy tried to ignore Princess chatting to whoever was on the phone while she focused on keeping the patient stable. Ten minutes later, a younger man entered the room, looking fresh as a daisy.
Oh no. Sammy sighed. They sent her a fucking intern.
"Hi,"
"Hi, ma'am."
"You're the ortho consult?"
"Yes, ma'am." This kid was scrawny and tall, looking nervous. Sammy could see his hand shaking. "Uh, let's look at it."
Sammy nodded in affirmation, waiting and watching the intern as he looked at the leg. Sammy couldn't help but shoot a look at Javadi, who looked just as confused and shocked.
"What do you think?" Sammy asked, turning back to the intern. Did Brendon do this on purpose? She swore she was going to kill him.
"I'm going to send pictures-"
"No." Sammy couldn't stop herself from saying it, shaking her head. She almost felt bad about how high the intern jumped. "Absolutely not." Sammy wanted to scream. Brendon should be here himself, not sending students to her unprepared. "Who's your attending?"
"Dr Park, ma'am."
Oh yeah, he fucking did it on purpose. Petty asshole. "Go back to Dr Park and inform him he needs to get his ass down here."
"I-I can't, ma'am."
The intern looked ready to cry. That was why Brendon sent him, Sammy realized. He was annoying. Well, guess what, jerk.
"You can and you will." She said firmly, "Tell him Dr Jackson says he's to get his ass down here, or I will come up there and drag his ass down here myself." She studied the intern, "Do I make myself clear?"
"Y-yes, ma'am." The man scurried; Sammy had to admit he moved fast. She was slightly impressed.
"Javadi, you probably won't want to be here for this," She gave the younger woman a smile. "Everyone might want to run for the hills," Sammy added to the room.
"I don't think so," Javadi responded, her eyes wide before she escaped out the door. Sammy waited; she knew it wouldn't be long unless he was in surgery. Ensuring the patient remained stable as she waited. Sure enough, ten minutes passed, and suddenly the air shifted. The nurses were out of the room so fast she felt like she had blinked and they were gone. She caught Princess's eye, who looked worried, but Sammy just gave a nod.
"You can't order around my interns, Jackson." Brendon's voice cut through the room.
"I can and I will," Sammy shot back. "Sending an intern who doesn't know shit and who isn't prepared." She moved to meet him, staring him down. Refusing to look away even as he towered over her. "I'm not calling for nothing. Show me some respect."
"He should know what he's doing."
"You should ensure he's prepared."
She wasn't sure how long they stood there, glaring at each other. Anger on his face. A type of anger that Sammy was so used to. Both of them breathed heavily, trying to regulate themselves. She didn't miss the way his eyes flicked to her lips. She almost pointed it out. She knew that fucking look. Many arguments like this had occurred, often petty, and ended with them pressed against each other.
He seemed to be thinking the same thing because as soon as the look was there, it passed. He stepped back, as if he remembered he was at work and a professional.
"I'm here now,"
Sammy nodded, moving aside to allow him to approach the patient. Answering his questions as he examined them.
The door opened not long after, Garcia entering casually, "Got tied up." Sammy wanted to roll her eyes. Everyone didn't want to impose on this man's time. Money maker indeed.
"I'm here already," Brendon replied casually. Finally, he stood up, looking at Sammy. "We will take them up. I'll get the OR prepped."
Sammy nodded, looking back at him. She wanted to touch him, the memories of late nights, kisses, and being tangled in the sheets. Sammy fucking missed him, and it was hard to pretend she hadn't. He was looking at her in a way that made her know she knew he was thinking it too.
"Thank you," She said, as she maintained eye contact.
"Don't thank me," he replied. He nodded to Garcia, and moving towards the trauma door, calling for support as they moved the gurneys' handles. He was out the door, without so much as a look back, as the patient was being prepared for transport.
"What was that about?" Princess asked, confused as she worked.
"No idea," Sammy replied, giving a shrug, hopefully appearing as nonchalant as she could. Pushing the interaction away from her mind as she moved to continue the rest of the day.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace. Hospital rooms to court rooms, Jack is there every step of the way. Healing, relapses, heartbreak and love— a new life begins. A life you never expected.
This... just... brav-the fuckin-o. The way you relay the time and trauma, the recovery, the back-and-forth, the good, bad, hard, and terrible days is very well done.
summary: you're too young for me and this is wrong and i'm supposed to be teaching you float around jack abbot's head. but every time, knowing that he shouldn't, he still leans in to kiss you.
word count: 17.9k
tags: first year!reader (but no age mentioned + she has a stupid nickname), illicit workplace relationship, lots of guilt/we shouldn't do this (mostly from jack), yearning/pining, shea's version of slowburn and a bubbly reader and much too much dialogue, regular hospital talk/mention of injuries/death and fourth of july special scene <3 maybe out of character for the other doctors but i tried my best!, smut (fingering, orgasm denial, dirty on-call room sex, creampie because.. duh).
note: based off of the intern baking for jack during his bad week blurb, also known as i can't help myself
jack abbot stares at you, then down at the containers in his hand filled with cookies that you baked for him after he spent the better part of a week yelling at you, and then back at you.
and then he laughs for the first time all week and wonders to himself—what the hell am i going to do with you?
because truly, you are something else. jack’s seen you in passing during day shift sign-offs at seven pm, and occasionally walking to the lockers a touch early. reflecting back, while placing the yellow tupperware into his own locker, he thinks he’s even seen you as early as six-thirty in the morning some day, if not most days.
he can’t resist—who told you about his sweet tooth, he’s not actually sure—but he opens up the lid. just like you had told him before you walked away to start your shift, the round chocolate-chip cookies don’t have any sea salt on them, not that he minds.
he bites into one and chews on it while trying to remember what else he knows about you—all that comes to mind is your teary eyes day before last when he yelled at you over something he can’t remember right now.
it hadn’t been that big of a deal—there was a patient presenting with disrupted kidney function and you hadn’t discontinued their nsaids on your initial evaluation. the solution, usually, is a stern conversation and to inform you for next time. no ibuprofen for the guy with bad kidneys, something you would have figured out in the next hour even if they hadn’t immediately caught it.
but for some reason (he knows the reason, he thinks grimly) he had yelled instead. raised his voice, caused a scene. every nurse nearby had looked up and started whispering—and he knows how the gossip goes in this place.
even ellis had intervened and dragged you away, glancing back to give him a look something akin to what the fuck, man?
because he doesn’t yell—it’s not hardwired in him to do so. he was raised in a loud house but he’d almost looked to avoid it everywhere he went, trying his hardest to not become like his father in that way.
the realization that he never yelled when his wife was still alive hits him like a slap to the face every time. he can’t help it, and he’s sure everyone justifies it for him. even when he’d yelled at you and you’d stood in front of him like a kicked, teary-eyed puppy, he hadn’t realized he’d done it again—taken out his frustration on the nearest thing. he’s sure that parker’s with you in some corner, telling you how he usually never yells and it’s his week from hell and you’ll see the real abbot next week.
that doesn’t take away from the fact that he made you cry, though.
nor does it erase the fact that you made him cookies. quite frankly, delicious cookies. maybe the best ones he’s ever had. soft and chewy and made with semisweet chocolate chips. before he realizes it, it’s seven pm sharp and he’s eaten the whole thing, shoving his go-bag into the locker carefully on top of the container you gave him and going out to join you for sign-offs.
and he doesn’t realize it either, not until you stare at him for a moment too long, garnering a cough from mckay as she tries to tell you about the patients from the chairs, the ones that you’ll be following up on and taking care of for the rest of the evening.
there’s chocolate smudged on his fingers, and he’s licking it off, trying to pay attention to robby—who looks at him confused, and then glances at you, and turns back to jack almost… knowingly—while you’re paying attention to him.
and jack, well, everyone knows about jack’s staring thing. they call it just that—he has a problem with overdoing eye contact. he doesn’t know when he picked it up, though he’s sure it’s another one of those military attributes he pretends he doesn’t have. what he does know is that he’s always been able to tell when someone’s looking at him, like you are now.
jack turns his head just to look in your direction for a moment and he finds you already facing in his direction. your gaze quickly goes from his eyes to his fingers and then back to cassie, and he doesn’t have to be near you to know that you’re flushed.
then he stops himself—he doesn’t have any business digging around in your thoughts, wondering what exactly made you look away, was it the fact that he turned to look or that he already knew you were staring—and for the first time all night, he tries to pay attention to robby.
fuck. is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your time on nights? resisting the urge to turn and lock eyes with you, to make sure you’re there and make sure you’re looking, even when he knows you are?
no, no. he’s not that guy. he’s not the guy who obsesses over the nice, pretty intern and accepts her cookies when he’s the one who made her cry to begin with.
you have a place in this hospital, and it’s to learn and grow and better yourself under his guidance, not stay nestled in his thoughts that linger somewhere between inappropriate and really inappropriate.
no, what jack wants to do is get you alone somewhere quiet so he can apologize, and make sure that you believe him.
rarely does jack abbot get what he wants.
you’re talking with mckay still, going on about something at a mile a minute, in more of a carefree tone that he’s never been on the receiving side of. every time he’d spoken to you the previous week, he’d been angry and you’d been dejected. it’s not how teaching is supposed to be, especially not jack’s teaching. he’s always been proud of how he treats residents, how they flourish under him, how they end up liking nights like john and parker did.
he catches the ending half of your conversation with cassie.
“-but the recipe doubles really, really easily, so if you make them and you feel like you want more, because, i mean, i made them for a bake sale once-”
“and it’s always a crowd pleaser?” cassie asks, tilting her head at you, looking as focused as jack has ever seen her. he doesn’t know the context, though he’s sure it has something to do with harrison and his school.
you, on the other hand, are completely engrossed in the conversation. as though cassie’s son and his school’s bake sale are the most important things on the planet.
“always! it’s so good. but just make a test batch—it’s so easy. half the recipe, try it out, and then if you like it, you can use the extras to let people try it before they buy it-” you’re interrupted, parker calls out your name somewhere in the distance.
the day shift has began to filter out. robby pats jack’s shoulder firmly before muttering i’m outta here, but jack stands frozen in place, wanting for some reason, to hear the end of your conversation.
he didn’t know people could be so passionate about baked goods—but he guesses it makes sense. for you, that is.
“actually, that’s not a bad idea. you sent me the recipe already?”
“yes, i texted it. but i can email it if you want, or i-”
jack actually laughs—you’re so eager to get cassie this recipe. he thinks you have more energy right now than he’s had all day.
he hears cassie thank you, and he gets a glimpse of you beaming at her, a bright, pretty smile, before the charge nurse calls out his name and his shift really starts.
shen jumps on with him and he sees you somewhere in the distance, probably running through your game plan for some patient in the chairs with ellis. you smile brightly at her too, and for the first time in a long time, jack has a thought that he deems in the category of uncontrollable.
he’s a disciplined guy, always has been. thoughts don’t consume him like wildfire, rather they run through a series of checks and balances before he even fully thinks them. last week his system had been all off, leading to you getting yelled at in the first place, and right now, the whole thing seems like it’s gone haywire, focused on one thing in particular.
what does he have to do to get you to smile at him like that?
+
the night shift is a place of routine. jack wants to get you on a trauma with him, wants to show you what he’s like when he’s of sound mind and not thinking about how last week, a couple of years ago, he had the worst day of his life. and then a couple years before that, another worst day of his life.
he has an overpowering urge to show you what he’s like on a normal week. he can even picture it in his head—handing you gloves and asking you questions that help you run the trauma, to get you in the habit of approaching the cases like he does. the questions are to make you believe in yourself—if you know the answers, you could have run this whole thing by yourself. if you get something wrong or don’t know, he throws in an easier one next time.
you might be a little worried at first but you’d get the hang of it. and then, after the patient was stable and he got to tell you good job, you’d do it. smile at him, beam up at him like you’ve been doing to the others. the kind that makes your eyes light up, makes little lines crinkle in the corners of your face, lets him see your lips—well, that’s not important.
what is important is that you realize that jack abbot is there to help you, not to make things worse. that’s the side of him he wants you to see.
but unfortunately, the night shift is a place of routine. interns are on chairs, getting every move double-checked by a senior resident. there’s enough hands on the day shift to allow first years to jump on every incoming but nights are not nearly as well distributed.
so, you and jack fall into a routine—you both show up early for your shifts, walk to the lockers together in silence. sometimes you stare and he catches you, and other times you catch him. you think about asking him what he thought about the cookies, or if you can get your tupperware back, but then you stay silent and head out into the chaos.
one day at six forty-five, he sees you looking at him while mel is trying to tell you something that you are decidedly not paying attention to. after he looks your way, you turn back to her and start profusely apologizing.
he turns back to robby, missing half of what he said.
“you okay?” robby asks, gaze flickering towards jack, and then back at you, somewhere in the distance. jack nods. “how’s she been doing?”
he doesn’t have to say your name for jack to know who he’s talking about.
“fine. good. i haven’t gotten much of a chance to teach her, so-”
“right. teach.” robby says it and looks at jack differently—as if he’s amused.
“what?” jack snaps, suddenly irritated by the line of questioning.
“nothing. this week’s probably gonna be her last on nights, just so you know.” before jack can respond, robby puts his hands up in defense. “don’t shoot the messenger. apparently we’re supposed to be cycling interns and r-twos so they all get to experience nights. something about equality and fairness. i don’t know but you can read the memo.”
“fairness?” jack grumbles, though it’s mostly to himself. he’s annoyed, and he knows why, and he doesn’t like the reason why. “they used to put us on nights for three months at a time and the only memo i ever got was too bad.”
“careful, jack,” robby says, a little too sing-songy for his current mood. “you keep talking like that and she’s gonna think you’re an old grump.”
jack glares up at robby, wanting to reply but nothing biting comes to mind.
“you have a good night, jack,” robby says and jack mutters back a yeah, yeah. he turns to watch robby leave, but somehow, his gaze still ends up back on you, like it always does. it’s harder still throughout the course of the night, nerves somehow taking over him every time he wants to tell you to drop whatever patient’s hand you’re stitching and jump on this trauma with him.
the vision he’s been chasing, aimlessly at that, seems further and further away as the hours pass each night. your shift is filled with first degree burns and sprained ankles and kind-of, sort-of allergic reactions, when it should be spent by his side, learning everything he has to offer you before you’re back with the day shift.
because that’s why he’s so invested in making sure you’re on a trauma with him—because of how much he has to teach. parker and john haven’t said a bad thing about you, and even the day crew during passing exchanges—nothing besides wondering how you have so much energy at seven am without a cup of coffee in your system.
that is why he’s so invested—right?
on your last shift of nights for this block, you show up a little extra early. you think you can avoid jack by doing so, but he comes early too, wanting to catch you alone, if just for a moment.
you walk with your hands filled with more tupperware that he recognizes. the very same containers are sitting on his countertop right now, the contents mostly eaten. he doesn’t want to finish the last of your cookies even though they’ll get stale soon. and why that is, he pretends to not know the answer.
he follows you into the break room at six twenty-five while you open the lids and set out napkins.
“oh,” you say, surprised when you hear the door click behind you. you didn’t think anyone would have noticed you sneaking in there. “dr. abbot-”
“listen, kid, i need to-” jack’s eyes, without intending to, fall from your confused expression to the table in the room. you have more cookies—maybe snickerdoodle—in the containers. “what’s this for?”
“it’s my last day on nights.”
“so you made cookies?”
“it’s to thank everyone,” you ramble on, like you have to justify the idea to jack. “for being so patient with me. interns are already so annoying and then on top of that when they’re not sleeping. i just thought it would be nice. and there’s no nuts or chocolate so it’s more allergy friendly, you know. i-i’m gonna stop talking now.”
“no-” he says, too quickly, and you look just as confused as ever. your eyebrows knit and your mouth opens a bit and he stares at you, while you stare at him. in fact, jack wishes you wouldn’t look at him like this—cute and confused and too nice for your own good. “no, i mean-”
what does he mean? what he really wants to say is please don’t stop talking, but all that comes out is—
“that’s…nice. i’m sure they’ll appreciate it. and interns, well, they’re supposed to be annoying. that’s how you learn.” jack pauses, thinking he’s done well, that this is a good place to stop. “not that you’re annoying, that’s not what i-”
“thank you, dr. abbot,” you supply, smiling at him. and god, if it isn’t exactly how he thought it’d be—your bright smile feels like it sends a halo of warmth over the person you’re looking at, and this time, it’s lucky him. your face changes too, the confusion and concern melt away and are replaced with sheer joy, like you’re thankful for every bumbling word in a fairly awkward conversation.
he’s never been like this, he thinks, or maybe the confidence that surged through him during every trauma had nestled somewhere permanently, constantly hitched along into his real life. he’s never considered himself a don juan but he’s not a stranger to women either—and he certainly doesn’t stutter through sentences and backtrack because he’s worried he’s offended you. that doesn’t happen to him. it’s never happened to him.
but he supposes, taking in how you smile with your entire face and what else he can do to get you to stay smiling, that there’s a first time for everything.
“you were saying something? when you came in?” you ask.
“yes, uh-”
damn it. what was he saying? he can’t remember. it’s distracting—you, the cookies, your radiant smile, all of it. especially when he thinks about a week ago today, when you were standing in front of him with your wet eyes and wobbly chin, when he was angry about something he can’t even piece together right now. right—the apology.
“i just wanted to apologize for my behavior last week. i-i hope you-”
but before he can finish the sentence the door opens. it’s dana.
“jack, robby’s asking for you. three incoming mvc’s and mckay left early for something with her son and no one else is here yet, and-” she stops, glancing between you, jack, and the cookies on the table. “hey, kid. you jumping in?”
you glance to jack when dana asks that, big eyes staring at him for permission. you really shouldn’t have done that, because he thinks you’re only making all the rest of this much worse, whatever he’s been pushing down and burying for the last week that seems determined to hit the surface today.
“tell him we’re coming,” jack says, and though he had more to say to you, he has to stop for now. on the walk to the trauma bay, jack recaps how he runs through traumas with you. he ties your gown while you pull gloves in his size, and then the ones in your size.
when you hand him the gloves, he gets a look into your eyes—pretty, nervous, excited. in that order.
“what do we have?” jack asks, and trail behind him momentarily, taking a big breath before walking out and following him into the trauma bay. robby jumps on the first ambulance with heather and leaves the second to you and jack. you see frank and mel walking towards the third one, still driving up.
the paramedic starts rattling off the vitals and the patient keeps speaking over him, thrashing up and trying to crane her neck despite the c-spine collar wrapped around it.
you know what you’re trained to do in these situations—listen to ems, treat the patient, figure out what she keeps interrupting for after you’re positive that she’s not going to die on your table. but some part of you just can’t let it sit like that. you can’t stand when someone thinks you’ve ignored a part of their sentence, much less ignore them entirely.
“wait, wait,” you tell the paramedic as they’re wheeling the gurney into one of the trauma rooms. all around you, the nurses have started their work, setting up iv’s and rolling in portable x-rays. they set aside blood and wait by the phone to call for the surgical consult or to clear up ct as soon as you and jack decide the patient needs one.
“excuse me?” he replies, turning to look at jack with an expression that asks are we listening to her? and even jack looks at you a little confused while you get closer to the patient, until you’re in her line of sight and she stops moving so much. the noise around you will never fully go quiet, but it dims down for thirty seconds.
“you have to stop moving so much, ma’am. what are you trying to say?”
“i really think we should-” the paramedic interjects, but you snap your head towards him, trying to figure out how to say shut up without really saying it.
“can you please, just give me a second?”
“my daughter, my daughter, she’s hurt, please-” she responds, not thrashing anymore, just crying.
jack looks between you and the patient for a moment. this case is surgical—she practically went through the windshield. there’s glass that needs to be removed, a concussion, possibly a chest tube, and an airway if she crashes.
“you guys need hands in here?” you hear trinity ask from somewhere behind you.
jack knows you have a choice here, and he thinks, for a moment, you’ll tell her to find the daughter while you finish this trauma with him. it’s for your own learning, your education. it’s to show you what the some of the worst outcomes from car accidents look like, things to check for in the future even if your patient looks fine.
“i’m gonna find your daughter, okay? but i need you to stop moving so they can take care of you. because she needs her mom, too.” you turn to santos, and trinity jumps in while you walk out. jack catches one glimpse of you before turning to his patient, laying still and compliant, crying silently.
an hour later, most of the day shift has gone home. trinity even stops at bed 19 where you’re suturing the little girl’s arm while she drinks a juice box and waits for a head ct in case she has a concussion too.
“when is it gonna be my turn on nights? abbot is so cool. i put in the chest tube and got to bring her up to surgery.”
you get an uneasy feeling in your chest thinking about someone else on nights with jack in your position—not the yelling, but rather the apology he never got to finish. how sincerely he looked at you when you left to find the daughter instead of finishing up with your patient—maybe it was a mistake. maybe he’ll be upset with you, but it doesn’t matter, since it’s your last shift, anyways.
“and those cookies are fantastic. alright, thanks bubbles. i’ll see you back on days.”
“bubbles? wait, those cookies weren’t for you-” you call out after her, but she walks away without responding. you turn back to the little girl.
“there’s cookies?”
“yes,” you sigh, taking your seat again. her arm is nearly done, just needs a bandage. dad is on his way, the social worker is informed, and someone should be coming over to take over to watch her until ct is ready. “i can give you one after your dad gets here, if he’s okay with it. but for now you have to rest.”
she asks you if her mom is going to be okay, and in truth, you don’t know the answer. you should, but you don’t. you excuse yourself when one of the nurses gets there to monitor her, and try to find parker so you can move onto the next.
jack must be in another trauma, because you don’t see him anywhere and though you’re not eager to get yelled at again, you do need to finish the conversation from earlier.
and you need your tupperware back.
you end up seeing six patients, getting four of them ready to be sent home and two waiting for beds upstairs and consults that are taking far too long. parker pulls you aside while she chews on one of your snickerdoodles.
“can you do nights more often? these cookies are great, bubbles.”
“okay, when did this catch on? i know trinity likes her nicknames but this is the first time i’ve heard it. also, what the hell does it even mean?”
parker looks at you with a tilt of her head.
“seriously?”
“bubbles? maybe something like, i don’t know, crybaby, i would have understood.” you pause, hesitating, and then glancing up from the screen you’ve been staring at, your half-assed attempt at a proper note. “wait, how long has she been calling me that?”
“since your first day. but it doesn’t sound like nearly as much of an insult as it used to.”
at least parker will give it to you straight.
“can i ask you something? about dr. abbot?” you don’t know where the surge of confidence comes from, but you think you need to ride the wave to some answers before your shift ends. you glance at your watch while parker does the same. almost midnight.
“i’ll give you five minutes. by the way, he was in the break room if you want to ask him directly.”
“really?
“yeah. shoveling down cookies. you’re gonna give him pre-diabetes.”
“really?” and it’s hard to hide your smile, entire face lighting up. “it’s my favorite recipe. well, second favorite, i guess. my roommate in medical school had a nut allergy so i always made snickerdoodles for her, but those brownies i made for him are probably are my actual favorite-”
parker’s expression changes.
“you made him brownies?”
“yeah?” fuck. “it-it was to apologize. for last week, the nsaids thing.”
“he yelled at you.” she pauses, staring at you a little more quizzically. “he made you cry.”
“he was having a bad week?” you offer sheepishly.
“right.” another pause. “what was your question?”
“i don’t remember. i’m gonna go see a patient now.” you save the contents of your note and decide to finish it later, during the three am lull with a hot cup of coffee and a cookie if there’s any left.
your question was going to be disguised with a ramble of some sort, asking ellis if she thinks jack abbot is the type to apologize for yelling at her or if there was something else he was going to tell her before those traumas came rolling in.
but lucky for you, you get your answer. four am, in the break room, running a little late on finishing your notes, behind on a schedule that you had invented in your own head. the last patient you saw had been really frightened of the hospital, as well as a language barrier that you had to wait thirty minutes to find a translator for at this hour.
you need a coffee, a cookie, and a computer to finish your notes. and then you need to leave the night shift and not be stuck in the hospital with jack abbot for twelve hours.
though there’s a smile on your face when you open the door, at the very idea that jack liked your snickerdoodles enough to shovel them down, or whatever parker had said. you look up and your smile gets replaced with surprise at the man standing in front of you.
it’s mental beetlejuice, or something. every time you think about him, boom, there he is. facing the counter, pouring black coffee into his steel gray tumbler.
“oh. hi.” how can you be so shocked that he’s in here? it’s four am with no incomings and it’s really not that big of a department. you passed the other two doctors on with you on the walk here—parker at central talking to a nurse and shen at a computer eating a granola bar.
“hey, kid. coffee? just made a pot.”
“yes, please.” you walk over, fetching your yellow mug from the cabinet. you glance at the table—your containers empty save for the crumbs of cinnamon sugar on the bottom. “was gonna have a cookie too. i should have made more.” jack pours you a cup and then hands you the creamer and the sugar. you notice that his own coffee is drunk just black though.
“it’s john, i’m telling you. he’s got a sweet tooth worse than mine. and don’t let parker fool you. i saw her in here three times tonight.” jack takes a seat in one of the chairs, but first he pulls one out for you.
you sit down and smile, laughing at his comment.
“well, she said that you were in here shoveling them down, so, i don’t know who to believe.”
“she said that?” you nod, taking a sip of your sweet coffee.
the coffee in the break room is notorious for being just fine. it’s never great, or even just good, it’s just fuel. but it tastes a lot better today.
“i’m gonna plead the fifth on that one.”
you laugh again. you look over, realizing there’s one cookie left in the container.
“one left. but you can have it,” you say, the caffeine and this conversation doing wonders for your energy levels. “i had a bunch at home earlier today and i make them all the time, so-”
“nah, kid. we’ll split it.” jack breaks it in half and slides it towards you on a napkin, and you smile at him again—warm, generous, compassionate.
a lot of big words to describe the smile of a resident he just got to know better this week, but he can’t turn it off. the radar in his head alerting him that the person he’s been thinking about for hours is sitting in front of him now, nibbling on half a cookie.
“that was a nice thing you did, earlier. with the mom and the daughter. she was completely compliant after.”
“i figured. i can’t believe the paramedic didn’t listen to her the whole ride in, though.” you take another sip of coffee before putting your mug down on the table. “not that he did something wrong. i know he was trying to help and they’re trained to focus on the patient and all that. but she was moving around in a c-collar, so i figured-well, i’ll stop rambling. they said the surgery went good so that’s all that matters, i guess.” you go quiet, taking another bite just so you stop yourself from talking too much again.
“both things can be true. he should have listened and he did his job. how’s the daughter?”
“good, good. i gave her stitches and she had some minor cuts. i think the mom thought she was bleeding a lot worse. dad’s with her, so…”
“you had the chance to jump on the trauma but you left to take care of the kid.” jack doesn’t say it with any sort of tone, presents it to you plainly, like a statement.
“is this the part where you’re gonna yell at me?” you blink up at him, worried again.
“no, no. i just-” he pauses, thinking about his words carefully. he smiles, like he’s about to laugh. “it’s just the sort of thing i can’t teach, so-”
there’s a knock on the door, and you audibly sigh. is it the worst thing in the world to ask for some privacy for five minutes in this place, to be able to finish a conversation with your attending for once?
it’s john.
“incoming. three minutes out. aw, man, are those the last of the cookies?”
you do get to jump on the case with shen and abbot, though the man isn’t in bad condition at all. took a spill on his kid’s toys and bruised his tailbone, but his wife called for an ambulance. he waits for a head ct and x-ray and the room clears out, and you wonder if you’ll get a chance to finish out your conversation with jack abbot.
you don’t.
he stays behind to tell robby something and parker and john usher you out for a celebratory latte—decaf, obviously—to finish your first small taste of nights. you carry your empty containers in the tote bag you brought them in, and realize you didn’t even get a chance to tell him to bring your containers back.
(whether you want the containers or an excuse to talk to him again, you don’t know. it’s a can of worms not worth opening now that nights are done—though you’re sure he must have finished the contents by now. the idea of your yellow tupperware sitting on his counter or his kitchen table, well… it leads your mind to wonder about other things.
what does his place look like? did he sit on his couch with brownies and farmer needs a wife, like you had suggested? what about in his bed? jack doesn’t seem the type to have a television in his bedroom, or the type to eat in bed, though sometimes you’ll make an exception for dessert, and maybe he can be convinced.
and then you cut the entire thought out of your head, because it’s downright unprofessional and you have no business spending time wondering about his bed or his couch or anything else. stupid tupperware. and what’s even worse is going home with the realization you might not get to find out what jack was going to say to you in the break room, either time.)
+
if you ask a hundred emergency room doctors what the worst day of the year is, you’ll get a hundred different answers. halloween, thanksgiving, and new year’s are all up there.
but jack abbot’s answer has never changed—fourth of july.
a day littered with sunshine, grilling, and sparklers. to any emergency medicine specialist, it’s more about sun-poisoning, choking on hot dogs, and burn injuries from at-home fireworks. the hospital is flooded with back-to-back traumas, ranging from people passing out at the beach in the afternoon to full body burns by the evening.
you had always predicted the worst part is how a lot of the injuries are on children. they’re the ones left unattended while mom and dad drink themselves silly or let them play with firecrackers on the pavement, assuming they’ll be fine. you’ve done two emergency medicine rotations in school and you think you know what the fourth will be like, that you’ll be unnerved the entire day by the sound of crying children and trying to hold back anger on the irresponsible parents.
but walking through the doors of the hospital on your second week back on days, you realize you really don’t know much.
like, for example, that jack abbot walks in beside you and mel at six forty-five. you look at him confused, and then turn to mel, who doesn’t match your expression but is also confused, you’re sure. jack is quick by the lockers—takes off his backpack and heads straight back out.
mel speaks up first.
“i didn’t know dr. abbot does days,” she says, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly.
“i didn’t either. do you know why?” it’s really an unnecessary question—it shouldn’t matter to you at all. but it does, and you’re terrible at burying things. it’s written all over your face that you want to know the answer why.
“well it’s likely just for overflow. i’m sure they’re expecting double the amount of patients today.”
“right. yeah, that makes sense.”
“though it is surprising-”
“what is?”
“-that he didn’t take the day off, i suppose.”
“why’s that?” you ask, and mel shrugs.
“fourth of july is a usually tough day for a lot of veterans. when i was at the va hospital, some of the other doctors who had served would stay at home with their families. and the noise from the fireworks, too-”
mel goes on, but you have a hard time paying attention to the rest of her story. one thought washes over you, filling you with enough dread to last all day, making your blood feel icy cold in your veins. jack doesn’t have any family to spend the day with at home, so instead he’s here for the day shift, to help with the extra patients.
“i hadn’t thought about that.” you say quietly. you put your stethoscope around your neck and hold the familiar container in your hands.
“that’s okay, a lot of people don’t. i don’t think i did before my year there. wait, are those more cookies?”
it seems that robby shares some of your dread. you head out with mel, putting the star shaped sugar cookies with red and blue frosting in the break room. during sign-offs you tell parker and john to grab a few—just a few! leave some for the rest of us—before they head home. you smile politely at frank, who seems very concerned with making sure mel knows how hectic this holiday gets in the pitt and ask cassie how that bake sale went.
and then robby pulls you aside, leading you in front of central.
“i brought sugar cookies, i hope that’s okay. is something wrong?” you ask, gauging how robby is looking at you right now.
“yeah, everything’s fine.” he looks around distractedly, or maybe like he’s trying to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “listen, i know you just got back from nights-”
“are you sending me back? to nights?”
“what? no, no, we need you on days. i mean, you just finished nights and you were with abbot for a bit. how’d that go, by the way?”
“dr. abbot?”
“nights.”
“oh,” you say, feeling yourself flush. warmth spreads over you despite how cold it runs in the hospital. flustered, you continue. “it was good. um, busy and i learned a lot.”
“and you got to spend some time working with abbot, right?”
“yeah. some-uh, yes. i did.”
“great. because today is a bit of a weird day for him. he’s not used to days and we get overwhelmed pretty quickly. he’s here to help and it’s always great to have extra hands, especially his hands, but-” you zone out for a moment at the thought of jack’s hands. “-he seems a bit off and i want to make sure he’s doing okay, and he’ll just ignore me if i ask. so if you could—?”
robby trails off and you stare at him blankly, blinking after fifteen seconds of silence.
“if i could what?”
“just, check on him, y’know, throughout the day. just make sure he’s alright. thanks a ton kid, i knew i could count on you.”
“wait, what-” but then robby is gone, and you’re left at central with dana behind you, handing you a tablet with a patient’s name on it and somewhere to your left is jack, immersed in a conversation with heather. you stare at him, and the he notices you looking, and looks back.
any other day, you’d turn and go straight to your patient, but not today.
today your attending has given you a task—check in on jack. make sure jack’s okay. and you are not the type of person to disappoint your superior.
you walk over to them, smile at both, and then watch as heather excuses herself. had robby told her about the task he’d assigned you?
“hey, kid. don’t tell me—america themed cookies?”
you shirk under his gaze, the idea that felt very cute last night suddenly seeming exceedingly corny.
“it’s just festive,” you argue. “the frosting is made with blueberries and strawberries instead of food coloring. it’s healthier, i mean, it’s practically like eating fruit.”
“i don’t think you’re winning that argument, but sure, whatever you say. if parker and john left any for the rest of us.”
“i made a bunch this time. i figured there’d be more hands on deck today, i guess.”
(you hadn’t figured that. your logic with doubling the recipe and yielding twice as many cookies was that maybe there’d be some leftover for the night shift to take home with them—specifically one salt and pepper attending who already has two containers of yours at his home. what’s a third?)
“smart. we’ll need them. it’s gonna be a busy day.”
“that’s what i’ve heard,” you look up at jack again with a small smile—trying to disarm him without alerting him of your motive from robby. “how are you feeling, by the way?”
jack knits his eyebrows together.
“how am i feeling?”
“are you okay? do-do you need anything? i can go get you a cookie now, if you want, before they’re all gone. it’s not just the night shift, you know, trinity plows through them. and mel doesn’t have as much of a sweet tooth but since it has the fruit frosting, you know, i think she’ll like them.”
jack looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, like he’s holding back a laugh, stopping it short at just a smile.
“i’m, i’m fine, kid. and that’s alright, i’ll go get one in a bit.”
“oh. okay. well that’s good.”
“are you okay?”
“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you lock eyes with him again.
“no reason. well, maybe we can go get that-”
“dr. abbot?” someone says, and you hold back the groan. it’s getting harder and harder to keep it inside.
the people in this hospital really don’t want you to finish a conversation with your attending.
“yeah?”
he gets pulled up, and you do too—back to the chairs. it’s the usual residual patients from last night, but as the hours pass, you get more injuries related to the holiday. the allergic reactions and sprained wrists turn into burns from the grill and heat exhaustion.
you find jack three more times in between seven patients—asking him he’s okay, how his patients are, if he wants that cookie now, or maybe water? all these people are dehydrated, it’s no good if their doctors are too, right?
the next time you do it, he locks eyes with robby right after. you sneak your way past moving gurneys and crying patients, just to tap his shoulder and check in one last time before you sit down to debride a severe burn, one that’ll have you gone for at least an hour.
“what the hell did you do, robby?” he asks, while they monitor a man who came in on the ambulance after setting half his body on fire trying to grill hot dogs.
“what do you mean? nothing.”
“that kid has-”
“did you try those cookies? they’re fantastic. no wonder you want her back on nights.”
maybe another two hours later, during a surge of ambulances, you realize you haven’t seen jack in a while.
you pat your patient on the shoulder—a little girl with her mom who took a spill on the pavement while chasing her sister—and tell them you’ll send the nurse over with their discharge papers, and set out to find jack before sitting down with yet another burn—your tenth or so at least so far today. you close the curtain and look at the chaos in front of you—gurneys lined up against walls, patients crying and the entire place smelling of burnt flesh and salt water.
dr. abbot is by the trauma bay, organizing patients as they come, and the whole thing feels more like a triage unit than it does an emergency room.
you see trinity seeing the others from the chairs, heather jumping onto an incoming with robby. mel and frank are in one trauma room and jack is standing in the middle of everything.
is it the best time to ask him how he’s doing? no. that much is clear to anyone with a functioning frontal lobe.
but you are not just anyone, you’re you. you get slightly muddled in the head when it comes to jack abbot, and you definitely are not going to disappoint robby when he put you in charge of checking in on him.
you weave your way through the floor, avoiding nurses walking through with supplies in their hands and telling whoever you were supposed to be checking in with that you’ll be right back.
you dodge two gurneys that almost took your knees out just to get close enough to say his name and for him to hear you. you don’t see the one rolling right behind you.
“dr. abbot, are-” you’re interrupted by the sound of your own yelp, when jack reaches out to clasp his hand around your arm. he yanks you hard, pulling you out of the way, and suddenly, all the noises of the emergency room die down.
you hear the paramedic behind you, apologizing as he wheels the gurney out and back to the ambulance bay. you hear dana shouting from central to you—watch out, kid!—and even the wails coming from the trauma room robby and heather are in—a woman crying.
but you don’t really hear any of it. your eyes are locked on jack’s hazel ones, his fingers still tight against your bare skin. his hands are softer than you’d imagined.
you blink at him stupidly, mouth falling open a little. you must look as dumb as you feel, almost getting hit by a gurney in the middle of a very busy shift. it’s like intern 101—things to avoid doing, especially in front of your attendings.
but jack doesn’t seem mad. he looks at you with concerned, pretty eyes, a focused expression. and then, at the same time—
“are you okay?”
you both stare at each other for a while. you must look the equivalent of someone starstruck, staring with sparkling eyes, looking almost as grateful for him as you feel. that gurney would have taken you out of commission—at the very least you’d hit your head and be filling out paperwork under gloria’s watchful eye.
but you’re fine, save for a large bruise forming on your upper arm with each second that passes by as you continue stare at jack.
“you two!” dana shouts over the other commotion, effectively snapping you out of it. all the noises return at once, making you wince, and what’s worse is that people are staring. “incoming, two minutes out. the rest of you, back to work-”
“come on, kid. you’re with me.”
you most certainly are.
+
at around quarter past eight on the fourth of july, you’re seated across from jack abbot at his favorite twenty-four hour diner.
well, to be fair, you’re making more assumptions in the thirty minutes you’ve been sitting here with him than you have for the entire time you’ve know him. first—that this is his favorite diner. second—that he’s as interested in you as you are in him. and third—that you’ll finally get to finish the multiple conversations you’ve started with him and been unable to finish due to interruptions.
but there’s no interruptions here. post dinner rush, with a group of teenagers a few tables away and a couple in business clothes eating on the stools by the counter. there’s no nosy residents or gossipy nurses or incoming traumas. it’s just starting to get dark out, and you know the fireworks will start soon.
what you don’t know is if jack is going to be completely okay tonight. you don't care if you’re a temporary distraction from the noise, but you do care if you’ll be enough of a distraction for him.
the two of you order enough food to feed the entirety of the night shift at the hospital right now. the short staffing is the reason why you didn’t sit down to eat until seven forty-five, but it’s fine. as long as you’re here with him now.
you justify it mentally while jack steals one of your french fries—the ones he said he didn’t want half of when you asked—that you just need to finish the conversations from earlier. that it’s not wrong or inherently bad to order half the menu with your attending, one that was responsible for all of your anxiety three weeks ago.
but staring at him like this, you wonder what you had been so worried about. in fact, over the last few weeks, you’ve realized he’s nothing like what you thought at first.
“okay, i know this must be sound terrible,” you start, setting down your soda and reaching for another salty fry. “but that was amazing. like, the thrilling kind of amazing. does that make sense?” you stare at jack while you await his response.
“yes, it makes sense,” he says, but he can’t contain the laugh anymore. it comes out from his chest—unadulterated laughter, the rumble taking over his entire body.
“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, though you don’t actually seem upset about it. it’s hard to feel any sort of upset when you’re listening to what may be your new favorite sound in the world.
“no, no, i promise i’m not. you’re just so… you. even on a day like today.”
“what does that mean?” you reply quickly, sitting up straighter in your seat, expression turning deadly serious. “god, i’m so sorry. is that completely insensitive? i know it can be a hard day, i mean, well i didn’t know know. but mel brought it up this morning when we saw you and then robby told me to check on you and i thought i was helping until that stupid gurney almost took me out. but i just meant after that! the traumas and doing them with you. i-i hadn’t done any yet, with you, so i-”
“when do you breathe?”
“sorry,” you sigh. “it’s a bad habit.”
“don’t apologize to me, please. it’s-” jack goes quiet, his mind searching to fill in the blank but coming up empty.
it’s nice, he thinks. sweet. refreshing. funny. you’re all of those things and more. you don’t bite your tongue and hold back thoughts. you ramble until he can step into your thoughts completely—see it from your perspective like he’s inside your brain.
and jack—well, jack has friends. army buddies, guys he used to study with during medical school, a couple people from his residency that he stays in touch with. he has robby, though his friendship with him is going to be on thin ice after what he put you up to earlier, and dana. his parents are gone and so are his in-laws but he calls his sister when he really needs to talk about something and he checks in with his wife’s siblings once or twice a year, usually around the anniversary of her death.
(he hadn’t done it a few weeks ago, though, and he has trouble figuring out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. but then he stares up at you, sipping your drink, patiently waiting for him to finish his sentence, before you, undoubtedly, ask him if he’s okay again. like if he tells you that he’s not—because really, he’s not—that you’ll make it your personal mission to make sure that he is. and that, well, what is he supposed to do with that?)
luckily the waitress interrupts the silence with the rest of the food—grilled cheese and waffles and whatever else sounded appealing in a hunger-driven craze—and he doesn’t have to finish the thought.
you two do talk about other things—how he’s sorry about yelling that week and how you completely didn’t deserve it. you tell him it’s fine and that he had a bad week and that you’re not upset, that it would feel wrong to hold that against him. he tells you about how good the brownies and the cookies were, and you beam at him with that smile again.
the conversations ebbs and flows—how it was nice of you to take care of that woman’s daughter. how great you did in the traumas today. how stupid robby is for asking you to check in on him—don’t listen to him ever again, just, come to me first next time.
and then once the food is eaten and your drinks run empty, and the sound of fireworks is littering your eardrums, you just say it.
“i don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“i’ve spent lots of july fourths alone, kid. i’ll be fine.”
he probably will be fine. he has noise cancelling headphones and though his apartment is close to the park where the fireworks are held—an oversight he didn’t think of when he moved in—he can distract himself enough to get through the night. he’s been doing it for years—taking care of himself when it comes to things like this.
“no, i-i know you will be. i just don’t think you should be alone.”
and then, for a split second, the force of your caring, of your affection for him hits him like a blow. it rushes over him—the feeling of how easy it might be to let you take care of him. to let someone else do it for once. reality seeps back in slowly, bringing his senses back one by one.
the first thing it does is remind him that you’re an intern.
“kid,” jack says firmly, sitting up straighter in the booth. he rests his elbows against the table, staring straight at you, boring into your soul like he always does. “i don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“why not?”
“well, for one, i’m your attending.”
“oh, who cares about stuff like that? it’s not like i’m gonna tell anyone,” you reply, as though the words had come to you quickly, like you really believed them.
as if you’d already put some thought into your response before he’d asked you the question.
you don’t seem the least bit hesitant about basically telling him to spend the night with you—whatever that might mean to you. he doesn’t want to assume things, but it’s been a while since he’s done something like this. he doesn’t know what’s changed in the last decade and he certainly has never done something like this with a resident, much less an intern.
the whole thing is seeming much too bill clinton to him. he wants to express the thought to you, though it doesn’t make much sense—he’s not married and he’s not the president but you’re an intern and he was raised right so it feels wrong—and then he realizes it quickly. are you even old enough to remember that scandal? he shakes his head, as though he can dispel the thought by physically removing it.
“i care about stuff like that. there’s a power imbalance here, and-”
“i’m not even on nights anymore!”
“but you will be on nights again in the future. in a few months from now, when you’re a second year. you’ll do a whole month of nights in third year, too.”
your lips curve up into a playful smile.
“getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”
“kid-”
“i said you shouldn’t spend tonight alone. you’re thinking three years ahead. i mean, don’t get me wrong, jack, i’m totally flattered, but i think you should scale it down. one day at a time and all that.” his expression changes and so does yours—it’s the first time you’ve ever called him anything other than dr. abbot. “i’m sorry. is that completely unprofessional? oh my god, am i one of those people? is that harassment?” you whisper the last part, as though you’re worried he’ll leave to report you this instant.
jack wants to bang his head against the table. he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time about what he’s going to do with you.
the waitress brings the check and he places his card in her hand before you can so much as glance at it.
“i… i just meant that, i think it’s a bad idea if you spend tonight alone. we can watch a movie or make cookies or whatever you want to do. it’s just-” you trail off, suddenly quiet.
“it’s just what?”
“if we both go home alone, i’m just gonna spend the whole time worrying about you, anyways. might as well worry about you while i’m sitting next to you.” you stare at the table the whole time you say it, and then your gaze flickers up at him before looking back down quickly. “that must sound crazy. i’m sorry-”
“stop apologizing to me, kid.”
it’s hard on a regular day to resist the urge to listen to everything you say, to comply since he knows how good you are. made of a kind of sweetness that he really doesn’t know the first thing about—how you got to be this way, with an abundance of compassion, enough to make him feel like he’ll explode from the sheer strength of it.
what jack does know is that he wants to find out.
you both get up, and you put on your pullover from what can only be your alma mater, grabbing the containers you’d brought into the break room this morning. he swings on his backpack and you both walk outside. it’s dark now, and you can hear fireworks somewhere in the distance. the noise is loud and uncomfortable even to you, and you briefly wonder how it might sound to jack, and decide again that you really, really don’t want him to be alone tonight.
“listen, kid. i don’t want you to waste your night worrying about me. you should-”
“oh, trust me, it’s not a waste. i have an ulterior motive for wanting to go back to your place,” you say, nodding when jack tilts his head at you in confusion, wondering if he’ll bite.
“yeah? and what’s that?”
“i need my tupperware back.”
+
your back thuds against the wall beside jack abbot’s apartment door. you’ve never been here but you try to blink open your eyes to take it in, to see if it’s just as you thought it’d be while his lips—soft and wanton and kissing you—stay against yours.
it’s stupid—why are you worried about his apartment when your attending is kissing you like you belong to him? but then you remember something frank had once told you during your first week, something about adhd and how all of you probably have it, and then you start giggling against jack abbot’s lips.
his fingertips, which were brushing against the skin of your waist after sneaking under your shirt, tighten around the soft skin there. you can feel them digging in, but stupidly, deliriously, and a little light headed, you wonder if you’ll bruise if he pushes hard enough.
“y’know, kid,” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling away for just a second. his breath is hot against your lips and his touch makes goosebumps rise all over you, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall. “i haven’t done this in a while but if you’re laughing, i must be doing something wrong.”
you should say something, say anything, so he stops talking and keeps kissing you, but nothing comes out besides another laugh.
“i’m sorry,” you say, trying to catch your breath while jack’s hands hover over your hips. “i-” you glance up to lock eyes again, but when you see the way he’s looking at you, you stop laughing completely.
“if you’re uncomfortable, we can stop. you don’t have to-”
“no! no, i’m not uncomfortable. i-i’m laughing because this is so funny. you’re my attending and now we’re kissing and i’m in your apartment and it looks, exactly how i pictured it. and you’re so nice to me, but it’s the fourth of july and i want to make sure you’re okay because-”
jack interrupts you with another kiss, his lips pressing against yours. this time he doesn’t let up, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you collapse against the wall, knees suddenly very weak.
but it’s alright, because jack’s got you. he holds you up by your hips and your legs mindlessly wrap around him, his hands going to your ass to hoist you up and secure you around him. he lifts you up and starts walking, and you whine against him, impatient and fairly comfortable where you were.
it’s like he’s a mind reader.
“our first time is not going to be against a wall,” he mutters, mouth on the column on your neck, tracing kisses from your collarbone to your cheek and then back to your lips. you want to reply, you want to tell him that you would have been perfectly content against that wall, or the door, or the couch, or even the floor, but nothing comes out.
you pull away just for a moment to look at him in the dim light of his bedroom—flushed cheeks, breathing heavy, taking a moment to push a piece of your hair behind your ear before kissing you again. and then with his mouth on yours again, you realize that jack abbot has discovered some way to turn your brain off.
his touch is rough on your skin—when your scrubs got peeled off of you, you don’t actually know. he throws them somewhere on the ground and you paw at his shirt until he gives in and takes it off.
it should be slower, he thinks briefly, he should slow down and take his time and not even give in and slip inside of you until you’re already a writhing, aching mess. he’s out of practice but he knows how you are, knows what would make you fall apart piece by piece.
that’s what he thinks of when your hands go to the button and zipper of his pants. for everything he knows about you, you’re also impatient. and lucky for you, he is too.
jack is out of practice, but it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything.
“c’mon, kid,” he breathes against your collarbone, wrestling your hands away from and then pinning them over your head. “be patient.”
“i’ve been patient—!” you whine, but he doesn’t give in just yet.
“it’ll hurt, sweetheart. i have to stretch you out first,” he says, and you feel dizzy with lust. it washes over you and makes you dumb, and you, for everything you are, are not a dumb girl. at least—not normally.
jack skips the teasing this time, trailing fingers down your chest, between the valley of your breasts and over your stomach. when he gets to your leaking cunt, he collects the wetness there with two fingers, and when you start whining again, impatient and antsy and your entire body humming with want, he does it again.
reminds you to be patient, and then plunges a finger inside of you. a moan leaves your throat—choked and loud, but he wants you to be even louder. you don’t know when he adds a second, and then a third, but you feel the delicious stretch of your walls, how his palm stays in place for you to grind up against. your hips buck up and you’re ruining his sheets and crying for more though you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
and jack takes it all in. how wet you feel against his fingers, how beautiful the noises that you’re making are. so focused on you—the sheen of sweat on your skin and how responsive you are to his touch, the noises outside his walls get drowned out.
“jack, jack, more—” you plead, but jack doesn’t listen. everything in your body feels ready to finish. your muscles ache, the knot in your belly tightens, and heat washes over you while your toes curl in anticipation.
and then jack just stops.
“no—” you whine, the rush disappearing all at once. “no, no, jack!”
“patience, kid.”
“you’re being unfair-”
“no, i’m not.”
“then why’d you-”
“because the first time i make you finish is going to be when i’m inside of you. understood?”
and for once, you’re silent.
+
“i would have gone to the roof, probably.”
you blink open your sleepy eyes. you’re pressed against jack’s chest, your head resting there while he trails his fingers through your hair. you’re wearing his shirt, sleeping in his sheets, a cup of water that he got you from his kitchen resting on the nightstand.
you can’t feel your legs, but that’s a problem for tomorrow—but at least you know now that you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly. the fireworks stopped an hour or so ago, and the only noise you hear now is jack’s heartbeat thudding against your ear.
“the rooftop, at the hospital. i go there after my shifts sometimes.”
a lot of the time—but you don’t need to know that. from the way you immediately sit up in bed, his sheets slipping a little and exposing more of your soft skin that you don’t seem to care about, he can tell you’re concerned already.
his shirt looks good on you.
“tell me it’s just for fresh air?” you ask, reaching your hand over to run your fingers through the hair near his temple. his eyes close when feels your touch there, and suddenly, it feels more intimate than it has all evening. jack takes a deep breath, and then sighs.
“something like that.”
“jack-”
“it’s just… i don’t know. i got used to it, i guess. at first it was just to see what it felt like being up there. then it just turned into something else. i go up there after a bad shift and look at all the people below and… decide if it’s still worth it, i guess.” his hazel eyes look towards you and jack nestles himself more comfortably against your hand that hasn’t left him.
“what’s gonna happen if you decide it’s not worth it one day?” you ask quietly, wet eyes sparkling up at him.
teary-eyed and flushed in his bed, all for him. you feel your emotions so strongly that he can watch them flooding your body, taking their course, almost sense them radiating from you.
that’s the second time you’ve cried because of him, and he decides he’s not going to let it happen a third time.
he takes the hand that you had extended against him into his own and presses a kiss against your palm.
“i don’t think i have to worry about that anymore.”
+
you get back to your apartment around four in the afternoon—you have a rare day off today. jack’s back on the night shift at seven, and though he offered to let you stay the night while he was gone, you wanted to give him time to get ready before going into the hospital. everyone has a pre-shift routine, even if they don’t recognize it.
now that you’re back on days, yours consists of waking up early to stretch and eat a big breakfast and leave enough time lay in bed for an extra ten minutes before you actually have to get up.
you don’t know what jack’s is but you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough.
the two of you slept in, courtesy of his black out curtains. you’re more of a get up with the sun person, but exceptions can be made.
(you’ll be making a lot of them from now on. jack abbot made you cum three times in his bed and once in the shower, and then he washed your body with his soap, the one you can still smell on your skin now. he kissed you while making you breakfast—eggs and bacon—and then told you to stop apologizing every time you accidentally hit your foot against his prosthetic under his dining table. and finally, he gave you one of your containers to take back home, and said he’s keeping the other one here. why? you’d asked. insurance, he’d replied.)
so you go back home, make dinner for yourself and wash your singular yellow tupperware and text jack to have a good shift tonight.
you set an alarm for five, get out of bed at five-fifteen and get ready for work, more giddy for a shift than you have been since your first day of intern year.
when you walk into the hospital, early like always, you see jack talking to parker. he looks in your direction and even parker can notice his gaze following something, but she doesn’t say anything. you look away before smiling to yourself, the grin being glued to your face the entire walk to the lockers as you recall memories of the last time you saw jack.
one of the perks of always being early is that there’s no one by the lockers when you arrive.
(you’ve never thought of it as a perk until now though.)
jack walks in behind you a few minutes later—right as you’ve tucked away your pullover and your bag and he stands beside you as you reach to pick up your stethoscope.
“ah, hold on,” he says, taking the stethoscope of your hand and into his. he loops it around your neck carefully, setting it in place for you. “there you go.”
“really?” you ask with a laugh, closing the door to your locker. “when you walked in here i thought i was gonna get a kiss. wait, what did you tell parker-”
“c’mon, kid,” jack says, looking at you with an expression you’re not sure you could ever get tired of. “i’m not that obvious.” you stare at him. “yeah, okay. i told her to go finish the note from the last trauma.”
“lucky for you, i’m your best resident. these other chums don’t show up until much closer to seven. actually, one time, santos came five minutes late. so-”
and for the second time, jack interrupts you with a kiss. he leans in, pressing his lips against yours, and your hands go slack by your side. his mouth tastes like coffee and even after a twelve hour shift he still smells like jack, the way his sheets and his soap and his shirt had smelled when you wore it.
he pulls away, and your eyes blink open slowly, like you’re figuring out where you are. fluorescent lights and the smell of the alcohol wipes they use to clean everything lingers around you.
and, of course, your attending, the one who sneaks into the locker rooms before shift change to give you secret and likely highly forbidden kisses.
“my lips are sticky,” jack says, bringing a finger to his mouth and rubbing it against another. you can’t bear to look at his hands right now, so you look away, at the risk of being useless for at least the next hour.
“it’s this lip peptide thingy. i don’t know, it’s good for them, i think. better than chapstick and they have all these flavors. they say it-” you trail off, staring at jack while he stares at you. he licks his lips.
“tastes good, kid. see you out there.”
oh god. you lean against your locker and watch jack leave. a minute later, mel walks in with trinity.
“i don’t want to hear it, bubbles. i’m here extra early, and not just to prove a point-”
“well, actually, i think it is to prove a point, but not-”
“what’s wrong? did the cat finally get your tongue?”
“i never understood what that meant-”
oh god. it’s going to be a long shift.
and outside the lockers, robby finds jack.
“so?” robby asks, leaning against the counter while jack sorts through tablets. he hands one to parker and then another to john, and they go off to pass on their patients to everyone arriving.
“am i supposed to know what you’re talking about?” jack replies, noticing you from the corner of his eye.
you’re coming out with santos and king, a water bottle in your hand. he had filled it for you before you left his apartment, after you’d refused his offer of walking you home. you look in his direction, and then you both look away at the same time. jack picks up his coffee cup to take another sip—if he doesn’t get the taste of you and your lip peptide thingy out of his mouth, he’s going to have a freudian slip in front of robby.
“i’m talking about you and the kid.” jack sputters, choking on his drink mid-swallow. “woah. you okay?”
“f-fine. uh, what? me and the kid?”
“yeah. since the fourth, you know, are you two good again?”
robby looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the silence with an answer.
“uh, yes. yeah, of course.”
“good. that was my goal. she started on nights at a bad time, and uh, i mean no one blames you. but we don't want to scare away all our interns, either.”
“right.” jack looks back at robby. “anything else?”
“no.” robby arches a brow at him. “you sure you’re okay? because she’s back on nights soon, and i don’t want-”
“i’m good, robby.”
“alright then. where are we with sign-offs?”
you on the day shift is something manageable. something he can handle, something that shouldn’t be too terrible for you two to figure out. you always come early and he always stays a little late, and he’s sure that it won’t look suspicious.
if you’re on days, then he’s not the one primarily in charge of your post-graduate medical education. that falls to robby and heather and frank, and he can trust that none of them are going to accidentally interfere with you learning everything you need to learn to be a good resident.
to be a great resident—because he knows you have it in you. you’re made of the stuff it takes to be teaching other interns one day—compassion and kindness and how to treat the person while you’re fixing the patient.
robby and heather and frank can help you with that. but if you’re on nights, it’s an entirely different ball game. he’s responsible for your education, for approving your notes and questioning your decisions and making you jump onto incoming traumas and justify every choice you make. he’s also responsible for correcting you when you’ve made a mistake. making you drink a cup of coffee if he thinks you’re getting tired. waking you up if you fall asleep at your desk at three in the morning.
and that’s just the problem. for the first time, jack abbot wonders if he can do all of those things if you’re the intern he has to do them to.
for god’s sake—he couldn’t even wake you up to ask how you wanted your eggs.
that’s the conundrum he’s facing when you come back home that night, near seven thirty. he’s off tonight and back tomorrow night, which means he gets about eleven or so hours with you until you leave tomorrow morning.
“hi,” you breathe, when he opens the door to let you inside. you’re clad in your pullover and you drop your bag by the front door when you come inside. “it feels weird to not go straight home.”
“oh, sweetheart, you could have gone home. i could have met you there-”
“no, no, it’s okay. i have a noisy neighbor and, well-” you drift off, smiling up at him the way you usually do.
“well?”
“i’d rather wear your clothes anyways.”
what’s he supposed to do when you say things like that? a couple of words that make him happier than he’s felt in years, lifting the storm cloud that’s been following him around since the conversation with robby this morning.
but it’s an important conversation, one that needs to be had. jack is a lot of things, but he is absolutely not a meddler in the lives of pretty interns or in the business of hindering their education.
“did, uh, robby say anything to you today?”
“jack,” you start slowly, turning on the couch to face him completely. “he’s not a mind-reader, you know.”
“no, i know. i just meant—well, did he?”
“no. he was normal. he even apologized for giving me side quests on an already busy day.”
“oh. that’s good.”
you bring your hand to his hair again, running your fingers through it. it’s almost an instinct to him now—jack closes his eyes for a moment and you watch his shoulders relax.
“what’s wrong? what’re you thinking about?” his pretty hazel eyes meet yours.
“i just want us to be careful-”
“hey, you’re the one who kissed me this morning-”
“i know, i know. i need to be careful, too. i don’t want-”
“i understand. i wouldn’t want everyone knowing i’m screwing the intern either. it’s kind of a cliche, honestly, we’re no better than-”
“what? no, no. i don’t want anyone to say anything that could hurt you, or for this to interfere with your education. it is a cliche, and i know you’re close with the others and people can act very differently when they think that-”
“jack,” you start, moving yourself closer until you can crawl into his lap. his eyes flick over you, settling to watch your lips before he locks eyes again.
“yeah?” he asks, his throat dry.
“in five minutes, i’m going to be wet and naked in your shower. you can either keep talking about this or you can come join me.” then you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. “c’mon, i wanna hear all about how you spend your days off, old man.”
and then you get up, peeling off your sweatshirt, and then your shirt, and leaving him a trail of your clothes that ends with your panties on his bathroom tile.
jack is a lot of things. but stupid isn’t one of them—so he follows you in there and leaves the rest of the conversation for another day.
but that day doesn’t end up coming that quickly.
as it turns out, interns on day shift barely get to spend time with their attendings from the night shift. on top of that, he has no idea how anyone manages to have an affair with a resident—they’re at the hospital every single day, pulling eighty hour weeks and coming home, if jack is even at home, completely exhausted.
but he also learns that glimpses of you at shift change and sign-offs at seven am and seven pm are enough to sustain the two of you.
it starts with conversations in the locker room before your shift starts. he makes sure his residents are distracted before sneaking away to get a kiss or two and leaning against the metal lockers like a lovesick high schooler.
“you know that patient i was telling you about yesterday? with the bleeder? well, i came to change my scrubs and trin was grabbing something and she saw me and asked if i was mauled by a bear.”
“oh, god,” jacks says from his position, watching you do the same thing you do every morning. put away your hoodie, grab your protein bar for later, tell him whatever you’ve been thinking about since he left you yesterday night. “what’d you tell her?”
you smile.
“something like that.” you laugh, so then jack laughs.
“that’s a little dramatic, no?”
“i also told her i’m clumsy, but i think she’s come to the conclusion that i’m a sex freak.” you close your locker, facing your boyfriend-slash-attending.
“well, i mean-”
“shut up. do not-” you start with another laugh, but your smile fades when you see mel walking in with frank.
“uh, make sure to check that with ellis, alright?”
“yes, i will, dr. abbot.” jack leaves, smiling politely at frank and mel and turning back to look at you once. he really shouldn’t but he’s gotten in a bad habit of it, even though one day, someone is going to notice.
“did you just tell abbot to ‘shut up’?” frank questions, and they both look at you, waiting for your answer.
“no! no, of course not. i was just telling him about something a patient said and, um, dr. ellis wants to document it. yeah, she wants, like, really thorough notes, so he was just telling me. about that. um-”
mel looks at you thoughtfully, before bringing her hand to frank’s arm.
“i have noticed that she writes her patient encounters in a very specific format,” she says, and you sigh without realizing it. you let her carry the conversation into how frank’s notes could use some work, and then the two tease each other while you quietly make your exit.
+
another morning, jack stands at central with dana and robby, filling both of them in on two patients who are due to come back in the afternoon and the three patients still waiting for a bed upstairs.
heather and frank are bickering next to the three of them like they always do, like they’re siblings fighting in front of the parents, when he hears what they’re talking about.
“well, now i feel bad, ‘cause she’s mel’s friend, but i don’t even have that kind of energy after two red bulls, so-” frank starts, before heather interjects.
“it’s not about energy, it’s just a conversation about burn-out. candles don’t burn on both ends for a reason.”
“okay, you lost me with the metaphor.”
“you can’t be that nice to every patient forever. at some point you have to pick.”
“be nice or save their life?” frank supplies. “so basically, when is she gonna become like the rest of us?”
“i mean…” heather trails off, turning to dana. “what do you think?”
“i think they call her bubbles for a reason,” dana says, pushing up her glasses. she cranes her neck to stare at the screen of patients, looking for the next empty bed. “and i think north-two needs to be discharged, so if you two are done-”
“let me test our theory,” frank says. he waves over the lot of you coming in for your shift—you, cassie, mel, and trinity. you look over at jack, and he looks over at you, before you focus back on frank. “need someone to discharge this bed and then go grab the next patient from chairs. dana—?” he holds the clipboard and looks over at all of you, but it’s only half a second before you chirp up.
“i can do it,” you say brightly. you smile at frank and dana, reaching for the clipboard, while jack watches it happen.
“thanks bubbles,” trinity says, while the others dissipate. you make a slightly dampened face at the use of the nickname.
“one other thing,” heather asks. “when are we gonna get more cookies?”
“oh! i’m so glad you guys liked them. i guess another holiday, if there’s one coming up? or someone’s birthday? actually, i think there’s just labor day and i don’t know what kind of themed cookies i’d make. well, chocolate chip cookie day is in august, i think-”
“kid?” dana asks. “the patient? north-two?”
“right. i’m sorry. i’ll come check in after i bring the new patient back,” you say, still smiling when you walk away with the clipboard in your hand.
“what exactly were you testing?” heather asks.
“i don’t know, but she’s definitely doing whatever your metaphor meant. are we taking bets yet? i wonder how long she’ll last-”
“alright, enough,” jack snaps. “do you two not have anything better to do? who’s this helping?”
“jack?” robby questions, his eyes flicking towards dana, who looks back at him with a shrug.
“why would you want her to be jaded? isn’t it better for our patients that she stays like that for as long as she can? i thought you’d try to keep her that way, but i guess-”
“jack-” robby interrupts.
“you two, go help somebody,” dana says to heather and frank, before turning to jack. “what the hell was that about?”
jack sighs, not realizing when his hand had turned into a fist. probably when your name was brought up.
“nothing, i just- bad night. that’s all.”
“o-kay,” robby whistles. “you going up to the roof, or?”
“no. no, i’m going home.”
jack walks away, not in the direction of the door, but rather towards the beds on the north side, almost instinctively.
“what the hell’s wrong with him?” dana asks.
“i don’t know. since when does he just go straight home after a bad shift?”
“i have no idea.”
(that night at six-fifty, trinity pulls you aside before you two head home. you’re antsy since you want to get a couple of quiet minutes with jack before you have to leave, but when she starts talking, you forget all about it. listen, trin says, i’m sorry about the whole bubbles thing, i didn’t think it was bothering you. but collins told me that abbot was yelling at them about it and he was pretty upset, so i- but sadly, you don’t hear much of the rest of the conversation.)
you walk away from her after she finishes, reassuring her that you’re fine, before setting out to find jack. he’s putting his backpack under the desk at the hub, and you go straight to him, not entirely caring that people can see the two of you, supposing it’s fine as long as they don’t hear you.
“what’s the matter?” jack asks, and then much quieter—”everything okay, sweetheart?”
“you defended me?” you ask softly. you’re normally full of words but it feels hard to find them just now, your head feeling cloudy.
“no, no, i just told them to knock it off.”
“was it something bad?” you question, your expression knitting into worry.
this is exactly why he got upset—why he didn’t like their conversation from the jump, why he knew that he wanted frank and heather to stop talking before someone else overheard and jumped in and you found out what they were saying.
it’s not bad, even you wouldn’t think it’s bad. but jack doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like anyone speaking of you in any way that he doesn’t like and he especially hates the idea that you’d be upset when you found out.
“no. i just-” jack trails off.
“you just?”
“i don’t like anyone talking about you. and i don’t like that stupid nickname, so-”
you smile at him, not the sort of innocent smile one casts at their attending—the result of being told good job on a case or have a good night on your way out. no, you smile at jack the way you do everything—with the full force of every emotion behind it, wearing your heart on your sleeve.
and jack couldn’t look away from you, even if he wanted to.
(the two of you look like idiots—googly eyed and lovestruck and every other way to describe people who like each other a bit too much. this time it’s dana who sees the two of you. she does a double take on her way to hand a stack of tablets to the night shift charge nurse and blinks twice to make sure she’s seeing the right thing. jack abbot, a regular on the roof, and the intern who they call bubbles, looking at each other like the rest of the hospital has faded away into nothing. and then she walks away, and decides she’ll wait for robby to bring it up.)
+
it’s mel next—she’s incredibly observant as it is, but even more so when it comes to someone she considers a friend, someone like you. trinity jokes about the continual bear attacks that explain the hickies on your neck and chest when you change out of your scrub top and pull on your hoodie, but mel knows it’s more than that.
she’s always known you get to work early, but recently, every time mel comes in to put away her belongings, the space that you usually occupy is already empty. your things put away, locker closed and locked, your yellow water bottle already resting by the computer that you usually write your notes at.
and after that, it’s just a game of paying slightly closer attention. you walk out from behind a curtained bed and come say hi to mel, ask her how her evening was, how becca is doing. but when mel glances up at the screen to see what patient you were with behind that curtain, it’s empty.
that bed was empty. and well, mel’s not much of an detective (though she has her moments), but it’s worth a shot. waste a few minutes, stare at that curtain to see if she can figure out what, or rather who is behind it. she’s almost about to call it quits, frank was running late but he’s here now and there’s an incoming so she should start moving and then—
dr. abbot comes out from behind that same curtain. he leaves it open, comes to the hub, smiles politely at mel and tells her to have a good day, dr. king, and then he walks away.
more specifically, he walks in your direction. the back of his head moves slightly in your direction. you beam at the tablet in your hands. and then—
“mel? you okay?” frank asks, and she’s snapped out of it.
(she could have figured it out ages ago, she thinks afterward, reflecting on how dr. abbot never used to tell anyone to have a good day or hum while finalizing notes or look up and smile in your general direction before looking back down at whatever’s in his hands. the first time she met him, she thought he was the type of person you categorize in the debbie downer sort of group, whereas from the moment she met you, you were clearly more of a chatty cathy. but you’re her friend. and when she had told you about her feelings for frank, you had listened and supported her and never made her feel that it was anything less than okay.)
so the next time she sees you at seven am, already out by your computer or walking back from around an empty corner, when she notices dr. abbot trailing behind you, she doesn’t say anything. when dr. abbot hangs around late finishing up a trauma and you go ask him for his opinion on whatever patient you’re seeing, even when robby is free just over there, she doesn’t say anything.
even when frank brings it up over dinner with her and becca, a side conversation while they eat spaghetti—you noticed anything different with abbot recently?—she doesn’t say anything.
in fact, the closest she gets to saying anything is when dr. abbot comes in early—maybe around five-thirty one evening—because they’re getting swamped and heather and cassie have the flu and it’s been a terrible mess of a day.
you and mel have been running around the entire shift, barely stopping to drink water or eat something. when jack shows up and flocks straight to you and leans in to tell you something, your hand moves to touch his arm for half a second before you remember where you are and put it down. jack pulls out a granola bar from his pocket and leaves you with it to jump on the next incoming.
mel watches the encounter and puts her head down when you look her way, pretending that she’s drinking her water and staring at a tablet. when she looks up, you’re gone in another direction, but dana stares at mel, both with an understanding of what they just saw.
and then they go on with their shift.
+
it all comes crashing down, just as it had the first time, after a particularly terrible night shift. it’s always hard when someone dies in the first few hours, leaves a horrible, bitter taste in his mouth that makes him want to walk outside and not come back in.
it’s even worse when he knows he did everything he could, that there was no way this patient was making it off the table. that the devastated husband and the crying kids were completely unavoidable, that he still has to go back and jump on the next case and start fresh and try to drown out those noises.
drowning, drowning, drowning. he’s always trying to drown out something. if it’s not the fireworks then it’s the kids sobbing over their dead parent, and if it’s not that, then it’s how he relives his own worst day of my life every time someone’s wife dies in front of him.
it’s been one of those days. you’re due to start on nights in two shifts from now, and he still has no idea how he’ll manage to be any less obvious when it comes to you.
(the last thing he keeps trying to drown out is how wrong this is. the voice in the back of his head keeps reminding him, seemingly unable to stop, no noise being loud enough to get it to stop repeating itself. you’re still a while away from being a second year, but is that even any better? or is that another excuse he’s invented to stop feeling so guilty about the fact that you sleep in his apartment every night and leave cookies for him on the counter so he has something nice to come home to? jack doesn’t know.)
you show up at six-thirty, smiling sweetly at parker and john, telling them to grab a cookie on their way out. parker asks you why and you tell her just because, and you want five minutes alone with your boyfriend before he leaves.
you’re impatient, always have been and always will be, especially when it comes to any and all matters related to jack abbot. you’re eager to go back on the night shift because you think you’ll be able to appreciate it so much more now—learning under his tutelage, being able to discuss those foreign medical journals he shares with you over coffee at four in the morning rather than through his illegible, scribbled print on post-its and your neat handwriting in the margins.
you want it all, and you want it now.
so you made more cookies—oatmeal raisin—to make jack’s apartment smell nice, and you pack several of them to have a valid reason to distract the others so you can get those five minutes, maybe ten, in peace.
“hi,” you sing, while jack stands in front of you, tablet in his hand and blood on his shoes. “how was your night?” he doesn’t look up, but you don’t wait for an answer. “i made oatmeal raisin last night and i put some in the break room so i think we have five minutes. i want ten but i won’t be greedy, i mean, we’ll be on nights together soon, so at least that’ll be-”
“we need to talk, kid,” jack says, looking up at you with an expression you don’t recognize.
“what’s wrong ja- dr. abbot?” a nurse walks by just as you start your sentence, changing it mid-way.
“that,” he says, coming out a bit louder than he meant it to. “that’s what’s wrong.”
“jack?” you say it quietly. he doesn’t mean it like that—he doesn’t want you to be upset and worried about him when you have a whole shift ahead of you, one that you show up early to with distractions so the two of you can have a few minutes alone.
it’s all of it—it’s the fact that you even have to do things like that to get five minutes alone with him. it’s that you can’t let someone overhear you calling him anything besides dr. abbot.
it’s the realization that you deserve much better than what jack abbot can give you. more than five minutes behind a curtain or a couple minutes in the break room or thirty seconds at central hub before the charge nurse comes in with another incoming.
“come on,” he says, leading you away for a moment. you have twenty-five minutes before your shift starts and he has two senior residents who can run the show until robby walks in. he leads you to the on-call room, four walls enclosing four beds. surgery has rooms of their own, but sometimes the trauma surgeon on deck will crash in there waiting for the next page, so he checks the room before letting you into it, closing and locking the door behind him.
“i thought you were gonna yell at me. this is so much better,” you say.
your mouth has gotten you into trouble before, especially with dr. abbot. in fact, it’s what got you into this whole thing to begin with, but where you expect jack to laugh in the privacy of this room, he doesn’t.
“kid, we need to have a serious talk about this.”
“about what?”
“this. us.”
“oh, jack, come on-”
“no, i-i’m being serious. this is not okay, it’s not sustainable.”
“you’re upset because we don’t see each other? honey, i start on nights in two days, i think we can make it,” you say, coming in closer to bring your hand to jack’s shoulder. “what’s going on? really?”
“don’t you think that… what i’m doing is wrong? you’re an intern. this is about your education, i-”
“why do you think you’re disrupting my medical education just because you’re my attending? i know i get stupid around you but i promise, i’m not gonna stop paying attention to my patient because you’re standing near me. i am a doctor, you know-”
“kid, i-”
“no, stop. half this hospital is dating each other. robby is heather’s attending and i don’t see you storming them into on-call rooms to debate about his influence on her medical education-”
“that doesn’t even make sense-”
“it doesn’t have to,” you sigh, out of breath and a little winded from how loud you’re being. “we make sense. you and me. we’re good together. a lot of things in this place don’t make sense but we do. people die everyday and i don’t want to die wondering what could have been if i’d just-”
“don’t,” jack interrupts, his hands coming to your waist. they feel tight, like the first time he’d help you like this. he brings his face closer to yours, foreheads almost touching. “don’t say that.”
“oh my god. i am so sorry. that must sound so insensitive, i just meant-”
“stop talking.”
“but i-”
and this time, he doesn’t give you a choice, pressing his lips against yours quickly. you mumble against else against his mouth, but he can’t make it out, choosing instead to ignore it. like always, jack’s mouth tastes like coffee and you take it in—your boyfriend, your attending, and whatever else jack abbot is to you, kissing you like he’s finally realizing that he belongs to you, just as much as you belong to him.
jack’s fingertips travel under your scrub top, hands roaming the expanse of your back and then settling onto your waist again while you keep kissing, realizing that when you go back out there, you’ll be flushed and warm and your lips will be swollen.
and then you realize that you don’t care, and you let your body lean against jack’s. he pulls away for a moment, but you don’t let him get the chance to stop, leaning in to resume the kiss, desperate to feel his tongue against yours again.
jack does pull away finally, holding your jaw with his hand.
“this is so much better,” you mumble again.
“kid, we can’t-”
“yes, we can. we have so much time, jack,” you say, trying your best to sound convincing.
“it’s seven in the morning,” jack argues, though he doesn’t resist when you pull his navy shirt off and over his head, exposing his chest to you. you run your fingers down the exposed skin, pressing your mouth against his shoulder.
“no it’s not,” you reply, leading hot, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone to his neck, back up to his lips. “it’s six forty-something.”
“someone’s gonna-”
“no one’s gonna,” you say, smiling in that way that you do, the way that makes it impossible for him to say no. “not unless you stop talking, old man.”
“oh. that’s how you wanna do this?”
“i’m not doing anything,” you say, pulling off your own scrub top, and then your shoes.
“you’re gonna kill me, kid,” leaves his mouth as your hands go to the tie of his scrub bottoms, undoing the knot. jack brings his hands to either side of your waist and lifts, bringing you down onto one of the beds with all of his strength, making you squeal as your head hits the pillow.
he starts with a kiss to your jaw, and then your neck, trailing down between your breasts while he undoes your bra. your hands find his shoulders, gripping him tight while he works his way down, littering your stomach with kisses until he gets to the drawstring of your pants.
his fingers work on undoing it while you whine, and then try to push yourself to sit up against jack’s weight on top of you.
“oh my god, this is so embarrassing. i didn’t know we were doing all this. i have so many matching sets of underwear for this very occasion and the one day-”
“sweetheart, i love you, but you really need to stop talking right now.”
“you love me?” you repeat back. “you love me. oh my god, i-”
you lean in, lips crashing together hard, until jack moves and he’s on top of you again. he slides off your bottoms first, his fingers dancing around the waistband of your panties—navy blue with lace on the sides and he thinks they’re awfully great so he’s not sure what you were talking about—and then you start giggling. nearly uncontrollable.
“kid, that’s twice now you’ve done that-”
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry jack,” you plead, trying to keep a straight face but being unable to stop laughing. “i can’t believe this is how we’re saying i love you to each other-”
“you’re the one who wanted to date your attending-”
you burst into another fit of giggles, which jack effectively silences by kissing you again.
“one day,” jack starts, tugging your underwear down until it’s discarded somewhere by your feet, or maybe somewhere on the floor next to your clothes. “i’ll get to take my time with you again.”
that sentence leaving jack’s mouth makes your entire body tense up, a flood of want washing over you until you feel loopy.
you pull him in for another kiss, and you feel him against you, memories of the first time he stretched you out on his fingers running through your mind. you two don’t have enough time for that today, and you both know it, but it still makes your cunt throb with anticipation.
jack lines himself up against you, running his thick tip over your opening, collecting wetness and making pleasure course through your body when he bumps against your clit. it’s electric—like a live wire hitting your nerves and making everything feel like lightening.
your limbs already feel like jelly, and you let jack maneuver your legs up onto his shoulders, watching him while he looks down at where you two are connected.
he pushes inside and you moan—loudly and unfiltered—feeling that ridiculously amazing stretch again, your toes curling and every muscle tensing. jack leans in to kiss you and swallow the noises you make, but you still think it might not be enough.
when he pushes all the way in, your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head.
“i’m sorry, kid, we can’t be loud,” he breathes, followed by a groan. he uses his hand to cover your mouth, pulling out and then thrusting back in all at once. the bed creaks as jack starts fucking you with an intense rhythm, the thin wooden frame hitting against the wall repetitively.
you lock eyes with jack, moaning against his hand, feeling how big he is like it’s the first time all over again.
every ridge and vein makes you see stars while you focus on how full you feel—full of jack, how you want stay like this forever if he’ll let you—in a tiny on call room with the door locked and people looking for the two of you.
you repeat it against his palm—jack, jack, jack—while he keeps fucking you with an intensity that makes the coil in your belly keep tightening. he’s so deep inside of you that you’re sure you won’t be able to walk after this, let alone finish your shift, but the thought drifts somewhere far away when he changes the angle slightly.
jack pushes his hand against your lower belly and thrusts back into you, while your back arches and tries to fight him. maybe you’re trying to get away from how good it feels, that overwhelming sensation that the ground is about to give out beneath the two of you. you stare up at jack through teary eyes, taking in how he looks hovering over you, taking care of you and watching out for you and thinking about you first like he always does.
and then it happens, the hot sensation in your belly tenses, and then snaps, and it washes over you like a current. you feel it—the ringing in your ears feels like it’s making its way through your entire body and your walls clench and pulse around jack’s girth.
your eyes snap shut but when they open, you keep looking up at jack, finally forcing his hand away from your mouth.
“jack,” you get out, your throat dry and sore and lips aching. “i love you too-”
you hear jack groan, a noise that makes your walls flutter, and then you feel it again—jack’s hips stuttering, his grip on you tightening, and then warmth filling you, hot streams of cum coating your walls until it’s leaking out of you.
you take deep breaths, head hitting the pillow while jack collapses on top of you, and then rolls over until he’s beside you.
the room is silent besides the two of you breathing, until of course, you speak up.
“i can’t believe this is how we said i love you.”
“you already said that, kid.”
“i know. i just really can’t believe it. i figured it would at least be outside of the hospital, but, i guess that wouldn’t feel right.”
“sweetheart-”
“am i doing it again? the not knowing when to be quiet thing?”
“no, but i-”
“wait,” you cry out, sitting up immediately. “what time is it? oh my god-”
“don’t worry about that right now. i gotta get you cleaned up before-”
“jack, i have never been late for a shift before.” you sigh dramatically before you keep going. “i just knew it. this relationship is completely affecting my medical education-”
jack shuts you up with a kiss before you can finish the sentence, capturing your laugh against his mouth.
he starts making half a plan in his head, though what he wants to do is take you home with him right now.
“i think i’m ready for you to be back on nights now.”
“yeah? why’s that?”
“because at least we can sleep next to each other if you-”
“jack!” he hears robby’s voice shouting from the other side of the door, followed by three pounds that rattle the wood. “do not tell me that my intern is in there.”
“fuck,” jack whispers, while you stare at him with wide eyes.
“what should we do?” you mouth, while jack gets up, finding your scrubs and pocketing your underwear while he pulls on his own clothes.
“stay in here,” he tells you quietly. “just take your time.”
“okay,” you whisper back, leaning in for another kiss with a smile. “i love you.”
“i love you too.”
jack pulls on his shirt and unlocks the door, closing it quickly behind him as he steps out to meet robby on the other side.
“you’re kidding me, right?”
“i can explain, robby. we-”
“i don’t want to hear it. the on-call room? that’s disgusting, you know.”
“robby, i-”
“go talk to hr before gloria gets on my ass about this.” robby walks away, shaking his head.
you open the door, poking your head out, and jack turns back to look at you.
“gosh. i sure hope hr doesn't think you’re interfering with my medical education-”
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
summary: a week-long medical conference in Vegas was exactly what you needed—a break from the Pennsylvania winter, a chance to network as your fellowship wound down, maybe even an excuse to have a little fun. what you absolutely didn’t need was to spend that entire week with Brendon fucking Park; your arrogant, insufferable, asshole of a boss—much less in the same hotel room.
warnings/tags: MDNI, 18+, brendon park/afab!reader, park is lowkey a warning all on his own, pediatric ortho fellow!reader, medical conference, pitt-typical gore, injured child, medical inaccuracies (author is just an English teacher with Google lol), overuse of em dash, ran through robby strikes again (or at least tries to), enemies to lovers, shameless one bed/forced proximity trope, big ‘i gotta fuck him but i also gotta throw him off a cliff’ vibes, age gap (reader is early 30s, park is canon age), reader has long hair, sex toy, fear of flying, park is an asshole but down bad, lots of exposition oops, smut starts in earnest in part 2!!
headers/dividers by @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics
part one: we’re swimmin’ with the sharks until we drown
Unlike most of your colleagues, you didn’t mind getting called down to the Pitt.
You’d watched the ritual enough times to anticipate it before it even started—the sharp ring of the phone, the collective pause, and then the subtle, utterly unserious shuffle of bodies and glances as everyone silently agreed to pretend they hadn’t heard it. No-nose-goes, but with more degrees and worse acting. Someone would sigh. Someone would swear under their breath. And eventually, someone—usually you—would pick up. The emergency department had a reputation that preceded it: too chaotic, too messy, too loud. A far cry from the controlled choreography of the OR, where everything had a place and a protocol and a predictable rhythm. Down in the Pitt, it was all noise and blood and split-second decisions made with half the information and twice the pressure. Most of your coworkers treated consults down there like punishment. You didn’t.
Maybe it was bias. It was hard not to think so when you’d grown up trailing behind your mom through the halls of her own version of controlled chaos, perched at the nurse’s station after school doing your homework while she ran a department that never seemed to sleep. She’d been an ED charge nurse for years; calm in a way that wasn’t quiet, efficient in a way that didn’t ask for recognition. You’d learned early that “mess” wasn’t the right word for it. Mess implied carelessness. The ED wasn’t careless; it was just where everything landed first. Every bad decision, every freak accident, every moment of terrible luck—it all funneled through those doors before it ever made its way upstairs to people like you. You’d liked your emergency medicine rotation more than you’d expected back in med school, had found something almost addictive in the pace of it. But surgery had always been the plan. Pediatric orthopedics, specifically. That had never wavered.
Still, you never developed the same aversion the others had. Eight months into your fellowship at PTMC, and you still didn’t dread the trip downstairs. One of the residents had dubbed it “the dungeon” your first week—said it with the kind of dramatic flair that only comes from someone who’d just been handed their third overnight consult in a row—and the name had stuck. You’d laughed at the time, but the truth was, the Pitt didn’t feel like a punishment to you. It felt like the front line. The place where things were still fluid, still salvageable. Where you got the first look at a problem before it had been cleaned up and packaged neatly into a surgical plan.
Upstairs, you fixed things. Down there, you figured out what was worth fixing. Most things were, in your humble opinion.
You barely had time to set your coffee down before the day decided what it was going to be.
Your coat was halfway off your shoulders, bag slipping from your grip as you rounded the counter onto the floor, when Maricel’s voice cut clean through the early morning lull. She didn’t even look up at first; just had the phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear, pen moving across the chart in front of her like nothing about this was urgent, which meant it absolutely was.
“Hey—” she snapped, and then, sharper, your name.
Well, so much for your locker. So much for caffeine. So much for easing into anything. Maricel finally glanced up, dark eyes locking onto yours.
“ED’s calling,” she said, like you couldn’t tell. She continued, voice flattening into something more clinical as she relayed it, “Seven-year-old boy. MVC. Open radius-ulna, possibly comminuted. Robby requested you specifically.”
“Oh man,” you said, kicking your purse under the counter, brain sprinting three steps ahead of your body. “You had me at open.”
Maricel hadn’t moved. Four-foot-eleven of pure authority, the charge nurse stared at you over the top of her glasses like she’d personally witnessed every bad habit you’d ever developed and was keeping a running list. Her gaze flicked, pointedly, to the abandoned coffee and purse. Then back to you.
Right.
“I’ll put it away when I get back,” you squeaked, already backing up a step like that might soften the offense. Her expression didn’t change. Not even a little.
She made a flat, thoroughly disbelieving noise in response—something between a scoff and a hum that said she’d heard that promise from you before and had exactly zero faith in it now. Which, fair. You’d earned that. Still, she didn’t press it. Just lifted the phone back to her ear and muttered something in Tagalog, her tone shifting seamlessly as she cut back into the conversation.
“She’ll be down in a sec,” Maricel said, already moving on, already ten steps ahead.
You didn’t wait for anything else. Just pivoted back toward the cabinets, slipping behind the counter like muscle memory, fingers already reaching for what you needed.
“Boo Boo where he should be?” you asked, popping one of the cabinet doors open and scanning the shelves.
That, at least, earned you something. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught it—the smallest break in her expression. A flicker. The ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth before she smoothed it back into place like it had never been there at all.
“One to the right,” she said, not even bothering to look up from the monitor as she gestured with a quick tilt of her head. You shifted over and grabbed the bear dressed in scrubs and a mask you kept tucked away for your cases, already tucking it under your arm as you nudged the cabinet shut with your hip.
“Don’t be too long,” she added, still focused on the screen, voice dry. “You’re late—and Shark’s already circling.”
You huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a groan at the nickname.
“Of course he is,” you muttered, already halfway out the door. “Tell him he can bite me.”
Behind you, Maricel’s lips twitched again. “I’m sure that’ll go over well. I swear, you’re the only one who talks to him like that. You’re going to get yourself bit one of these days, kiddo.”
“Hasn’t stopped me yet,” you shot back, not breaking stride.
The hallway opened up in front of you, sterile white and humming with the low, constant rhythm of the hospital waking up around you. You shifted the stuffed animal under your arm, the soft weight of the stuffed bear—Boo Boo Bear, as your nephew had aptly named it after carefully selecting its outfit during an auntie-day spent in Build-a-Bear—pressed against your middle as you angled toward the elevators.
“Don’t be long, Sunshine!” Maricel called after you.
The nickname echoed down the corridor, warm and entirely undeserved. You wished you could say it came from your dazzling personality. Something charming. Something intentional. Not because you’d completely missed the memo about designated scrub colors your first week and showed up in bright yellow like a walking highlighter, sunshine-printed scrub cap to match, instead of the purple you practically lived in now. You’d barely made it ten steps onto the floor before every set of eyes turned, and Maricel without missing a beat had taken one look at you and decided that you would forever be known for your little whoopsie. Unfortunately, it had stuck.
Hospitals and the military. The only two places where nicknames were born almost exclusively out of fuck ups. How fun for you.
Seven-year-old. MVC. Open fracture.
Your mind was already ahead of you again, running through possibilities, complications, what you might be walking into. Pain control, irrigation, antibiotics, neurovascular status—what had already been done, what hadn’t. Whether he’d been conscious when he came in. Whether he was scared.
The doors slid open with a quiet chime. You stepped inside, shifting your grip on the bear as you punched the button down to the Pitt. The doors closed, sealing you into the brief, artificial quiet.
And then you were moving.
The quiet didn’t last. Not once the doors opened to the Pitt. The moment you stepped out, the ED hit you like a blast of hot air. Voices overlapped, monitors beeped and chimed in erratic symphony, and the scent of bleach and antiseptic clung to everything, sharp and familiar. Black and gray scrubs darted in all directions, weaving between rooms and the nurses’ station in a blur of purposeful motion. You took it in like a second language—already parsing priorities, already placing people in roles before they even reached the patient.
Your eyes settled on a familiar figure: a blonde bob hunched over a monitor at the nurses’ station, fingers dancing across the keyboard as though the screen itself demanded her attention. You made your way toward her, bear still pressed to your chest, mind already running the case in the background like a silent metronome.
“Can’t let a girl finish her coffee in peace, huh?” you called over the din.
Dana straightened slightly, eyes peeking over the rims of her clear frames, scanning you for a moment before that grin lifted her whole face.
“Sunshine,” she replied warmly, voice carrying above the hum of controlled chaos. “You know how it goes—ain’t no rest for the wicked. I thought you’d already gotten the hell out of Dodge for the week?”
You shook your head, adjusting the bear against your chest. “Conference doesn’t start until Monday. I head out tomorrow morning,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, though the tension in the hall didn’t let you linger.
“Well, lucky us,” Dana said warmly, not even glancing up from the monitor. “Play a round of blackjack for me. They’re in Trauma 2. Fair warning; Mom’s a wreck, but who wouldn’t be? Poor little guy.”
“Thanks, Dana,” you called over your shoulder, already moving again, your clogs squeaking against the tile as the hum of the ED grew louder around you.
The trauma bay doors slid open, and the chaos inside hit you fully—no filter, no pause, no time to ease in. The room was already alive, buzzing with motion: nurses moving in sharp, practiced arcs; techs adjusting monitors and tubing; doctors speaking in clipped tones that demanded immediate comprehension. And there he was—a small boy, gurney-bound, wide-eyed and tear-streaked, muscles coiled tight with fear, watching the flurry of professionals circle him like predators and protectors at once.
Your gaze dropped, scanning quickly over the scene until it settled on the interns clustered over his right arm. Oh yeah. Definitely fractured. That was a juicy one. You let yourself appreciate the grim anatomy for a split second. Stark white bone jutted out of his forearm at an unnatural angle, edges jagged where a curly-haired intern—Ogilvie, you remembered from one of your last trips down—irrigated it with saline. Comminuted. Bingo. Whoever had called that one in morning rounds? Ding, ding, ding—we had a winner.
Robby looked up from the corner of the room as the doors swung open. He had been standing there hand resting gently on a distraught young woman’s shoulder while speaking in low, soothing tones. His warm brown eyes softened at the sight of you, the corners crinkling into a genuine smile before he pivoted back to the mother, angling slightly toward you as he made the introduction.
“She’s one of our pediatric orthopedic surgeons,” he said, voice steady, “and in my opinion, the best our hospital has to offer. Your son is in very capable hands, Mrs. Stuart.”
“Surgery?” The woman squeaked, her panic barely held in check. Robby gave a short, reassuring nod, and she immediately turned toward you, hand stretched out as if anchoring herself to something stable. Her voice came out tight, hurried, words tumbling over one another. “I swear, I only took my eyes off of him for a second. He always crosses the street to the parking lot by himself. I didn’t even see that car—”
You gave her hand a firm squeeze, keeping your tone gentle, calm. “Hey, hey,” you said, locking eyes with her for just a moment, “It’s alright. You did great. You got him right where he needs to be. We’ve got him, Mom.”
Her shoulders sagged slightly, the tautness in her neck easing a fraction as she exhaled shakily, finally letting herself lean a little into the support surrounding her. You gave her a small nod, then shifted your attention to the boy on the gurney. The little boy’s eyes lifted to meet yours, hazy and watery from the painkillers, and you felt that familiar tug in your chest.
“Uh-oh,” you said softly, stepping up to the gurney and crouching so you were at his level. His gaze followed every move, wide and nervous, and you nodded toward his arm. “That doesn’t look like it felt too good.”
“It didn’t,” he whimpered, voice small and tight.
You gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I bet. You’re being very brave, though.” Then, quieter, gentler, you introduced yourself. “My job is to fix big owies like that. What’s your name?”
“August,” he said, the word almost a whisper.
You gasped theatrically, offering a conspiratorial smile. “That’s my very favorite name.”
His eyes flicked to the bear you were holding, curiosity sparking through the haze of pain. “I like your bear,” he murmured.
“Well,” you said, holding the bear out, paw extended, “this is Doctor Boo Boo Bear.”
August’s lips twitched into the tiniest smile as you held the bear’s paw out to him, and he wrapped his little fingers around the bear’s paw. You grinned back, giving it a soft shake. “He likes to come down here with me when he hears there are brave kids in the ER who need his help and well—we heard all about you, Mr. August. Would you like to hold him while I look at your arm?”
August nodded, letting you settle the bear into the crook of his good arm. He clutched it to his chest right away, nose buried in the soft fur like it was the only thing keeping the world from being too big. You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Sliding back, you let his mom lean in closer while you grabbed a pair of gloves from the wall, pulling them on with the rhythm you’d done a thousand times before.
“What do we got?” you asked Robby, scanning the room as your mind flipped through the checklist you ran through every time you entered a trauma bay.
Robby’s eyes flicked to the other young doctor standing nearby, arms crossed, posture tight. He raised one brow, and you could almost hear the unspoken question before he spoke it. “Whitaker?”
The younger doctor jumped like someone had shoved him into a cold pool. “Uh—right,” he said, scrambling for composure. He turned toward you, nodding, voice tight. “Patient struck by a vehicle in the school parking lot. No internal injuries on imaging. No head trauma. Vitals stable.”
He turned towards the monitor, fingers clicking against the keyboard before he angled the imaging towards you. Three very obvious breaks stared back at you: distal radius and ulna, comminuted, sharply angulated. You hissed under your breath.
“Ouch,” you muttered.
Whitaker cleared his throat. “Pain meds were given—IV morphine, 0.1 mg per kilo. Tetanus updated. IV fluids running. No antibiotics yet.”
“Good,” you said, scanning the images. “Neurovascular intact? Fingers moving? Cap refill?”
He nodded quickly. “Yes, distal pulses strong. Motor function intact. Sensation preserved.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Splint yet?”
Whitaker started, then froze mid-word, eyes drifting past you. “…And—uh—” His voice trailed off. You followed his gaze. Something—or someone—had caught his attention behind you.
You didn’t even have to turn to know who’d brought the room to a screeching halt. The mother continued whispering softly, brushing the boy’s hair back in a soothing rhythm, oblivious to the sudden freeze around her. Every voice in the bay dimmed, movements stalling mid-step. Even the monitors seemed to pause for just a beat. The doors slid open, and Robby’s nod was subtle but enough.
“Park,” he said, his voice calm, measured—but carrying just enough weight to make you cringe.
You rolled your eyes. Of course. Glancing over your shoulder, you caught the sharp jerk of his chin, the almost imperceptible lift of his gaze, as his large frame filled the doorway.
What could you say about your chief of orthopedic surgery?
Well, first of all—he was a douchebag.
You knew the stereotypes before you even chose your specialty. People said them like jokes, like warnings softened with a laugh—ortho bros, they’d grin, already picturing the broad shoulders, the gym bags shoved into locker corners, the egos that walked into a room five seconds before the rest of them. You told yourself it was exaggerated. Every field had its reputation, and every reputation had its exceptions. You were going to be one of them—proof that you could carve out a place for yourself without becoming part of the cliché.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen it up close. Med school had been crawling with them—the guys who answered questions they weren’t asked, who talked over attendings like they were already colleagues instead of students, who treated anatomy lab like a competition they’d already won. Still, you’d told yourself pediatrics would be different. It had to be. Smaller patients, softer stakes, people who chose it because they cared, because they had the patience and empathy it demanded. You clung to that like a lifeline when you started your residency, convinced you’d finally stepped outside the stereotype’s reach.
God, you’d been so wrong.
Doctor Brendon Park was the human embodiment of every ortho bro stereotype you’d ever rolled your eyes at, and then some. Gym-rat build, ego the size of a small planet, and that douchey Shark nickname he paraded around like it was a Nobel Prize. Broad shoulders, arms like he’d been carved from stone, and a stare that suggested the world had somehow erred in letting someone like you exist in his orbit. You’d known what you were walking into, and yet seeing it in living, breathing form still made your stomach twist with a mix of amusement and irritation.
First day of fellowship, first OR together, and there it was in full display: barking orders at a resident until she cried, like it was some kind of performance art. And of course, because the universe clearly has a sense of humor, he turned that same tirade on you. Only, unlike her, you didn’t crumble. You snapped back, sharp enough to make him pause. The shock on his face was priceless, and you wanted—almost desperately—to bask in it. Almost.
And so began your “working relationship” with the Shark of PTMC, a title that made you want to gag every time someone used it seriously. And, oh boy—what a relationship it was.
You hated him. You really did. Hated the way he swaggered in like he owned the place, hated the way his voice carried just a little too far across the sterile walls, hated the way he could reduce even the most confident resident to a trembling mess with one clipped sentence. And yet, even as your teeth gritted and your patience wore thin, you had to admit—he forced you to be sharper, faster, better. Every insult, every challenge, every overconfident smirk was a gauntlet you couldn’t walk past without picking it up. And God, it annoyed the ever-loving fuck out of you. You looked back at the scans, rolling your eyes.
“Doctor Park,” you greeted, your voice trailing off into a mutter that carried just enough irritation to sting. “I don’t remember calling for you.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he circled the room like a shark patrolling its tank, slow, deliberate, his gaze assessing everything—and everyone—as if deciding who was edible. The scrape of his gloves as he tugged them on sounded absurdly theatrical, and yet, despite every instinct screaming walk away, you were still here. You were still standing, still glaring, still refusing to show the tiniest crack in your armor.
“Present,” he said at last, each word guttural and precise, carrying that impossible weight of authority.
“Present what?” you asked, deliberately sweet, zooming in on the images on the screen as though you hadn’t noticed his circling. His jaw tightened beside you; Robby lowered his chin to try and hide a smirk. Small victories, you thought, savoring each one.
“The case, Sunshine,” he ground out, sharp as teeth.
You clicked your tongue with a soft, exaggerated sigh. “Darn, I was hoping for a please,” you said, tilting your head as if disappointed. “That’s okay—we’ll keep practicing.”
You turned to face him fully, and there he was: a literal wall of man, broad and imposing, forcing you to tilt your chin just to meet his eyes or stubbornly stare at the royal purple fabric stretched across his chest.
“Alright,” you started, glancing back at the scans. “This is a grade III supracondylar fracture—displaced laterally, neurovascular exam intact. I’d recommend gentle reduction under fluoroscopy, then percutaneous pinning.”
Park’s eyes narrowed. “What about the anterior humeral line?” he asked.
You opened your mouth to answer, but the med student irrigating beat you to it. “It’s off. Suggests extension-type displacement,” Ogilvie said, a little too eagerly. “I’d recommend two lateral pins, aiming for bicortical purchase, avoiding the ulnar nerve. If reduction isn’t stable, we’d consider cross-pinning with careful medial placement.”
Park turned to look at the kid, shooting him a sharp glare just over his shoulder, and the kid’s chest deflated like someone had let the air out of a balloon. “Did I ask you, Einstein?”
“No, sir.” Shoulders hunched, Ogilvie busied himself with more saline, eyes darting like he’d just been caught doing something wrong. You hid a smirk. Classic Shark move—one glare, and he’d eaten their pride for breakfast.
“Doctor Park,” you said, finally clicking out of the scans, letting the tension in your shoulders show just a little. “Might I remind you that this is a teaching hospital?”
His eyes snapped to you—ocean blue and sharp—before he rolled them, arms crossing tight across his chest as he watched the med student irrigating like a hawk judging prey. The poor kid looked like he was about to faint, every bit of confidence drained by Park’s silent appraisal.
The mother shifted beside the gurney, glancing between the two of you nervously. “Um… what does any of that mean?” she asked, voice small.
You softened your tone, leaning slightly toward her, hands gentle on the edge of the bed. “August will need a quick surgery to realign the bone,” you explained. “Then we’ll place a few small pins to hold everything in place while it heals. It’s very common with fractures like this, and he should recover fully. Usually, we’re talking a few weeks in a cast and then a gradual return to normal activity.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though the worry lingered in her eyes. “It’s… common?”
“Yes,” you said, smiling warmly. “Kids heal fast. He’ll be back to running around in no time. We’ll take good care of him.”
August’s wide eyes flicked between you and the team, his voice barely above a whisper. “Will… will it… be better?”
Ogilvie, eyes still fixed on the bone, let a smirk slip. “Well, it’s either that,” he said, "or we’ll have to cut it off.”
The room went dead silent. Panic bloomed across August’s face like wildfire, and you felt a pulse of dread kick up your pulse for a moment. Motherfucker… One of the nurses froze mid-motion, his hands hovering over instruments, eyes narrowing into a glare that could melt steel. Robby groaned beside you, dragging his hand down his face.
“Really?” he muttered, voice muffled by his palm. “Really?”
“I don’t want you to cut off my arm!” August shrieked, tears heaving down his cheeks in fresh waves. His mother leaned over, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing words as she tried to calm him.
Park stiffened beside you, that familiar sharp glare settling over the intern like a guillotine. You didn’t even bother to redirect it this time. “Out,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Ogilvie threw his hands up, eyes wide. “I was just—!”
“Out,” Park repeated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Ogilvie shot up, giving Robby one last helpless look. Robby’s arms were still crossed, his expression unreadable, but a subtle nod and a flick of his head toward the door sent the kid bolting. One last glance at Park, pale as if he’d seen a ghost, and then he was gone. You forced yourself to stay calm, though the urge to throttle the kid surged through you. Stepping forward, you crouched slightly to meet August’s trembling gaze.
“Hey,” you said softly, letting warmth thread through your words. “Hey, honey. Look at me. Big breaths. We’re not cutting anything off. He was just joking.”
“It wasn’t a funny joke,” the boy blubbered, clutching the stuffed bear to his chest like it could shield him from the world. His lip wobbled as he looked up at you, eyes wide and still glistening with tears.
“No, it wasn’t,” you agreed gently. “And I’m very sorry that he made it. But you are going to be just fine. The pins and surgery are just to help the bone heal straight.”
“I don’t want surgery,” he whimpered, voice barely audible over his hiccuping breaths.
“I know,” you said calmly, letting your tone hold steady even as your heart clenched. “But I promise, it will only be scary for a few minutes. You’ll get to take a fun ride upstairs in one of our big rolling beds, and one of my friends will give you some medicine to help you sleep. You’ll take a little nap, and when you wake up, your arm will be all fixed. Just like that.” You snapped your fingers lightly for emphasis. “And—I forgot to tell you the best part.”
August sniffled, hesitating. “What?”
You leaned in, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “You get to have a really cool cast.” His eyes widened. You added in a whisper, “And—you get to pick the color.”
“Really?” August’s voice cracked a little, hope threading through the tremor.
“Really, really,” you said, keeping your voice soft and steady. “What color would you like, Mr. August?”
His eyes lit up, a tiny spark breaking through the lingering fear. “Red and blue… like Spider-Man.”
“I think we can make that happen,” you said, smiling. You started to stand, then suddenly gasped and crouched back down, eyes wide with mock realization. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you the other best part.”
August blinked at you, sniffling but leaning in, curiosity mixed with lingering worry. “What other part?”
You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were about to share a top-secret plan. August’s eyes widened, leaning in too. “And when we’re all done,” you said in a showy whisper, “one of the nurses will bring you ice cream.”
His grin broke across his face immediately, and you straightened up, letting your own smile grow. “Chocolate or vanilla?” you asked, crouching just a little so you weren’t towering over him.
“Chocolate!” he said without hesitation.
“Oh, Mr. August,” you said, letting a laugh slip into your words, “I knew we were going to be friends.”
You finally stood fully, offering his mom a reassuring smile. She returned it, her shoulders relaxing slightly, and reached for your hand. You gave hers a quick, gentle squeeze.
“Thank you so much,” she said softly.
“Of course,” you replied. “We’ll get an OR prepped and have someone down to get you two in just a bit. Hang tight.”
You turned to Robby, peeling off your gloves with a practiced motion. He gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smile, and fell into step beside you as you made your way to the door.
“See you in a bit, Mr. August,” you said over your shoulder to the boy. He returned a small smile, but it faltered immediately.
“Wait!” he called, voice cracking with urgency. “Your bear!”
You stopped and turned back, grinning. “Can you hold onto him for me?” you asked. August’s face lit up, and he hugged the stuffed animal close to his chest again, nodding eagerly.
“Thanks, buddy,” you said softly, giving him a reassuring wink.
You turned back to the hallway, Robby at your side as the two of you headed toward the elevator, the faint sound of August’s quiet chatter to his bear trailing behind you.
“Not bad, Sunshine,” Robby said, his brown eyes warm as they tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips. You scoffed, shaking your head slightly, letting your gloves fall into the bin with a clatter.
“Not bad?” you echoed, arching a brow. “You need to get your med students under control. What kind of operation are you running down here, Robinavitch?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ignore that one. I think he’s a lost cause.”
You smirked, pumping sanitizer into your hands and working it over with exaggerated care, letting the scent of alcohol fill the air between you. Robby leaned casually against the wall across from you, arms crossed, and naturally fell into that rhythm you two always seemed to find down here. You didn’t mind. He was sweet enough—competent, confident, and, yes, annoyingly cute. Even if his reputation preceded him down every floor of the damn hospital and he was technically old enough to be your father. Harmless enough, you figured. You’d let Ran-Through Robby think he had a chance.
“I thought you’d already left us for Sin City?” he asked, raising a brow.
“Not until tomorrow,” you said, leaning slightly against the wall opposite him, matching his posture with a tilt of your shoulder. “You know, three days of lectures, networking events, slightly overpriced cocktails, and me pretending I’m paying attention while mostly planning my escape into the desert heat.” You gave him a half-smile. “Why, already missing me?”
Robby chuckled. “Oh, well, the ED certainly isn’t the same without your face down here to brighten it up, Sunshine.”
You arched a brow, letting the corner of your mouth twitch into a sly grin. “Hmm,” you said, letting your tone drip with playful mischief, “there’s enough room in my suitcase if you want to tag along and leave the circus behind for a few days.” You tilted your head, letting the implication hang in the air. “Might be a bit cozy, though.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not sure, Sunshine. Last time I was in Vegas, I got myself into enough trouble. Not sure I could manage any more.”
You pouted your bottom lip, feigning disappointment, letting your eyes glint just enough to make the tease stick. “Darn,” you murmured. “I like a little trouble.”
Robby’s smirk softened, amusement and something else—something sharper—sparkling in his eyes. “You do, huh?” he said, voice low.
“I might,” you murmured.
He chuckled again, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks, and opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but an arm slid cleanly between the two of you, long and deliberate, pressing the call button with a quiet, final click.
Park stepped in without a word, inserting himself into the space like he owned it, like there had never been room for anyone else to begin with. He filled the gap entirely, broad shoulders blocking out everything, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors as if neither of you had existed a second ago.
Robby pushed off the wall, clearing his throat, the moment snapping in half. “Park,” he said, giving a short nod.
“Robby,” Park replied evenly, not even glancing his way.
There was a long moment of quiet—awkward, clipped—before Robby looked back at you. “Safe travels, Sunshine,” he said, softer this time, before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants and heading back down the hall.
You watched him go for half a second too long before dragging your gaze back to the elevator, and straight into Park. Heat crept up your neck, irritation settling heavy in your gut. You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head slightly. Unbelievable.
Turning forward, you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, fixing your attention on your reflection in the elevator doors. Park’s stood beside yours—taller, broader, entirely too close—his presence bleeding into your space without apology like a shark catching the scent of blood in the water.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on the warped reflection of the two of you in the elevator doors.
“Obviously, you do,” Park replied without missing a beat. “You were downstairs for nearly fifteen minutes.”
You rolled your eyes, the motion exaggerated. “Oh my God. Fifteen whole minutes. Should we alert the board? Call a code? Should someone call the National Guard?”
His jaw ticked, that familiar flash of irritation tightening his expression. “I can’t afford having my surgeons off the floor that long. I’m not sending you downstairs to play, Sunshine.”
God, you hated when he called you that. A whole hospital of people called you nothing but that, yet he was the only one who managed to make it sound condescending. You huffed, shaking your head. The elevator doors slid open and you both stepped in, then stepped towards opposite sides of the elevator as the doors slid shut.
“It was a consult,” you said.
“It was excessive.”
“It was a scared kid,” you shot back, stepping just a fraction closer without thinking. “Sorry I didn’t rush him off to surgery fast enough for your schedule. God forbid I take an extra five minutes to not traumatize a kid.”
“And God forbid you keep it efficient,” he countered, arms crossing tighter over his chest. He finally looked at you and it hit like it always did, that stare. Too direct. Too aware.
You held it anyway. “You don’t get to dictate how I handle my patients.”
“I do when it affects my OR.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You can do that without disappearing.”
“I didn’t disappear,” you snapped. “I was doing my job.”
“And I’m doing mine.” The words landed between you, familiar and worn from repetition. You’d had this argument before—too many times to count. Same lines, same frustration. Different day. But neither of you stepped back. If anything, you drifted closer.
His eyes flicked over your face, quick but thorough, like he was cataloging something he didn’t want to name. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
The elevator hummed around you, too small, too quiet. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth before dragging back up. His shoulders shifted, like he was fighting the instinct to close the distance instead of hold it.
“You take too long,” he said finally, but the words had lost some of their bite.
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “And you hate that?”
“Yes.”
You tilted your head, stepping in just enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest. “Or you just hate not knowing what I’m doing?”
He didn’t say anything. His jaw worked, something tight and restrained flickering there, blue eyes fixed on you like he was trying to decide whether to argue. You turned to face him fully, crossing your arms again like it might steady you.
“You’re going to have to get used to it,” you said, keeping your voice cool, measured. “You’ve got a whole week of not having me under your microscope.”
Couldn’t come any fucking sooner.
His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened, tracking every shift in your expression like he was committing it to memory. You almost looked away. Almost. But then your eyes caught on it—a long, blonde hair clinging stubbornly to the dark fabric of his scrub top, just below his collar.
Your hand moved before you thought better of it. You stepped in, fingers brushing his chest as you plucked it free, the contact brief but not nearly brief enough. The heat of him bled through the thin material, solid and real and entirely too distracting. You stilled.
You became suddenly, acutely aware of it—of the way you had to tilt your head up, of the way his breath hitched just slightly, of how little space there actually was between you now. You held up the strand between your fingers, lifting a brow.
“Blondes, huh?” you said, voice quieter now, edged with something sharper than before. “I knew you were a walking, talking cliché, but c’mon, Park.”
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped—not to the hair—but to your hand, still hovering near his chest. Then slowly, deliberately, they dragged back up to your face, dragging over your lips before they finally met your eyes. His expression didn’t so much as twitch. Your pulse still kicked, sharp and sudden, like your body hadn’t gotten the memo to play it cool.
“Just keep it under five minutes,” he said, voice low—controlled—but there was something underneath it this time. Not irritation. Not quite. Something tighter, more strained. “Understood?”
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. He stepped out first, like he always did; decisive, controlled, already moving on before the moment could settle into anything real.
“I won’t have to get used to it,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I’m going with you.”
You blinked.
Um. No.
“What does that—”
“I’m attending.”
Your brain short-circuited.
Completely.
You just stood there for half a second too long, staring at his back as he walked down the hall like he hadn’t just upended your entire week.
“…No,” you said finally, pushing forward after him. “No, you’re not. Perez is attending.”
He didn’t even break stride. Didn’t turn. Just lifted a hand slightly, like he was waving off the correction.
“Was,” he said.
You scoffed, incredulous. “That’s not how that works.”
“Funny,” he shot back, voice carrying easily over his shoulder. “It is today.”
You quickened your pace, irritation flaring hot again. “You’re kidding.”
“Plans change, Sunshine.”
You stared at the back of his head like you could burn a hole through it. He kept walking before you could get another word in, already pivoting back into command mode like nothing had happened.
“Maricel,” he barked down the hall, not even slowing, “keep OR 3 open.”
Of course. You rolled your eyes immediately. Best sound system. God forbid the man operate without his curated playlist.
“You’ll get what I give you,” Maricel called back flatly from the desk, not even looking up.
He disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing in the elevator. The door slid shut, and you punched the 'open door' button before stepping out. You veered off before he could say anything else, making a beeline for the charge desk. “I need an OR,” you said, a little sharper than necessary.
Maricel finally glanced up, one brow arching, a knowing look flicking between you and Park’s retreating back. “Got a preference, Sunshine?”
You didn’t hesitate.
“Three."
You weren’t entirely sure why you had signed up to attend this conference in the first place.
Maybe it had been the timing. OSET landed in your inbox in the dead of winter, when Pittsburgh felt less like a city and more like an endurance test. The radiator in your apartment never quite did its job, the heat uneven and unreliable, and every morning your walk to work felt like a liability; one slick patch of ice away from ending up on your own team’s OR schedule that had you considering digging your skates out of whatever box in the living room they were still holding up residence in. You’d been curled up under your heated blanket the night the email rolled, laptop propped against your knees, trying to coax feeling back into your toes after a long shift when you emailed Gloria back a quick yes. At the time, the idea of dry heat and sunlight had felt like enough of a reason on its own.
And then there were your friends. A handful of your girls from med school had already been planning to go, their group chat lighting up the moment the conference dates dropped. Who, exactly, was going to say no to a week in Vegas—on the hospital’s dime, no less? The promise of familiar faces in a sea of strangers had tipped the scale just enough, made it feel less like a calculated career move and more like something you could actually enjoy. Or at least survive without overthinking every second of it.
Plus, if PTMC was willing to pay to send you across the country while you were still bleeding an ungodly amount of every paycheck into your fellowship, you weren’t about to argue. A convention center packed with networking opportunities while you were actively shopping for an attending pediatric orthopedic surgeon position was, objectively, a smart move. You knew that. You’d told yourself that more than once.
It seemed like a far less good idea when your first alarm went off at a quarter to four in the morning.
The sound cut through the dark like something violent, your phone buzzing angrily against the nightstand as if it had a personal vendetta against you. For a few disoriented seconds, you just stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what poor life choice had led you here. Then it clicked—Vegas, the flight, the conference—and a long, miserable groan dragged its way out of your chest as you rolled over and buried your face into your pillow.
It wasn’t that you weren’t a morning person. You just…weren’t a morning person. There was a reason you’d practically begged to be moved to nights; and why you kept asking every time Park shot you down like clockwork. Mornings required a version of you that felt vaguely fraudulent. You could fake it, sure—bright-eyed, composed, almost human—with enough caffeine and those painfully early Pilates classes you forced yourself into like some kind of penance. But this? This wasn’t that. This wasn’t a controlled, carefully curated start to your day. This was obscene.
Even worse, you weren’t just awake before the sun came up—you were awake before the sun came up waiting for Brendon fucking Park to pick you up from your apartment. He hadn’t even asked. No, sometime around nine the night before, you’d gotten a text from a number you didn’t have saved—short, blunt, and deeply unsettling in its lack of context. Be ready at 4:30. That was it. No greeting, no explanation, no question mark. Just a command, like something you’d find written on a scrap of paper in a true crime documentary right before things took a turn.
You’d stared at it for a solid thirty seconds before typing back who is this, already knowing the answer.
So now, instead of suffering through this ungodly hour alone like a normal person, you were doing it under the looming threat of him showing up outside your building at any second, undoubtedly awake, alert, and insufferably functional. The thought alone had something hot and irritated curling in your chest as you moved through your apartment, half-blind and fully bitter.
Your toiletry bag got shoved into your backpack with far more force than necessary. “Fuckin’ motherfucker…” you muttered under your breath, voice scratchy with sleep.
Your suitcase zipper caught halfway and you yanked it the rest of the way closed. “Son of a bitch…”
You hopped awkwardly on one foot, shimmying into your leggings in the dark because turning on a light felt like an act of violence at this hour. “Massive piece of dog shit…”
The litany continued, quiet and venomous, a steady stream of profanity that usually did a decent job of bleeding off your irritation. It was a system—crude, but effective. Except this time, it didn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it just made you more aware of the fact that you were exhausted, freezing, and about to spend the next several hours in close quarters with the one person who seemed to take a personal interest in making your life just a little bit harder than it needed to be.
And the worst part?
You were still going to be ready by 4:30. Because you loved a little schedule. Asshole.
By 4:25, there was a knock at your door. You froze, hand halfway to your bag, eyes flicking immediately to your phone where it sat dark and silent on the counter. No missed call. No here text. Nothing. In fact—your stomach dropped slightly—you hadn’t even sent him your address.
Your fingers stilled on the doorknob. Oh, great. Perfect. This was it. This was how you died. Not in some dramatic, high-stakes, Grey’s Anatomy-style OR complication, but brutally ax murdered in your own apartment at four-thirty in the morning by an ax murderer with impeccable timing. You slowly pulled your hand back, heart thudding just enough to be annoying, and leaned in to check the peephole.
…Not an ax murderer.
Worse.
Park stood on your doorstep like he belonged there, keys dangling loosely from one hand, looking entirely too awake for this hour. He was dressed down in a black Penguins hoodie and sweats, which felt fundamentally incorrect. Disruptive. Offensive, even. No, sir. You wear scrubs. You loom in sterile lighting. You do not show up on your doorstep dressed like a normal person. You yanked the door open, glaring up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Morning, Sunshine—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped immediately, already turning away from him and back into your dark apartment.
He huffed something that sounded suspiciously like amusement as he stepped inside without waiting to be asked, the door clicking shut behind him. “Not a morning person, huh?”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, already grabbing your bag and slinging it over yourself with more force than necessary. “No,” you said flatly. “I’m not. Which is why I requested to move to nights. Three times.” You turned fully then, fixing him with a pointed look. “And yet,” you added, voice edged with irritation, “somebody keeps denying that request.”
Park didn’t even have the decency to look sorry. You shoved your feet into your sneakers, tugging at the heels like they had suddenly decided to fight back. “Also,” you said, bracing yourself against the wall, “I didn’t give you my address.”
“Didn’t need it,” he said, eyes sweeping over the shadows of your apartment. “I drove you home after that staff dinner when you tried to walk. This is a terrible neighborhood.”
You snorted, crossing your arms. “There’s nothing wrong with this neighborhood. Pretty sure Abbot lived around here for a while.”
“He did,” Park said, almost too calmly. “Then he moved.”
You rolled your eyes, tugging your backpack over one shoulder. “It’s affordable, I can walk, and that dinner was seven months ago. Really, you don’t need to scope out my living situation like some kind of neighborhood vigilante.”
You reached for your suitcase, but it slid just slightly out of reach. Park caught it in one smooth motion, lifting it by the side handle like it weighed nothing and pivoting toward the stairs. You blinked at him, watching him descend the stairs two at a time. Dragging your carry-on behind you, you followed him down the old wood stairs, the steps groaning under your combined weight. You locked the door behind you, stepping out into the crisp cold. Snow drifted down softly, catching the glow from the parking lot lights. Park was already at his car, loading your suitcase into the trunk of his black Porsche Cheyenne. The hazards blinked steadily, cutting through the darkness like impatient eyes. You took a deep breath, forcing some warmth back into your lungs, and moved toward the car, mentally preparing yourself for the rest of this ungodly morning.
“I could have gotten that,” you snapped, reaching for your carry-on like it had been an affront to your dignity.
Park didn’t even flinch. He simply lifted that too, trunk-ready, and slammed it shut before you could argue further. “Flight leaves in two hours,” he said, pivoting toward the driver’s seat with the kind of casual authority that made your blood pressure spike.
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath, and swung open the passenger door. Sliding inside, you dropped your backpack at your feet, tugging the seat belt across yourself without looking at him. The car was… nice. Clean, warm, with that subtle, almost imperceptible smell of something expensive. You settled back into the seat as he pulled away from the curb, tires crunching lightly over the snow-dusted asphalt, the warmth seeping into your bones, and the silence settled over the car like a weight. Neither of you spoke. Streetlamps flickered past in pale rectangles, cutting slivers of light through the darkness, painting the snow and asphalt in strips of yellow light.
You stared out the window, trying not to think about how early it was, how many hours of this lay ahead, or the fact that you were trapped in a car with Park before you’d even had a proper cup of coffee. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was almost oppressive.
Realization hit suddenly, sharp and unrelenting. Your eyes went wide, and you shot forward for your bag, cursing under your breath as you dug through every pocket like a person possessed.
Park’s eyes flicked from the road to you, brow creasing in mild concern—or was it judgment? “Damn it,” you hissed, your voice low and dangerous.
“What?”
You rifled through the last pocket, fingers scraping against the lining, and hissed another sharp fuck before throwing your hands up in exasperation. “I forgot my Ambien,” you groaned, shoulders sagging.
“That’s it?”
“I can’t fly without it,” you said, letting a little more drama creep into your tone than was strictly necessary. Technically, you could—you could absolutely survive the flight awake, riding out turbulence like some anxious, jittery human metronome—but the alternative was less appealing. Spending your time in a giant, metal, flying toilet paper tube entirely conscious, fully aware that gravity could do whatever the hell it pleased at any moment? No thanks. You far preferred the sweet, oblivious mercy of unconsciousness.
Park glanced back at you again, lips twitching like he might be amused—or annoyed—or some infuriating combination of both. You ignored him, rifling through the bag like digging harder might magically produce the missing pill bottle. “Can you—?” you started, voice tight with exasperation.
“I’m not turning around,” he cut you off, eyes back on the road, one hand steady on the wheel.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he said, easing up to a red light. His tone was flat, unyielding, the kind of tone that made arguing feel like painting over wet cement. “Flight leaves in less than two hours. Order a drink on the plane and get over it.”
“Oh, is that your medical opinion, Doctor?” you asked, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
He didn’t even look up. Instead, he reached for his phone on the center console, eyes sliding to the screen. You leaned your head into your fist, staring out at the dark street ahead. He sighed, a low, deliberate sound, and rubbed his jaw once before his fingers started flying over the screen. Typing. Fast. You didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just let the silence stretch between the hum of the engine, the occasional swish of windshield wipers, and the quiet patter of snow against the windows.
His phone buzzed against the console the second he set it back down, the vibration jarring against the otherwise quiet car. He snatched it up, thumb punching the accept button, and lifted it to his ear.
“What, Lis?” he groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the free hand, voice low and tired in a way that made you almost feel guilty for your own exhaustion.
There was a pause as he listened, nodding—or at least pretending to. “Just put him back in bed, then. He’ll go back to sleep. He’s up because you’re up. Alright. Okay. Yeah. Love you too.”
You lifted your eyes from the road just long enough to glance over at him, a smirk tugging at your mouth.
“Is that your blonde?” you asked, aiming for light, teasing—but it landed somewhere a little tighter instead. You heard it the second it left you. Felt it, too, that small, unwelcome twinge pulling taut in your chest.
“It’s my sister,” Park said, like you were the stupid one for asking. And with the way that tightness loosened, your shoulders dropping, breath coming a touch easier—you figured maybe you were.
His thumb stilled on the screen before he set his phone back onto the charging pad and turned his attention toward the traffic light glowing red ahead. “She’s staying with Tank while I’m gone.”
“Tank?”
“My dog.”
You turned more fully in your seat at that. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
Or a sister, you added. The light cast sharp shadows across his face, cutting his features into angles and planes, all reds and dark edges. His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to the road, unreadable as ever. For a second, you thought he might just leave it there—another small, inconsequential detail about himself he’d let pass without explanation. Instead, he reached for his phone again without a word, tapping the screen awake before he held it out to you.
You took the phone from him, your fingers brushing against his—softer than you would’ve expected. Not rough, not calloused in the way you’d half imagined. It lingered for a fraction of a second too long to be nothing, too brief to be anything you could call out.
You weren’t sure what you expected when you looked down at the screen. Something big, probably. Intimidating. A pitbull, maybe. A Rottweiler. Something that matched the Doberman of a man sitting beside you, all sharp edges and controlled restraint in a way people pretended was impressive.
Instead, a squat, sleek black French bulldog stared back at you from the photo, perched proudly on what looked like a leather couch. His ears were too big for his head, big bug eyes wide and fixed on the camera, and his underbite—God, his underbite—was so profoundly, spectacularly fucked that it looked like he was smiling.
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, almost light and unguarded as you held Park’s phone back out to him. “He’s cute.”
“He’s fucking adorable, that’s what he is,” Park corrected, something almost defensive edging into his tone, like you’d somehow undersold him. You glanced at him as he took the phone back, catching the way his mouth tightened just slightly, like he meant it. Like that mattered.
“Right,” you murmured, a hint of a grin still pulling at your lips. “My mistake.”
He set the phone back down just as the light turned green, the car rolling forward smoothly. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the quiet settling back in—but it didn’t feel the same as before. Not as sharp. Not as brittle.
“Adorable,” you echoed, softer now, like you were humoring him. But your mouth hadn’t quite lost its smile. Your gaze drifted back to the road, but your thoughts didn’t follow. You tried to fight it—really, you did—but a snorted giggle slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
“You have a tiny, gremlin-looking dog,” you said finally, unable to help yourself.
Park huffed, low and unimpressed. “He’s not tiny.”
“He’s objectively tiny.”
“He’s compact,” he shot back. “Little guy is a fuckin’ unit.”
You glanced over again, something softer threading through your curiosity now, nudging at the edges of something you hadn’t expected to feel. “Does he sleep in your bed?”
Park didn’t answer right away. When you looked at him, really looked this time, you caught it—the hesitation. Small. Almost imperceptible. Gone as quickly as it came.
“…Sometimes,” he said.
Your smile deepened, slow and knowing, as you turned back to the road.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I bet he does.”
The car fell into silence again. Snow feathered at the edges of the windshield, fluttering in the swish of the wipers.
“He’s… not what I expected,” you admitted, glancing up at him.
Park didn’t look over, but you caught it anyway—that faint shift at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of something almost smug, almost pleased.
“Yeah,” he said, voice even. “He gets that a lot.”
Then, quieter, almost like you couldn’t help yourself: “You don’t really seem like a dog person.”
His gaze slid over to you again, slower this time, lingering just a fraction longer than before. Blue eyes sharpened, but not unkindly; curious, maybe. Measuring.
“Yeah?” he said.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of the way you were angled toward him, the way the car felt smaller than it had a minute ago. “No,” you corrected, softer now. “I guess… I just didn’t know you like that.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said.
It shouldn’t have landed the way it did. He was right—you didn’t. You’d been telling yourself for months that you were more than okay with that. You didn’t need to know a damn thing about him. But it did. The teasing slipped, just a little. Your expression softened, something quieter taking its place as you studied him for a beat longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” you said, turning back toward the windshield, your voice lighter but not quite the same. “That’s kind of my point.”
“We have an hour until we need to be at the gate.”
“I know, Park.”
“If you knew, you would have had your ID out before we got to—.”
You turned into him, a solid wall of man at your side, sneaker dangling from your fingers like a loaded weapon. For a split second, you seriously considered swinging. Just once. Not hard—just enough to knock that edge out of his voice. You were a big girl. You had flown before. Many times, actually, without a six-foot-something human countdown clock glued to your shoulder like you were about to miss a combat extraction instead of a commercial flight.
Because that’s what this had been since the second you stepped out of his car in the parking garage. A countdown. An invisible, ticking clock hovering over your head that only Brendon fucking Park could apparently see.
He’d shoved your suitcase into your hand without breaking stride, already halfway to the elevators. “Hour and a half, Sunshine.” Like you hadn’t read the same boarding pass he had. Like you didn’t know how time worked. And then security, where your fatal mistake had been not having your ID physically in hand the exact second you stepped into line. The sigh he let out could have powered the entire terminal as he stepped around you like you were a traffic cone. “Hour fifteen.”
You had bit your tongue so hard you were pretty sure you tasted blood.
Now you were half-dressed, half-undressed, balancing on one socked foot while yanking your hoodie over your head, your other shoe clenched in your fist like a threat you hadn’t decided whether to follow through on. Families shuffled around you, kids whining, bins clattering, a TSA agent barking instructions, and through all of it—him. Calm. Efficient. Already through half the process, watchful in that infuriating way that suggested he thought you might somehow spontaneously combust if left unsupervised for thirty seconds.
“I swear to God,” you muttered, dragging your hoodie free and shooting him a look, “if you say the time one more time, I’m going to make us miss this flight on purpose.”
That got his attention. His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, which almost made it worse—and his gaze flicked down to the sneaker still hanging from your hand before coming back up to your face. Measured. Assessing. Like he was recalculating something.
“Move it or lose it, Sunshine.”
You snapped your head toward him, glare sharp enough to cut, your ID clenched between your teeth because apparently that was the only way to keep from forgetting it and earning another running commentary on the passage of time. He caught the look and just shook his head like you were proving a point he’d already made, dropping his laptop into a bin with practiced ease before sliding it forward.
God, he was insufferable.
You were juggling entirely too many things—your bag slipping down your shoulder, your sweatshirt wadded in one arm, your carry-on handle digging into your palm—while the line inched forward and the air pressed heavy and warm against your skin. The thin strap of your tank clung to your shoulder uncomfortably, and you could feel the impatient stare of the woman behind you burning into the back of your neck like you were personally responsible for the slowdown of the entire TSA operation.
Bin. Right. You needed a bin.
“Jesus,” you mumbled around your ID, shifting your weight as you tried to reach for one without dropping everything you owned in front of a crowd of strangers. You managed about two seconds of balance before your sweatshirt started slipping and your bag followed, your grip faltering—
A bin clattered down directly in front of you. Warm fingers brushed yours—quick, firm, gone just as fast—as Park reached past you like this was routine, like you were just another task on his list to manage. He took the handle of your carry-on from your hand without asking, hoisting it up onto the conveyor belt in one smooth motion and shoving it forward.
You straightened, a little stunned, watching him. He didn’t look at you. Just grabbed your bag next, dropped it into the bin with a dull thud, and pushed it along before stepping away like none of it had required a second thought. Like you hadn’t been one second away from unraveling in front of half the terminal. And then he was moving, already halfway to the scanners, already ahead of you again, like you were expected to keep up. You stood there for half a beat too long, your fingers still tingling where they’d brushed his, irritation and something else, something far more inconvenient, twisting low in your chest.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, yanking your ID from your mouth and tossing your sweatshirt into the bin a little harder than necessary before hurrying after him.
You made it through the scanner without setting anything off—small victories—and followed the broad line of his back like it was something to aim for, weaving through the shuffle of bodies toward the end of the conveyor. The bins clattered out one after another, plastic knocking against plastic in a steady rhythm.
Park reached down, grabbing both carry-ons before they’d fully cleared the rollers, sliding yours toward you without a word. You caught the handle automatically, your fingers brushing the worn grip just as he was already moving on, tugging his black Penguins hoodie from the bin and dragging it back over his head in one smooth motion.
The hem of his shirt lifted with it. Just for a second. A flash of skin; warm, solid, distracting in a way that hit a little too fast and a little too low in your chest. You looked away almost immediately, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, heat creeping up your neck as you reached for your own things with far more focus than necessary.
God. Get it together.
Your bin came through next—phone, shoes, your sweatshirt half spilling over the side. You grabbed for it, stepping slightly out of the main flow of traffic. Then you frowned. There was a gap. A noticeable one. Your bag wasn’t there.
Your brows pulled together as your gaze flicked down the line, tracking the slow crawl of bins still making their way out. For a second, you thought maybe you’d missed it—maybe it had already come through and you’d been too busy not staring at Park to notice.
But no. There it was, still sitting back near the mouth of the scanner, off to the side. Not moving. A TSA agent stepped toward it at the same time, pulling it aside with a practiced motion that made something in your chest tighten. You sighed, your shoulders sinking as the TSA agent hoisted your bag over his head like he’d just reeled it in off the coast somewhere.
“Bag check!” he called, loud enough to turn a few heads.
Of course. Your iPad—still zipped up where you’d left it in the electronics pocket of your bag. Of fucking course.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, already knowing exactly what he was going to find before the zipper even opened. You’d had that nagging feeling in the back down the line like you’d forgotten something, but Park had been rushing you along, tossing out time checks like you were personally responsible for holding up the entire aviation industry. And now here you were. Of course it was electronics. Of course it was you.
Another agent swooped in, taking your bag from his hands and carrying it toward the inspection tables like it might start ticking at any second. He held it between two fingers, arm extended, like your carefully packed snacks and tangled chargers were a direct threat to national security. You dragged your hoodie back over your head like maybe, if you covered enough of your face, you could pretend you weren’t the problem child of the security line. Beside you, Park snorted.
“First day on Earth?” he asked, already finished repacking his own things. His bag zipped shut cleanly, effortlessly, before he swung it over his shoulder, the weight of it hitting his back with a dull thud.
You shot him a look, deadpan and unimpressed. “I hope you get randomly strip searched.”
He smirked, entirely too pleased with himself as he slipped back into his shoes. “I bet you do, Sunshine.”
God, you hated him.
“This yours?” the agent called, dumping your bag onto the counter like the concern it might explode had evaporated completely.
Park didn’t even hesitate. He shook his head, that stupid, smug little smirk still firmly in place as he lifted a hand and pointed right over your head. “All her,” he called back.
The agent gave a short nod, waiting just long enough for you to confirm before he started digging through your bag like it was a Christmas present and he’d been promised something good at the bottom. Your phone and shoes had barely made it down the conveyor belt before he paused, rifling a little deeper.
“Ma’am?”
You looked up, already bracing yourself to see your iPad held aloft like a teaching moment. Maybe a mildly condescending gesture toward the giant sign you’d ignored. Something survivable. Something normal.
Instead—
Oh.
Oh no.
Clutched in his gloved hand, held up with all the bored indifference of someone who had absolutely seen worse for God and your boss to see, was a very pink, very unmistakable piece of plastic you had buried at the bottom of your bag for a reason. Your entire face went hot in an instant.
What if I died? What I just laid down and died right here in the middle of PIT? What then?
“All electronics out of the bag,” the agent said flatly, like this was just another Tuesday, as he dropped your vibrator into its own bin and waved for a rescan.
“Yep,” you squeaked, fingers pressing hard into your cheeks like you could physically force the heat back down. The bin slid away, along with it your dignity. "Sorry."
A couple quiet chuckles rippled through the line behind you—just enough to make it worse—and you stared straight ahead, refusing to look anywhere, especially not to your right.
“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath.
“I didn’t say a thing,” Park replied immediately, delight practically dripping off every syllable. You didn’t have to look to know exactly what his face looked like.
God, you hated him so much.
You rolled your eyes, tugging your hair free from the neckline of your hoodie before bending down to grab your shoes out of the gray bin. You tossed it into the stack with a sharp clatter—louder than it needed to be, but you didn’t particularly care right now.
“Dallas doesn’t require you to take anything out,” you snapped, irritation still clinging to your voice as you dropped your sneakers onto the cool tile. The memory came back uninvited—walking through security for your last interview like a normal, competent adult. Shoes on. iPad buried in your bag. Your very unenhanced driver’s license waved through without a second glance. No alarms, no bag checks, no public humiliation. Granted, the interview itself had been a complete dumpster fire—but at least TSA hadn’t been part of the problem. You shoved your foot into one shoe, heel catching awkwardly as you kept talking. “Not my fault that every airport in America has its own rules. It’ll take a minute—just wait for me—”
You straightened, already reaching for your other shoe, and froze.
And… he was gone.
You blinked, scanning the crowd before your eyes caught the familiar line of his shoulders disappearing through the security runoff, already halfway toward the A Gates like he hadn’t just left you mid-sentence. Like you weren’t standing there with one shoe half on and your dignity still rolling through the scanner. Your mouth fell open for a second before you huffed, dragging your second shoe on a little harder than necessary.
“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, shoving your foot down and yanking the heel into place.
By the time you grabbed your bag and shouldered it, he was fully swallowed by the crowd. Not even a glance back. Not even the courtesy of pretending he might wait. You tightened your grip on the strap, irritation simmering as you started after him.
Fine. If he wanted to play it like that, he could find his own way to the gate.
Shit—what gate were you even going to?
The bin came rolling through the scanner, and your cheeks somehow kept burning as another agent picked it up and carried it back to you like it was a plated entrée at a five-star restaurant instead of the public execution of your dignity. He set it down with a polite little nod, like this had all been perfectly routine, and stepped away leaving you to deal with the aftermath.
You moved fast. Stuffing everything back into your bag with none of the care you’d packed it with, shoving cords and devices wherever they’d fit, not even bothering to recreate whatever fragile organization system you’d had before. You zipped it shut, yanked the handle of your carry-on up, and deliberately avoided eye contact with one of the agents who had been just a little too interested in your bag’s contents.
Yeah. No. Absolutely not, buddy.
You merged into the flow of foot traffic, letting the movement of the crowd swallow you whole as you put as much distance between yourself and security as physically possible. The terminal buzzed around you—rolling suitcases rattling over tile, low conversations blending together, the occasional sharp crackle of the PA system calling out last boarding for flights and the names of passengers about to get left behind.
Gate. You needed your gate.
You fished your phone out as you walked, thumbing it awake, scanning for your boarding pass—and then immediately got distracted the second you spotted a Starbucks just off to your right.
The line alone was enough to make you reconsider your entire existence. It wrapped around the small storefront, spilling into the terminal—stressed-out moms wrangling kids, businessmen pacing with garment bags and speakerphone calls they absolutely should have taken somewhere else, a couple of college girls half-asleep and clinging to each other like they might fall over.
Yeah. Hard pass. You veered toward the mobile order counter instead, parking yourself beside it and resting your elbow against the handle of your carry-on while you pulled up the app. Your fingers moved quickly, muscle memory kicking in as you built your order, anything to salvage what was left of this morning.
“I’ve got an iced black coffee for Brendon,” a barista called out.
You glanced up automatically and immediately dropped your gaze back to your phone like you’d touched a hot stove when his arm brushed against yours. You pressed your lips together, thumb hovering over the screen as you fought the urge to roll your eyes. Park moved past you like he hadn’t just witnessed—and contributed to—the slow, public unraveling of your dignity. He stepped up to the counter and took the cup from the barista with an easy nod, completely unbothered.
Naturally.
You focused very hard on your phone. On literally anything else. On the Starbucks app still open in front of you, on the order you hadn’t even finished placing, on the reflection of your own very flushed face staring back at you in the black screen. You could feel it when he paused—feel his eyes on you, dragging over your general state of disarray like he was taking inventory. The wrinkled hoodie. The hastily packed bag. The lingering humiliation you hadn’t quite managed to shake.
“B-13,” he said, stepping past you like it was nothing. “Gate just changed.”
“I know,” you muttered, not looking up.
You did not know. But fuck him—he didn’t need to know that. Your thumb immediately swiped out of the Starbucks app, opening your airline app with a speed that probably gave you away anyway. Boarding pass. Gate. Notifications. You toggled them on like that might somehow solidify your lie. Behind you, he let out a quiet, disbelieving huff—half snort, half laugh—as he kept walking. You stared at your screen for a second longer than necessary, jaw tightening. Whatever. You were a big girl. You could take care of yourself, even if airports were practically backroom-cess-pools that defied social norms and normal space-time conventions.
You scrolled through your order one last time, even though you already knew exactly what it said. Same drink since high school. Same modifications. Every time. Maybe you’d order it hot every once in a while just to spice things up. Your thumb hovered over submit, hesitating for no real reason.
“I’ve got that second drink for Brendon!”
The barista slid the cup onto the counter in front of you where it sat innocently. Unassuming in the sea of plastic and paper cups surrounding it. Noticeably lighter than the one he’d grabbed earlier like it was the only acceptable form of caffeine. It was the same pale, sugary shade he made fun of every morning. The same drink he rolled his eyes at when you walked in with it, or when some poor intern showed up balancing a tray of coffees and a shy Venmo request you always paid double on to cover both your drink and theirs. He always had something to say; muttering under his breath about sugar, about calories, about what counted as real coffee like you were single handedly destroying coffee culture.
Your grip tightened slightly around your phone. No. You looked back down, tapping the screen like nothing had happened, like this was all perfectly normal. Total coincidence. It had to be. There were a thousand variations of Brendon in this airport alone—Brandon, Brendan, Brennon—statistically, one of them was bound to have questionable taste in coffee as you did.
The barista glanced at you again from further down the counter, like they were waiting. Then, louder this time—
“I’ve got a—” they paused, checking the cup before they called out your coffee order again. Your thumb slowly lowered away from the screen.Your eyebrows pulled together as you reached forward, fingers brushing the cool plastic. You turned the cup just enough to read the label, the ink already starting to blur where the condensation had soaked through.
Brendon P.
Item: 2 of 2.
You stilled. Your eyes dragged down the list automatically—ingredient by ingredient, modification by modification—right down to the extra shot you only added on mornings that felt a little more brutal than usual.
“Oh.”
The sound slipped out before you could stop it, quiet and a little too soft. Something traitorous fluttered low in your chest, unwelcome and inconvenient and absolutely not something you had time to unpack right now. You slid the cup toward you anyway.
“Thanks,” you mumbled to the barista, already backing out of the app, your thumb moving quickly as you canceled your order before it could go through.
Your grip tightened slightly around the cup as you exhaled, steadying yourself before you turned, already scanning the terminal for the familiar line of his shoulders disappearing into the crowd.
God.
You hated him.
Which would’ve been a lot easier if he wasn’t making it so difficult.
Your flight wasn’t delayed once. Or twice. Not even three times.
No—four. Alaska Airlines had managed to string you along through four separate delays, which at this point felt personal. Impressively personal, actually. You’d been fucked so many times over the last nine hours you were considering sending them a thank-you note for being the most action you’d gotten in months.
By the time you finally boarded, you were past the point of irritation and somewhere deep into a bone-deep, soul-level exhaustion. You’d had enough—enough caffeine to make your hands twitch, enough overpriced airport food to qualify as a financial regret, and enough reruns of Friends on your laptop that you were starting to mouth the lines along with them while you read through journals on your iPad. Ross had said “we were on a break” so many times you were beginning to question your own relationships.
And God, Park.
If you never heard that man’s playlist again, it would still be too soon. Three different gates, three different boarding announcements ripped away at the last second, and through all of it, you’d been subjected to his absolutely criminal mix of bass-heavy EDM and early-2000s hip hop blasting just loud enough to bleed through his headphones as he worked on his laptop across from you. It was the kind of music that made you wonder if he’d ever emotionally progressed past a frat basement, and it wasn't looking likely.
The last boarding had been a tease—standing in line, bags in hand, only to be herded back off the plane because some teenager couldn’t figure out a tray table situation and yanked it straight out of the seat. You hadn’t even questioned it. Just turned around with the rest of the defeated masses, too tired to be angry anymore.
So when your ass finally hit the seat for real, you didn’t hesitate.
Seatbelt could wait. Safety briefing could wait. Personal growth could wait.
You dug into your bag, cracked open the overpriced Benadryl you’d panic-bought at one of the airport kiosks, and tossed it back dry, chasing it with the last lukewarm sip of whatever coffee you’d been nursing since Gate Number Two.
You slumped into your seat, eyes already going heavy, vaguely aware of Park shifting beside you, probably about to say something insufferable. You didn’t give him the chance. Not this time. If Alaska Airlines wanted to drag you through hell four times over, fine. You were going to sleep through the fifth. The Hat Man cometh.
You were asleep before the plane even finished taxiing.
Or—something like sleep. That floaty, heavy-limbed, chemically-assisted descent where your thoughts got slow and sticky and your body stopped belonging to you in any meaningful way. The Benadryl hit fast, dragging you under in a way that felt less like rest and more like being gently knocked out.
The last thing you remembered was turning your head slightly—just enough to glance at Park and see how ridiculous he looked.
Folded into that too-small airplane seat like a man twice his size, long legs splayed out into the limited space like he owned it, shoulders hunched slightly forward. His headphones were still on, whatever godawful mix he’d been playing earlier bleeding faintly through—loud enough that you were pretty sure it qualified as a medical concern at this point. You watched him for a second too long, eyes heavy, brain slow, thinking vaguely that no one should look that put together and kinda cute while simultaneously looking that uncomfortable before the antihistamines pulled you under.
You came back all at once.
The violent jolt of the plane hitting the tarmac ripped you straight out of whatever drugged-out haze you’d been floating in, your body jerking upright with a sharp inhale. Your hand moved on instinct, grabbing blindly for something steady, fingers closing around the firm muscle of his thigh through his sweats. Your head popped off something solid—warm—and it took your brain a sluggish second to catch up enough to realize what it had been resting on.
His shoulder.
“Ah, motherfucker!” you breathed, voice thick with sleep and panic.
Park turned his head, already looking at you.
You froze.
There was a beat—one long, horrible, clarifying second—where your brain finally caught up to your body, fully registering the situation: your head had been on him. Your hand was on his leg. You were half-wrapped in a blanket like you’d made yourself at home. You yanked your hand back like you’d been burned.
“Sorry,” you muttered quickly, dragging yourself upright, pushing hair out of your face like that might somehow reset the last thirty seconds. “I—uh. Plane.”
Brilliant. Really articulate.
He didn’t say anything right away, just watched you for a second longer than was comfortable, something unreadable flickering across his face before he finally looked away again, like it hadn’t been a thing at all. Which somehow made it worse.
The Uber ride to the hotel was… not better.
If anything, it was worse.
The car was silent; that too thick kind of quiet that wasn’t actually quiet—too full of awareness, of every small movement and shift. You sat on your side of the backseat, angled slightly toward the window, watching the blur of streetlights streak past while the remnants of the Benadryl fog clung stubbornly to your brain.
Park sat beside you, too close in the way that backseats forced, one arm braced loosely against the door, the other resting on his thigh and you were suddenly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you.
The driver did not pick up on vibes.
Or if he did, he ignored them completely.
Because the second you pulled away from the airport, he started talking, and did not stop. Not for traffic, not for breath, not for the thick, weird silence hanging in the backseat like something fragile neither of you wanted to touch.
“Picked up all kinds, man,” he said, glancing at you both through the rearview mirror like you were co-conspirators in his life story. “Celebrities, athletes—can’t name names, you know how it is—but you’d recognize ‘em.”
By the time he got to the story about picking up two showgirls in full costume—feathers, heels, the whole production—you were at least mildly entertained, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself.
Outside the window, the city started to change. It didn’t happen all at once—just a slow build of light and movement until suddenly it was there. The Strip blinked into existence like something unreal, all neon and glass and excess, glowing against the dark like it had something to prove. You straightened a little without meaning to.
Your eyes tracked everything—massive hotels stacked on top of each other in glittering layers, crowds spilling onto sidewalks, lights flashing in colors that didn’t exist in real life. It was loud even through the glass, chaotic in a way that felt… alive.
The Bellagio came into view just as the water shot up into the air, lit from below, moving in smooth, sweeping arcs that felt choreographed even without the music. It was extravagant and theatrical and completely over the top… and you loved it a little.
A faint smile tugged at your mouth, softening something in your face that had been tight all day. You’d never been here. Had always meant to, in the abstract way people mean to do things when life isn’t so busy. But life was busy. School, work, rotations; there had always been something more important than a weekend in Vegas. Even the bachelorette parties had come and gone without you, until eventually your name stopped making the list. Too busy, too unreliable. Too something. Too late now to care about that, you supposed.
“First time?” the driver asked.
“Yeah,” you said, still watching the water fall back into place like it had never moved at all.
“Ah, you picked a good week for it. Little crazy, but that’s Vegas.”
Crazy felt about right.
Park hadn’t said much since you got in the car. No music, no commentary—just there beside you, solid and quiet in a way that felt deliberate now. Like he was choosing it. You shifted slightly, the movement small but noticeable in the confined space. Your knee brushed his for half a second before you pulled it back, gaze fixed a little too hard on the passing hotels like they required your full attention.
PTMC had at least done one thing right. The hotel came into view not long after—tall, polished, and unmistakably expensive in that understated, corporate way. Connected to the convention center, of course. Convenient. Practical. Very on brand. You exhaled quietly through your nose as the car slowed, fingers tightening briefly around the edge of your bag.
Not exactly the Vegas you’d imagined. But it would do.
By the time the Uber rolled to a stop under the glowing overhang of the hotel entrance, you were done in a way that went past tired and straight into something feral. It was well past midnight, and you could already feel the countdown ticking toward the alarm you’d have to set in… what, five hours now? Maybe less by the time you actually got upstairs. Your skin felt like it still belonged to the airport; sticky, stale, overhandled. All you wanted was a shower hot enough to burn the day off your skin and a bed. A quiet room. A door you could shut. Preferably one that did not include Brendon Park breathing in your immediate vicinity.
Park unfolded himself out of the backseat like he hadn’t just been crammed in there for the last twenty minutes, already halfway to the trunk before the driver even got out. By the time your feet hit the pavement, he had both bags in hand and was striding toward the entrance with that same long, efficient pace that made it feel like he existed on a different timeline than everyone else. You watched him go for half a beat, then sighed and followed at your own pace, bag dragging behind you. You didn’t bother trying to catch up. Let him win the imaginary race. You were too tired to play. Run, Shark Boy, run.
By the time you made it inside, he was already at the front desk. The lobby glowed bright around you, still thrumming with life and movement at the late hour. Polished in that sterile, expensive way that made you feel underdressed no matter what you were wearing.
You stepped up to the receptionist beside him, forcing yourself into something resembling alertness. “Hi,” you said, offering the receptionist a tired smile. “Reservation under—” you gave your last name.
Her fingers tapped across the keyboard. Pause.
A slight crease formed between her brows.
“I’m not seeing anything under that name.”
Of course you weren’t.
You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Okay—try Underwood?”
More typing. Another pause.
“Mm… I’m not seeing that one either.”
Fantastic.
“Hold on,” you muttered, already turning slightly, your attention shifting to Park. He was mid-conversation with the receptionist on his side of the counter—and from the look on his face, it wasn’t going well.
“…What do you mean one room?” he was saying, voice low but edged, the kind of controlled irritation that somehow carried more weight than if he’d just raised it. You knew that one. It usually ended up with a nurse being thrown out of an OR and crying in your office. “There were supposed to be two bookings.”
“I apologize, sir,” the receptionist said, that practiced, unshakable calm firmly in place. “It looks like only one room was reserved under your company’s block. And unfortunately, we are fully booked for double queens this evening.”
You felt your stomach drop.
Oh, absolutely fucking not.
She continued, undeterred. “However, we do have you in a single king—and for the inconvenience, we’ve upgraded you to one of our suites at no additional charge.”
Like that was supposed to fix anything.
Park let out a quietly, disbelieving breath, that steely stare fixed on the woman behind the counter. You watched her smile waver. “Great,” he said flatly. “Then give us a suite with two beds.”
“The best we can offer with the hotel being overbooked is a single king—”
“Overbooked?” he cut in, voice sharp enough that the woman behind the desk visibly stiffened. “Then what’s the fucking point of making a reservation if you can’t keep the—”
“Sir.”
“Park.”
The way you said his name wasn’t loud, but it stopped the whole thing cold. His head turned toward you, dark eyes cutting across the counter where you stood beside him. The irritation was still there—etched into the tight line of his mouth, sitting heavy in his shoulders like he was about to launch into round two—but the rest of the sentence died on his tongue. For one blessed second, he shut up. Maybe God was merciful after all.
“It’s not her fault,” you muttered, your voice rougher now but pointed away from the poor woman behind the desk. “She didn’t book the room. The hospital did. Gloria probably booked one room to save a few bucks—she did the same shit to Robby and Abbot when they went to that conference in Boston last year. Quit being a dick.”
You rubbed a hand down your face, dragging your palm over the thin, greasy film of travel that still clung stubbornly to your skin. Your brain felt like it had been left somewhere in Pennsylvania airspace, rattling around after six hours spent in a metal death tube thirty thousand feet in the air next to the most insufferable man in the world and his entirely obnoxious, retired-frat-boy-turned-ortho-bro playlist. All you wanted was a shower hot enough to erase the last several hours and about ten minutes of unconsciousness that didn’t involve a tray table digging into your ribs.
Instead, you were standing in the lobby of some absurdly expensive Vegas hotel while he argued with a receptionist who clearly hated her life already. Which, unfortunately, was extremely on brand. You got enough of that tone at work, listening to him snap at surgical interns who so much as breathed wrong in his direction.
The lobby lights were too bright. Everything smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and someone’s aggressively expensive cologne. Somewhere behind you, a slot machine chimed in the distance like Vegas itself was laughing at you. You shot your attending one last sharp look before you dug out your ID and turned back to the counter, flashing the receptionist a tired smile that felt about three hours older than your actual face.
“It’s fine,” you sighed, lifting a hand without even looking as Park inhaled to start up again. Your palm landed squarely in his line of sight. “We’ll make it work. Thank you.”
There was a tiny beat of breath behind you, but you could feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. Then, very quietly, he hissed, “Did you just—”
“Yes,” you said, still smiling at the receptionist as she slid the key cards across the counter. “I did. Hush.”
Park made a low, disbelieving sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, like he couldn’t decide if he was offended or impressed. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lean back slightly, arms crossing over his chest, but—miraculously—he stayed quiet. The receptionist looked relieved enough that you almost felt bad for her.
“Elevators are to your left,” she said quickly. “Enjoy your stay.”
You took the key cards, murmured another thank you, and turned, grabbing the handle of your suitcase before Park could start in at her again. The lobby noise washed back in around you—rolling suitcases, distant slot machines, someone laughing too loudly at the bar. You’d made it about five steps before he spoke again.
“One bed.”
You didn’t slow. “Congratulations on your observational skills.”
“You’re fucking kidding.” He caught up easily, longer stride eating the distance like you weren’t running on fumes and airport pretzels. “They have a whole building full of beds and somehow we get one.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Gloria’s gonna hear about this.”
You hit the elevator button harder than necessary. “Lucky her,” you said, crossing your arms and watching your reflection smear faintly across the polished metal of the elevator doors. The lighting in here was unforgiving—too bright, too clean, showing every ounce of travel fatigue you felt down to your bones.
Park loomed beside you, his broad frame towering over your own, the fabric of his hoodie stretched tight across his shoulders like the thing had given up trying to contain him. You kept your eyes forward, stubbornly focused on your own tired expression instead of the fact that he was standing close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
And smell him.
How the fuck did he smell so good after a cross-country flight?
Sharp cologne, clean somehow, like he hadn’t just spent hours folded into an airplane seat. You took a small half step away before you could do something profoundly stupid like lean closer just to figure it out.
He exhaled slowly through his nose beside you, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, clearly trying—and failing—not to stay annoyed.
“You look like you’re about to pass out standing up,” he said finally, glancing sideways at you.
“I might,” you said flatly. “If you keep arguing, I definitely will.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like a smile that didn’t quite commit.
“Not much of a flier?”
You turned your head just enough to give him a look. “Did I not make that clear in the—oh, I don’t know—million times I said that at the airport?” you asked sweetly.
The elevator hummed upward between floors, quiet except for the soft whir of the cables and the faint casino noise bleeding through the walls. For a second, neither of you said anything. Which, honestly, might’ve been the most peaceful moment you’d had since boarding the plane.
You let your head tip back briefly against the wall. “Next time the hospital wants me at a conference in Vegas, I’m sending a cardboard cutout.”
“Next time,” he said dryly, “I’m booking the rooms myself.”
You cracked one eye open. “Please do. I’d love to see you try to out-argue an entire hotel chain.”
That almost got a real smile out of him. Almost. At least, as close to one as someone could get out of Brendon Park. You smiled faintly to yourself, listening to the quiet mechanical whir of the elevator climbing floor by floor—the soft rush of air conditioning, the muted hum of music somewhere in the walls. For a moment it almost felt still.
Park leaned back against the wall beside you, shifting his weight, and his bicep brushed your arm. It was probably accidental.
“You take the bed,” he said after a second, like he’d already decided it. “I’ll take the couch. Or I’ll call down and see if they can send a rollaway up.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Wow. Such a gentleman.” He didn’t respond to that immediately, just glanced down at you with that unimpressed look you’d know anywhere.
“And have to listen to you bitch about your back all week?” you added. “No thanks.”
That earned a quiet huff of amusement out of him, the sound low in his chest. “What do you recommend then?” he asked.
You shrugged, pushing off the wall slightly. “It’s a big enough bed. We can just share.”
He scoffed immediately. “No.”
You turned your head, eyebrow lifting. “What?” You bumped your shoulder into him—except with the height difference it landed somewhere around the middle of his bicep instead, which only made it more annoying.
“Never been to sleepaway camp before?” you said. “They taught us how to turn a sheet into a sleeping bag at Girl Scout camp. I’ll show you. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
That finally made him look down at you properly. There was a moment where he just stared, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious or if you were messing with him again.
“Girl Scout survival techniques,” he said slowly. “That’s your plan.”
“Works every time.”
“You’re not serious.”
“What?” you said, forcing a little grin that was probably doing too much. “Worried I might snore? I’ll have you know, I’ve gotten pretty rave reviews from my previous sleepover partners.”
The words caught up with your brain about a second too late. You snapped your mouth shut so hard your teeth clicked as you realized what you had said and who you had so stupidly said it to. Heat flooded your face so fast it felt like your ears might start steaming. God—why did you have to be cursed with this dumbass mouth?
Out of the corner of your eye, Park stiffened just a fraction beside you. It was subtle, the kind of thing most people probably wouldn’t notice. But you did. He went still in that controlled way he had, shoulders squared, arms still crossed like he’d locked himself there. His sharp eyes stayed forward, fixed on the elevator doors like they were the most interesting thing in the building.
He didn’t say anything, which somehow made it worse. You stood there in the quiet hum of the elevator, watching the numbers creep up toward your floor while your cheeks burned hot enough to fry an egg. The music piped through the speaker felt louder now, the air colder, the space suddenly way too small.
Ding.
The doors slid open with a bright, cheerful sound that felt wildly out of place.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Park muttered under his breath. Before you could react, he reached over, plucked the key card clean out of your hand, and stepped out first.
You stayed where you were for half a second longer, still leaning back against the wall as the realization finally hit you hard enough that your stomach flipped.
You were sharing a room with Brendon Park. Not just a room. A bed. A bed with Brendon Park—your asshole attending. Your rude, arrogant, entirely self-absorbed, ridiculously hot attending who you had the world’s most inconvenient, stupidly massive crush on.
Your brain caught up fully.
Fuck me, right?
You spent your entire shower trying to find the silver lining to this giant pile of shit. It wasn’t easy. You tried logic first—told yourself it was more convenient this way. Less coordinating. Built-in time to debrief after sessions and presentations. Easier to swap notes, align schedules, maximize the whole point of being here. You even tried to sell yourself on the idea that it might make you look good; engaged, collaborative, eager.
But no.
There was not a single angle you could twist this into that didn’t dissolve the second you stood still under the spray, water beating down hard enough to turn your thoughts into white noise. Every attempt at optimism slipped right through your fingers, pooling uselessly at your feet along with the hotel conditioner that refused to rinse clean. You tipped your head back, eyes shut, and let out a long, slow breath, as if maybe oxygen deprivation might knock some sense into you. It didn’t.
Because it just had to be him.
It could have been anybody else, and you would have rolled with it. You would have made it work—hell, you might have even enjoyed it. Give you literally any other attending and this week had the potential to be… decent. Fun, even. You could already picture it: drinks after sessions, swapping horror stories from the OR, laughing over bad conference coffee and worse networking attempts. You could rank them, easily—best to worst—without even thinking twice.
And yet.
You got him.
Of course you did.
A humorless, incredulous sound slipped out of you, half-laugh, half-groan, muffled by the steady rush of water. This wasn’t just bad luck. This felt targeted. Personal. Cosmic retribution for something you couldn’t quite remember doing but were suddenly very sure you must have. You scrubbed a hand down your face, dragging it over your mouth, your jaw, grounding yourself in the physical sensation because your thoughts were starting to spiral somewhere unproductive.
You were in hell. That had to be it.
Or at the very least, a very specific, very tailored version of it—one that looked a lot like a professional development conference and sounded like his voice, measured and sharp, at your shoulder for the next five days straight.
Instead, the universe looked at you and said, oh, you know that asshole boss you have a pathetic, ridiculous crush on? Here! We got you, girl! Sleep with him.
You pressed your forehead briefly against the cool tile, eyes squeezing shut as if that alone might rewind the last twenty-four hours and spit you out into a version of reality where your room key had a different number on it. One that didn’t come with broad shoulders, a perpetually unimpressed expression, and a voice that could cut through a crowded OR without ever rising above conversational volume.
Because that was the other problem.
You couldn’t even remember when the loathing had… shifted.
Don’t get it twisted—it was still there. Alive and well. Thriving, honestly. You loathed his face, his voice, the way he dressed like he couldn’t be bothered to try and still somehow pulled it off. Loathing, unadulterated loathing, or whatever the fuck that Wicked lyric said.
But somewhere along the way, something else had slipped in under the door.
Small things at first. Easy to ignore if you were busy enough. The way his hands moved in the OR; broad, steady, deliberate. The kind of hands that didn’t hesitate. That knew exactly what they were doing—not a single motion wasted. You’d caught yourself watching more than once, tracking the flex of his fingers, the quiet precision in every movement, how thick and strong they were, and every time you’d had to drag your attention back before it lingered too long.
And his voice—God, his voice. It changed when he got close. Not enough for anyone else to clock it, probably, but you did. It dropped just slightly when he leaned over your shoulder, when he was speaking directly to you instead of the room. Still controlled, still edged with that constant thread of authority, but lower. Closer. Like it settled somewhere just beneath your skin instead of bouncing off it.
And then there was the contact. Brief. Professional. Entirely necessary. His hand closing around your wrist to adjust your angle, firm and unyielding, guiding rather than asking. It should have been nothing. It was nothing.
Except it wasn’t. Because for a split second, every time, you felt it. The heat of it. The steadiness. The confidence in it that would send something entirely unwelcome curling up your spine. The way your body reacted before your brain could catch up, before you could remind yourself who he was, what he was, how very much you did not like him. You’d forget to be irritated for half a second too long. Which was unacceptable.
Because, objectively, he was still a massive douchebag. That part hadn’t changed. You knew it, everyone knew it, and yet your brain had apparently decided that now was the perfect time to start cataloging his… redeeming qualities like some kind of traitor.
And, to make matters worse; just look at him.
That particular detail did absolutely nothing to help your case. If anything, it made it infinitely worse. You could build the most airtight argument about his personality, his attitude, the way he seemed to take a personal interest in making your life harder—and then he’d walk into a room and the entire thing would collapse like a poorly constructed house of cards.
It was humiliating. No. Worse. It was cliché.
You dragged your hands down your face, groaning quietly into your palms as the realization settled heavy in your chest. Of all the things you could have been, all the ways your life could have gone, you just had to become a glaring med school stereotype.
Gross.
This was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Dangerous, honestly.
Because it would have been one thing if he were just an asshole. Easy. Clean. Manageable. You could work with that. You had worked with that. But he wasn’t just that.
And now—now you were supposed to sleep ten inches away from him, breathe the same air, exist in the same space when your brain had already proven itself wildly unreliable when it came to him. Your mouth pressed into a thin line, something tight and restless curling low in your stomach as you shut the water off and reached for a towel.
You stayed in the bathroom long after the water had gone cold and the mirror had fully fogged over, dragging out each step of your night routine with a kind of deliberate slowness that bordered on absurd. It was avoidance, plain and simple, and you were aware of it even as you did it; rinsing your face twice when once would have done, carefully lining up your things on the counter like you were settling in for a week instead of buying yourself a few extra minutes.
Because the second you stepped out of this room, it became real. The bed loomed large in your mind, front and center no matter how hard you tried to shove it aside. A king bed had never felt so offensively small. You could picture it too easily: the clean, tucked sheets, the too-soft pillows, the undeniable fact that there was only one of it.
For both of you.
Some stubborn, idiotic part of your brain clung to the hope that the front desk would call. That the phone would ring and a harried voice would apologize for the mix-up, promise you a separate room, tell you to pack your things and come downstairs. You held onto that fantasy through brushing your teeth, through rinsing and spitting and wiping your mouth, pausing just a second longer than necessary as if maybe—just maybe—that would be the moment it happened.
It didn’t.
You tugged your pajamas on slowly, smoothing the fabric down like it required your full attention, like the act itself might anchor you. When you finally looked up, your reflection stared back at you from the slightly warped hotel mirror—eyes a little too sharp, a little too aware.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, barely audible over the hum of the bathroom fan. “You can do this.”
Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter. This is fine. It had to be fine.
You’d worked with him for how long now? You’d stood shoulder to shoulder in the OR, let him correct you, challenge you, push you. You knew how to exist around him. You knew how to keep your reactions locked down, your thoughts in check. This was no different. Just… horizontal.
Your lips pressed together, something tight flickering across your expression before you smoothed it away, pushing off the counter with a quiet exhale. You reached for the door, fingers hesitating for the briefest second on the handle. Then, before you could overthink it any further, you stepped out.
The room would have been nice—really nice—under any other circumstances. The receptionist wasn’t kidding when she called it an upgrade.
It was the kind of place people posted about. Clean lines, crisp sheets, soft lighting that made everything look just a little more expensive than it probably was. But it was the windows that did it; an entire wall of glass pulling the city right into the room. The Strip stretched out below in a blur of neon and motion, golds and pinks and electric blues bleeding into one another, signs flashing and shifting, headlights crawling in steady ribbons through the streets. Even this high up, you could almost feel it: the pulse of it, the constant hum of people and music and noise layered on top of itself.
It had caught you earlier. Pulled you in before you even had time to think about anything else. You’d drifted toward it without meaning to, drawn to the glass. For a minute, you’d just stood there, watching the way the lights moved, the way the whole city seemed alive in a way that made everything else feel small and distant. It had felt like possibility then. Like a week that might actually be… good. That feeling hadn’t lasted long. Now it just felt like a backdrop. Too bright. Too loud. Almost mocking.
Park was standing right where you’d been, like he’d taken your place without realizing it. Arms crossed, shoulders squared, his reflection layered faintly over the city lights, dark against all that color. His head was tilted just slightly, gaze fixed somewhere out beyond the glass, expression tight and unreadable. You wondered if he was watching anything in particular, or if he was doing the same thing you had; letting the noise of it all fill the space where his thoughts didn’t want to settle until the phone call you figured he was waiting for too finally came.
You moved quietly behind him, the soft click of your suitcase zipper barely cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning—cranked down so aggressively earlier you were half convinced the unit might frost over if given the chance. Typical. You could still feel the chill of it against your skin, goosebumps rising along your arms as you tucked your toiletry bag away with more care than necessary.
“Could you keep this room any colder?” you snapped, hugging your arms tight across your chest as another icy blast rolled down from the vent positioned—of course—directly over the bed. The air felt less like air conditioning and more like a personal vendetta. Naturally, you hadn’t packed anything warm. Why would you? Last night, in a moment of optimism that now felt deeply misguided, you’d decided your favorite sleepshorts and the same nearly threadbare T-shirt you’d been wearing since undergrad were perfectly acceptable for a hotel room occupied by normal human beings. Into the suitcase they went, obviously. Clearly, that had been your first mistake. The Shark had to live up to the nickname and crank the AC down to arctic research station levels. Maybe tomorrow you’d slip out during lunch and grab a pair of sweats from one of the million gift shops in the convention center.
Park didn’t even look up from his phone. He just moved toward the bed at an unhurried pace, thumbs tapping away like the temperature of the room—or the fact that you were slowly freezing to death—was none of his concern.
“I can’t sleep in a warm room,” he said simply.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s great. Really. I’m thrilled we’re prioritizing your needs here. Thank God I love sleeping in a fucking tundra.”
That did it. He looked up then, eyes lifting from his phone, expression completely flat as he studied you for a second like he was trying to determine whether you were serious or just being dramatic again. He shook his head and exhaled through his nose.
“What time does the first session start?” he asked.
“What do I look like?” you shot back, yanking the sheets down on the left side of the bed. The fabric was already cold to the touch—so cold it almost felt damp—and the thought of sliding under it sent an involuntary shiver straight down your spine. Your own room would have been a comfortable seventy degrees, the bed buried under however many blankets you could charm out of the front desk. But no. Instead you got to spend the next week cosplaying as a fucking penguin. You straightened again with a huff, rubbing briskly at your arms like you could force warmth back into them. “Your fucking secretary?”
Park looked at you again, phone still hanging loosely in his hand, his expression tightening in mild irritation. You rolled your eyes before he could even open his mouth.
“Check-in is at seven,” you said, the fight draining out of your voice into a tired sigh. “First session is at eight.”
“That’s all you had to say,” he muttered, attention already dropping back to the screen. “The fuckin’ mouth on you…”
You clicked your tongue softly, tilting your head at him with exaggerated sympathy. “Aw, poor Shark Boy. Did I offend your poor sensitive ears?”
“Thought you said you were going to bed, Sunshine,” he replied, untwisting his charger and plugging the USB into the lamp like the conversation was barely worth the effort.
“I am,” you said, eyeing the bed again like it might bite. “Just trying to figure out how to get into it without losing my toes to frostbite.”
“Good thing you’re sleeping next to an orthopedic surgeon, then,” he said flatly. “Might still be able to save them.”
Yeah, lucky fucking you. Too tired to keep the argument going, you swung your knee up onto the mattress.
“I sleep on the left,” he said without looking up from his phone, like the detail had already been established somewhere you’d apparently missed.
Your hand paused on the duvet, brows pulling together. If you kept doing that, they were going to get stuck that way by the end of the week. “I always sleep on the—”
“Didn’t ask.” His phone chimed as the charger connected. He set it on the nightstand and finally looked up, those steady blue eyes landing on you where you were halfway onto the bed. “I sleep on the left. Closer to the door.”
Of course he did. Of fucking course this had to be some macho, I’ll-heroically-face-the-door nonsense. You shot him a look that should have been enough to start a small fire and held his gaze for a second, considering pushing it just on principle, but he didn’t look like he was going to budge. Not even a little. He just kept staring back, arms crossing over his chest like he had all night. With a sharp exhale, you pulled your leg back down.
“What the fuck ever,” you muttered, rounding the foot of the bed to the right side. He didn’t move, just watched you like he was evaluating your form or something equally annoying. You threw your arms out dramatically over the sheets before letting them fall. “Happy?”
“Thrilled,” he said dryly.
Fine. Whatever. If this had been your room, you’d already be sprawled across the middle of the mattress, fast asleep and hogging every inch of it. Instead, you were negotiating territory like it was a peace treaty. You tugged the blankets back and started smoothing them out, aware of him still standing there on the other side of the mattress. He hadn’t changed since coming out of the shower—just a T-shirt and sweats—but his hair was still a little damp, not pushed back the way he usually wore it. It fell slightly softer around his forehead, a faint curl you’d never really noticed before catching the light. It made him look… different. Less sharp around the edges. Like he wouldn’t cut if you were to reach across the bed and touch him.
You blinked, refocusing on the bed as you reached across and grabbed one of the pillows from his side, dragging it back toward you before climbing up.
“I’m taking this,” you said, like that had been your plan the whole time.
He smirked a little as he watched you settle onto the mattress, the corner of his mouth barely lifting. “Be my guest,” he said, pulling the duvet back farther on his side. “The pillows here are shit anyway.”
You gave the one in your hands a halfhearted fluff and immediately groaned. He wasn’t wrong. The thing barely moved, stiff and uncooperative like it had been vacuum-sealed into disappointment. “Fantastic,” you muttered under your breath.
You tossed it down onto the small stack you’d started building, shifting them around and pressing one flatter, folding another over like that might magically turn them into something usable. At this point you were just trying to arrange them in a way that wouldn’t completely destroy your neck over the next seven hours. You were halfway through shoving one pillow under another when movement on the other side of the bed caught your eye.
The soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor made your head turn just in time to see his thumbs hook under the hem of his T-shirt. He hauled it over his head with a slow, casual ease, muscles rippling under taut skin with every motion. Your brain, apparently overqualified for self-sabotage, promptly left the building, leaving you staring like a deer caught in headlights as if you’d just walked onto the set of some painfully cinematic gladiator movie.
The shirt hit the floor to join his sweats, leaving him standing there in nothing but snug black briefs. Oh, fuck right off, you thought. Of course. Of course this fucking brick shithouse of a man looked like that. Broad shoulders, defined abs, and arms that looked capable of snapping you in half if he wanted—he was like a living sculpture, and for some reason, every nerve in your body seemed wired to notice every single inch. And it was really, really fucking annoying. Heat pooled low in your stomach, your breath catching, even as you reminded yourself that the room was still an icebox.
His eyes caught yours before they could wander, holding you there in a way that felt like a challenge. You jerked your gaze away immediately, cheeks burning despite the icy air.
“Oh my god!” you hissed, clutching a pillow like it could shield you from the way your pulse was suddenly thumping in your ears. “What the hell are you doing?”
Even as you said it, part of you was sneaking glances, betrayed by the almost magnetic pull of him, the way the faint curve of a bicep or the shadow under his pecs made it impossibly difficult to act like a reasonable human. No. You weren’t looking. And even if you were… it was purely analytical, entirely respectful. Research into how someone that fucking awful could be that pretty. You were looking for science.
He shifted beside the bed, still bare-chested, and ran a hand through his damp hair. “I was planning on sleeping alone,” he said casually, as if that explained everything. “Didn’t pack anything to sleep in.”
“So,” you snapped, glaring at him despite the fluttering warmth rising in your chest, “you decided a sexual harassment claim was the next best step? What about what you just had on?”
His mouth lift in that infuriating, half-smirk. He shrugged, but this time his eyes didn’t flinch—they stayed locked on yours.
“I sleep naked at home,” he said slowly, like that made it any better, letting his gaze roam over you in a way that made it impossible to look away. Your pulse jumped stupidly at the statement. “Consider this the compromise you begged for.” His eyes lingered for a heartbeat too long, scanning your form kneeling on the bed, and you felt your chest tighten in response, warmth rising that had nothing to do with the room. Then, almost quietly, he added, “I can turn the heat up a bit if it’s too much for you.”
You tore your eyes away, though you knew it was hopeless. A soft, confused noise escaped you as your gaze stubbornly drifted down anyway, following his subtle movement. Your cheeks flamed as you realized the cold had betrayed you—your nipples were already stiff and entirely too visible through your thin shirt.
Huffing, you yanked a pillow up against your chest, pressing it there like it could do more than just hide you from his eyes. You turned and collapsed onto the bed, face burning, the blankets snuggling around you in a poor attempt at comfort. But the thought of him standing there, solid and impossibly close, lingered long after your mind told you to focus on anything else. Not on him. Not on how wholly naked he was less than a foot and a half away under the same blankets. Not how ridiculously soft and warm he’d looked a second before, or if his skin would feel like velvet under your fingertips the same way it did in every other fucking nightmare you’d had like this that ended with you waking up alone and burning—
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
Don’t fucking go there.
Get a fucking grip, girl.
The bed dipped beside you, and your stomach tensed as he finally slid in, pushing the covers back so the fabric dragged lightly across your chest just enough to make you bite down on the sound threatening to slip out. The mattress shifted under his weight, a small, inescapable reminder that he was here, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from flicking up just as he reached over to switch off the lamp, the muscle of his back shifting with the movement. You pulled your eyes away, your arms crossed over your chest, blankets pulled up as a weak shield, but your body refused to stop feeling him.
Jesus, focus. Just focus on the ceiling. Anything but him.
You looked down quickly, pretending to fuss with the pillow that refused to cooperate. It was lumpy, awful, and entirely useless, but at least it gave you something to do besides thinking about how close he was or how much easier it would be to just look at him and hope he didn’t notice you noticing.
A few minutes of quiet passed, then, instinctively, you shifted. Almost without thinking, you turned onto your side, and his movement mirrored yours. Within seconds, you found yourselves facing each other, almost nose to nose. Your heart hit a little faster than it should have, your breath catching softly as you realized just how close you were.
He groaned, rolling his eyes and turning slightly, muttering under his breath, “Of fucking course.”
A small, exasperated laugh escaped you before you could stop it, soft and almost guilty in the quiet of the room. You rolled back onto your back, staring up at the vent as the soft hum of the air conditioning filled the space. Your arms wrapped around yourself instinctively—you were still shivering. You gave the duvet a hard yank toward you, but it didn’t budge.
“Keep still,” he said, calm and utterly unhelpful. “You’re shaking the whole damn bed.”
“I’m freezing!” you snapped, teeth chattering faintly.
“There’s another blanket in the closet,” he replied without moving.
“Nope,” you shot back immediately. “Not getting up.”
You shifted, trying to make the bed feel less like an icebox. The mattress was soft, sinking just enough beneath you to feel his presence beside you, the warmth radiating off him like an invitation your brain stubbornly tried to ignore. For a half second, your body betrayed you, inching a little closer to the heat before you shoved the thought away and turned over, blanket pulled up tight against your chest.
“Goodnight,” you muttered softly, hoping the words would mark the end of this awkward closeness.
The room went silent for a moment, and you rolled your eyes at the quiet, forcing your eyelids shut, trying to concentrate on literally anything else—the sound of the air conditioning, the quickest route to the Starbucks in the lobby, tomorrow’s schedule. But the same thought invaded all others, stalking past them until they floated away. Then, almost impossibly, a low, soft voice reached your ears.
“Night, Sunshine.”
Your stomach did that stupid flip again—a stupid, helpless flutter at that nickname that you refused to put a name to. You hugged the blanket a little tighter, muttering something entirely unconvincing under your breath, and pretended to close your eyes.
God, this was so fucking stupid.
Stupid only seemed to get stupider the moment your alarm went off.
The loud trilling shattered the quiet of the room, bouncing off the walls in a harsh rhythm that yanked you out of sleep before you were ready. You inhaled sharply through your nose as you twisted, the thin cotton of your shirt bunching around your middle, toes pointing as you stretched and shifted deeper into the warm spot you’d found on the bed. Your eyes stayed squeezed shut against the pale wash of morning light bleeding through the sheer curtains. You turned over, slapping at the nightstand until your fingers found your phone and silenced the alarm. Fifteen more minutes. Fifteen more minutes and then you’d peel yourself out of the sheets and get on with it.
The mattress under your cheek felt firmer than you remembered from the night before, but you didn’t mind. You settled into it with a soft exhale, nuzzling closer, chasing the warmth that had wrapped around you sometime during the night. It smelled better than you remembered too—not the sharp, overly clean scent of hotel detergent, but something deeper. Woodier and warm, like soft leather and tobacco.
Your brow knit faintly even as you breathed in again, slower this time, your face unconsciously turning further into the warmth beneath your cheek. It was… nice. Comfortable in a way that made you want to sink into it and pretend the alarm didn’t exist. Your hand shifted slightly where it had been curled near your chest, fingers brushing against something that definitely did not feel like a pillow; too smooth, too warm, too… moving.
Your brain, still half asleep, lagged a few seconds behind the realization.
The warmth beneath your cheek shifted. The weight you’d assumed was just the duvet shifted, lifting from your waist with a soft, sleepy grunt. Your eyes snapped open.
Your head lifted slowly from where it had been very comfortably—far too comfortably—resting on Park’s chest, the thin fleece blanket someone had apparently dragged over both of you during the night sliding off your shoulder as you moved. For a second your brain refused to process what you were seeing. Then it hit all at once.
You were cuddling your boss. Actually, honest to God, cuddling.
Your entire body tensed as you stared up at him. Park scrubbed a hand over his eyes with a low sigh, still half asleep, before letting his arm drop again—and unfortunately, the solid weight of it landed right back across your waist like it had every right to be there, thick fingers brushing lazily against the bare skin of your lower back. You went completely still.
He blinked slowly against the morning light filtering through the curtains, blue eyes unfocused and hazy with sleep as they drifted downward. They weren’t nearly as sharp as they usually were when he looked at you; no edge, no immediate calculation or annoyance. Just heavy-lidded and warm in that disarming, first-moments-after-waking way. He blinked again, still not registering that were tucked against his side; your cheek warm from where you’d been pressed to him, one of your legs tangled with his under the sheets, your ankle loosely hooked over his like it had been there all night, something very... proportional to the rest of him pressed against your thigh.
Your brain, meanwhile, had fully woken up to this hellscape of your own making, and was currently screaming, crying, and throwing up. You didn’t move. Not because you didn’t want to—God, you absolutely should—but because the second you did, you were going to have to acknowledge the fact that at some point during the night you had apparently abandoned all sense of self-preservation and curled up against him like he was a human space heater. And judging by the way his arm was still draped over you… he hadn’t exactly stopped you, either.
The moment it clicked for him, it was immediate.
His eyes focused, sharpness snapping back into place as he finally registered exactly where you were, trapped under his arm; how close you were, how tangled the two of you had ended up. His arm jerked away from your waist like he’d touched something hot.
“Jesus—”
Before you could even react, his hand braced against your hip and he shoved you—firmly but not roughly—back across the mattress. The sheets slid under you as you were pushed back onto your side of the bed in one quick motion like you weighed nothing, your leg untangling from his as he created distance like it was suddenly very necessary.
You blinked up at him, still half tangled in blankets, but Park was already moving. He swung out of bed fast, running a hand through his hair again like he was trying to wake himself up by force. Pale morning light cut through the narrow gaps in the curtains, striping across his back and shoulders as he crossed the room in a few long strides.
“I’m showering,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something tighter underneath it, before the bathroom door swung shut behind him. The click of the lock echoed through the room.
You stayed exactly where you were for a long second, propped up on one elbow, staring at the door while your heart hammered like you’d just sprinted a mile. The room felt suddenly too quiet again.
Slowly, you let yourself fall back onto the mattress with a groan, throwing your arm over your eyes as the bed creaked beneath you.
when you spent all morning trying to talk to your coworker (who has the same job title as you) about how to make sure that your workplace has a smooth transition from his control to yours, but he kept blowing you off and didn't want to hear about any of the idea that you had and wanted to run by him, and every time you tried to have a serious conversation with you he would say he was just trying to get through the day so he could leave on his three month sabbatical, and now, after ignoring every single attempt you made to make sure that you could run your workplace smoothly without him, he's telling you he doesn't think that the workplace will survive without him (he just berrated one of his female employees for being stressed) even though you just saved a child with a procedure he had never even heard of, much less knew how to perform
people need to remember that we didn’t know dennis was homeless until the finale. we didn’t know abbot was an amputee. SO much is revealed very late in s1. please let the show develop as it develops oh my god
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