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[pleasecallmedoll]

Hi! Please, call me Doll!!

Some day I'll figure out how to do a theme here😂

She/her, closer to 40 than 30!

I read entirely too much fanfiction and still manage to read actual books and work a full time job! I've been a dog groomer for most of my life and hope to continue to do so for as long as my body let's me!

My mains are Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers (together, separate, together with a 3rd), but I'm a big fan of the Winchesters (not together for gods sake). I'm sure I'll think of more to add!

I like posting ideas for stories, because I'm not great at writing them. So, if you see one you like, feel free to do something woth it and tag me!!

[maxinebxrnes]

Bags ⋆˚࿔

pairings: frank langdon x f!reader

synopsis: for years, you and frank have hidden behind the safety of friendship only. letting stolen glances and almost confessions take the place of the truth.

warnings: hurt/w comfort, pretty angsty if you’re asking me, slow burn, arguing, usage of cuss words.

a/n: i love angst.. anyways, this was inspired by bags - clairo if you haven’t noticed from the synopsis and title yet, please repost and like, thank you and lovelotss!

wc: 2.7k

there were a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t have fallen for frank.

the first was that everyone else already had.

patients adored him. nurses laughed a little harder when he walked by. med students followed him around like ducklings.

even on the worst shifts, when the er smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee and exhaustion, frank somehow managed to make everyone breathe easier.

you were no different, and that was the problem, you only learned him in small pieces.

you learned that he would always rub the bridge of his nose right before opening difficult charts.

how he’d steal a few pieces of your chips without asking, only to replace them with a granola bar from the vending machine.

how he’d absentmindedly reach for your wrist whenever the department became too crowded, holding you with just enough pressure to guide you through the sea of gurneys before letting go like he’d never touched you at all.

it meant nothing, and you told yourself that every single time, because you always knew frank was like that with everyone.

“you’re staring.” someone said and you blinked.

jack didn’t even bother looking up from his computer.

“i’m reading.” “you’ve been reading the same sentence for three minutes.”

“…” “he’s talking to the new resident.” jack muttered.

even with your mind screaming at you not to look, you did anyway.

frank stood across the station, smiling at someone who was laughing so hard she nearly dropped her clipboard.

he leaned against the counter with his head tilted, eyes soft, and he looked happy. something unpleasant settled in your chest.

“stop doing that,” jack muttered as he finished up his chart.

“doing what?”

“breaking your own heart.” he finally said as he stood up, ready to take another case.

you swallowed, you heart aching as you felt a lump forming in your throat.

people assumed the two of you were together, they always had and it made sense. you spent every shift together, you knew each other’s coffee orders, you’d memorized each other’s handwriting.

he texted you when he’d get home after pulling doubles.

you’d remind him to eat, and maybe it looked like love from the outside, maybe that’s why no one ever asked, maybe that’s why neither of you ever said anything.

⋆˚꩜｡

“movie tonight?”

frank asked the question so casually that your heart betrayed you all over again. “sure.” you said, “my place?” he asked as he wrote on his chart, “okay.” you agreed.

“you pick.” he said with a smile “that’s dangerous.” you replied back

“i trust you.” he muttered, and you almost laughed, because trusting someone and loving someone were apparently two completely different things.

halfway through the movie, frank fell asleep, his head rested against your shoulder, his breathing slowed.

the apartment was quiet except for the television neither of you had been watching. and yet, you stared straight ahead.

if you moved, he’d wake up, if you stayed still you’d remember this forever. so you stayed, your shoulder went numb but you didn’t care.

you wondered if this counted as loving someone, getting hurt by things they never intended.

“why don’t you ever date anyone?”

samira asked during a lull in the shift.

you shrugged. “i dunno, i guess im too busy.”you said and she looked unconvinced.

“that’s a lie.” she scoffed, “it’s not?” you retorted. “is it langdon?”

you laughed too quickly. “what?” “is it him?”

across the department, frank looked up and your eyes met for exactly one second.

he smiled, the same smile he gave everyone. and yet, you smiled back anyway. “no.”

samira sighed. “you’re an awful liar.” she chuckled. “shut up, what about abbot, huh?” you said playfully as you accentuated jack’s last name.

her eyes widened, “oh my god- don’t say it out loud!” she shouted, whispering and you simple laughed as she slapped her hand on your arm playfully.

⋆˚꩜｡

there was a party after one particularly brutal week.

everyone drank, laughed, and pretended they weren’t carrying the weight of every patient they couldn’t save.

frank found you standing on the balcony, scrolling on your phone. “too loud?” he said, startling you a bit. “a little.” he nodded and stood beside you.

shoulders almost touching. close enough to feel warm, not close enough to be held.

“you okay?” “yeah.” another lie, he looked at you for a long time. long enough that you thought— “good.” then he looked away.

there were always moments that almost became something, the ways his fingers lingering around yours after handing over a chart.

late-night drives home where the silence felt too comfortable to ruin, the way he’d say your name like it meant more than everyone else’s.

and you called yourself pathetic for it, but you collected those moments, held them carefully, turned them over in your mind whenever you couldn’t sleep.

they were all you had.

you heard about her from robby “langdon’s seeing someone.” you smiled before your brain had time to react.

“is he?” ”yeah.” “…that’s nice.” “i think so.” the rest of the conversation disappeared into static.

that night, frank texted you.

coffee tomorrow? you stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

you typed. deleted. typed again.

can’t. family stuff.

a lie. another one. he replied almost immediately.

okay. next time.

there wasn’t a next time, since you kept finding excuses. different shifts. busy weekends. headaches. anything.

because loving him had always hurt, but watching him love someone else would’ve destroyed you.

weeks later, he caught you leaving after your shift.

“did i do something?” your hand froze on the locker. “…what?”

“you’ve been avoiding me.” you chuckled awkwardly and said,“i haven’t.” “you have.” he sounded…hurt. you hated that.

“frank—” you started, “just tell me.” you looked at him. really looked, tired eyes, messy hair, concern written all over his face.

you wanted to tell him everything, that you loved him, that every almost had become unbearable, that you were tired of wondering if maybe he’d reached for your hand because he wanted to or because it was convenient.

instead you smiled, small— the kind that didn’t crack.

“you didn’t do anything.” you paused, not knowing what else to say “i’m just tired.”

he nodded slowly, like he knew you were lying, like he was too kind to make you admit it. “get some rest.” “i will.”

he waited. maybe expecting you to say something else, but you didn’t. he walked away first.

months later, life looked exactly the same, except now there was a distance neither of you knew how to cross.

sometimes you’d catch him looking at you. sometimes he’d catch you first.

neither of you smiled anymore. just looked away. there were still moments though, always moments. they simply belonged to no one now. and maybe that was the cruelest part.

not that you loved him, not that he might never love you back.

but that somewhere between silence and timing and fear, there had been something waiting to happen. and the two of you had let it become another thing neither of you would ever say out loud.

it wasn’t intentional at first, distance never is. it started with little things. you’d switch shifts with no hesitation if someone asked. you took your breaks five minutes later than usual.

leave through the ambulance entrance instead of the staff exit. none of it was obvious and none of it should’ve mattered.

except somehow frank always noticed, “you already ate?” he’d ask. “yeah.”you hadn’t.

“heading home?” “just remembered i have somewhere to be.” you didn’t.

he’d nod every time, accepting every excuse with a smile that grew smaller each week. it would’ve been easier if he’d gotten angry.

instead, he shrugged it off. that was always the problem.

“you two fight?” robby asked while stocking the trauma room. you glanced up. “what?” “you and langdon.” “no.”

“then why’s he walking around looking like someone kicked his dog?” you laughed despite how you felt. “that’s dramatic.”

“i’m serious.” robby lowered his voice.“he asked me if i’d said something to you.” “…” “i told him no.”

you swallowed. “good.” “you wanna tell me what’s going on?” “nothing.”

robby sighed. “everyone in this ED is terrible at feelings.”

three weeks passed before the universe trapped you together. power outage.

half the hospital running on backup generators, the elevators shut down, patients everywhere, everyone scrambling.

you were reorganizing medications when frank appeared beside you, holding two flashlights.

“here.” he handed you one, your fingers brushed yet he pulled away too quickly.

“…thanks.” you expected him to leave, but he didn’t. for a few seconds, the only sound was the humming generator somewhere below your feet.

“i miss you.” the words were so quiet you almost thought you’d imagined them.

you looked at him. he wasn’t smiling. his eyes stayed on the floor.

“we see each other every day,” you managed. “that’s not what i mean.”

your chest tightened. “frank…” “did i do something?” again. the same question.

only this time there wasn’t anywhere to hide. you wanted to answer. instead a trauma alert echoed through the hall.

every doctor around you started moving. frank looked toward the doors. then back at you. “later?”

your mouth was already saying yes before your brain could stop it. “…later.”

later never came. a six-car collision flooded the emergency department. two surgeries. one code blue. a family that needed someone to tell them their son wasn’t coming home.

by the time the shift ended, the sun was rising. frank had already left.

samira found you crying in the supply closet. not sobbing. just reorganizing stuff in the storage room.

she didn’t ask why, she simply sat beside you after a minute she offered you half a granola bar, you took it.

“he loves you.” your head snapped up.

“…don’t.” “i’m serious.” “don’t do that.”

“i’ve watched him look for you every single shift.” “he doesn’t—” “he does.”

your laugh sounded more like a broken breath. “if he loved me…” you couldn’t finish that sentence, because if he loved you… he would’ve said something, wouldn’t he?

sam looked at you for a long time “maybe he’s just as scared.” that night you couldn’t sleep. instead, you opened your phone.

your conversation with frank stretched back years. pictures of terrible vending machine dinners. memes sent at three in the morning. complaints about impossible attendings. birthday messages. inside jokes no one else would understand. thousands of words.

none of the ones you actually wanted. your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

i miss you too. you typed it. read it. deleted it. and locked your phone.

frank stood outside your apartment for almost ten minutes.

he’d bought your favorite takeout after remembering you hadn’t eaten lunch. it was getting cold. he almost knocked. almost. instead he left the bag outside your door with a sticky note.

eat something. no name. he didn’t need one.

you knew his handwriting better than your own. you opened the door just as he stepped into the elevator. for one impossible second, your eyes met across the hallway.

you wanted to call his name. you wanted to tell him to stay. the elevator doors slid shut before you made a sound. by the time you found your voice… he was already gone.

the next day was painful, body aching, hands hurting, and the hospital lights were making your head spin.

the patient was twenty-two, gunshot wound, BP dropping, and everyone moved on instinct.

“i need another unit of o-neg!” “coming!” “where’s anesthesia?” “two minutes out!”

frank’s voice cut through the room “compressions.” you hesitated. “we still have a pulse.” “barely.” “frank—”

“compressions.” “you’re going to lose what pressure he has left.” he looked at you. “do it.” “no.”

the room went still. not completely. monitors still screamed. people still moved. but everyone heard it.

you had never said no to frank. not like that. he stepped closer.

“i’m running this trauma.” “and i’m telling you that’s the wrong call.”

his jaw tightened. “do your job, Dr.” something inside you snapped. “i am doing my job!”

silence. the kind that only exists for a heartbeat before chaos returns.

jack stepped between the two of you “enough. langdon, reassess. now.” frank didn’t move.

his eyes never left yours. for the first time since you’d met him… they were angry. real anger.

“fine.” he turned away. “prepare for thoracotomy.” the room came back to life. everyone moved again. no one looked at either of you.

the patient survived. barely. the adrenaline faded. the exhaustion settled in. you washed your hands three times before realizing there wasn’t any blood left on them.

the sink shut off. someone cleared their throat behind you. frank.

“what the hell was that?” you kept staring at your hands. “i disagreed.”

“you challenged me in front of everyone.” “because you were wrong.”

“you don’t get to undermine me—” “i don’t get to undermine you?” you laughed. it sounded ugly.

“that’s funny.” “what’s that supposed to mean?” “nothing.”

“don’t.”

his voice cracked. “don’t do that.” “do what?” “say ‘nothing’ when it obviously isn’t.” you finally looked at him.

months. months of swallowed words. months of pretending. months of walking past each other like strangers. they all rushed up your throat at once.

“why do you care?” he blinked. “…what?” he asked, “why do you care if i’m avoiding you?” you blurted out, “because we’re friends.” friends. there it was. the word that had haunted you for years.

you smiled. small. tired. “right.” he frowned. “don’t.” “don’t what?” you muttered, “look at me like that.” he said persistently, “like what?” “like you’ve already decided i’m leaving.”

you laughed again. “you already did.”“what are you talking about?” “you chose someone else.”

confusion flashed across his face. “…who?” you stared at him. “the resident.”

he was surprised, “…what resident? “the one everyone said you were dating.” he was quiet for exactly two seconds.

then— “…audrey?” you didn’t answer. frank let out one disbelieving breath.

“what?- no. no no. i don’t like her—”

“thats no what i see.”

“hey, no i swear. shes not— shes married.”

“…what?” “she’s married.”

your mouth opened. closed. opened again.

“robby told me—” “robby assumed.” “…”

“he assumed.” the room suddenly felt too small.

too warm. too bright. “i…” you couldn’t breathe. months. you’d wasted months.

frank rubbed a hand over his face. “i kept asking myself what i’d done.” your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“i thought…” “i know.” “no, you don’t.” his voice broke. “i do.” you shook your head. “no, frank. you don’t.”

“then tell me.” the tears came anyway. “ i loved you.” the words echoed through the walls.

“i loved you so much that I couldn’t stand watching you love somebody else.” frank stared.

“you idiot.” you laughed through the tears. “yeah, okay i deserved that.”

“what? no, no. i was- so do i” he stepped closer. “…frank.” “i’ve loved you since your second week here.”

your breath caught.

“you kept stealing my chips.” “i was flirting.” “i thought you were hungry.” “i was terrified.” he laughed once. a wet, shaky laugh.

“i kept waiting for you to notice.” “i thought the movies meant something.”

“they did.” “I thought you fell asleep on my shoulder because you were tired.” “i stayed awake for almost an hour.” you blinked.

“are you kidding me? my shoulders went numb.” “my neck did too.” despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

frank laughed too. it lasted all of three seconds before the weight of what had happened settled over both of you.

“we lost so much time,” you whispered. his smile disappeared. “i know.” another silence. this one heavier.

filled with every shift you’d spent apart. every unanswered text. every almost.

“i don’t want to keep wondering anymore,” you said quietly. “i don’t either.” “you’ll have to tell me when you’re scared.”

“i will.” “you’ll have to let me argue with you in trauma.” he snorted. “you were right.” frank muttered.

“i know.” you said proudly, “i’m never admitting that again.” you smiled for the first time in months. “i’ll take today.”

frank looked at you like he was memorizing your face. slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand.

“you know,” he murmured fiddling with your hand gently, “for two people who spend every day telling strangers the truth…”

“…we were pretty terrible at telling each other.” his thumb brushed across your knuckles. “yeah.”

outside the room, another trauma pager blared. the ED was calling them back. people were still getting hurt. lives still needed saving.

the world, stubborn as it was, refused to pause. frank squeezed your hand once before letting go. “after shift?” you smiled. “no almosts this time.”

he smiled back. “no almosts.” and for the first time since the two of you met— neither of you walked away first.

[kiwi]

I NEED A HIMBO

IM HOLDING OUT FOR A HIMBO TILL THE END OF THE NIGHT

hes gotta be strong

and hes gotta be fast

and hes gotta be dumb and polite

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

my man on willpower

summary: you're used to your co-worker doing everything and anything for you. until one day he decides to take advice from jimmy olsen and discovers willpower you didn't know he had.

pairing: female reader x clark kent

notes: clark is the leader of simp nation and you can't tell me otherwise. thanks again ms carpenter for the fic inspoooo, I've had this whole album on repeat nonstop. also this ended up being so much longer than I originally planned oops... enjoy!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

Clark had three main rules when it came to his professional life.

Always remain objective.

Maintain friendly but strictly professional (and definitely not romantic!) working relationships with his colleagues.

Never take advice from Jimmy Olsen (again).

Although Clark liked to think he approached each of his stories with a level head and neutral position, he knew that the first rule had been broken the second he started interviewing himself as Superman.

The second rule had lasted for about a week until he'd ended up letting an extremely drunk Jimmy Olsen crash on his sofa after Friday night knock off drinks. Upon getting wind of Clark's inability to say no, each of Clark's colleagues - including Cat, Lois and even Perry once - had all had a drunken sleepover at Clark's.

Despite this, there'd been absolutely no romance involved, so he'd given himself a pat on the back for that one. He was comforted by the fact that maybe there was an argument that he'd only kinda broken rule two.

That was until you happened, you’d walked right into the Daily Planet on your first day and spun Clark’s world right off its axis and suddenly there was no argument about rule two.

The only thing that Clark could hang his hat on was that the sanctity of rule three had remained very much intact.

Rule three was mandated after Jimmy had convinced Clark that the only way to get a girl was to walk around drenched in Lynx Africa. After that Clark had sworn he would never ever take advice from Jimmy Olsen on any subject matter ever again.

“You’re doing it again.”

Clark jumped in his chair, his glasses knocked askew at the action. He swivelled around to find Jimmy peering down at him, his chin resting on his forearms that were leant against the divider of Clark’s work cubicle.

“What?”

“You’re doing the thing again.” Jimmy repeated.

"What thing?"

Jimmy smirked. “The thing where you count how many sips of coffee she's had so you can perfectly time your trip to the coffee machine and casually offer to get her a refill."

Clark dared a glance over to your desk. Brow furrowed, face pinched, a ballpoint pen clenched between your teeth. Breathtakingly beautiful as always, and most importantly, blissfully unaware of the two sets of eyes currently on you.

“If you weren’t you it might be considered creepy.”

“I’m just trying to be a friendly work colleague.” Clark defended.

“You don’t do that for me.” Jimmy shot back. “You also don’t stare at me longingly across the bullpen like I’ve hung the moon and stars.”

Clark’s face flushed. Subtly had never been in his wheelhouse, but he thought he’d at least being doing an ok job at hiding his infatuation.

Truth be told, he was in much deeper than Jimmy realised.

Jimmy didn’t know that he’d memorised your coffee and sandwich order within a week of you starting so that he could make sure you ate lunch when you handcuffed yourself to your desk and inevitably forgot to eat.

Jimmy didn’t know that he always kept an extra raincoat and umbrella under his desk just in case you forgot yours when the clouds of Metropolis inevitably split open and caught you by surprise.

Jimmy didn’t know that he’d started taking the bus of all things to get home because it meant he had an excuse to walk an extra ten minutes with you before your commute paths diverted, despite it adding an additional 40 minutes to his trip home.

Jimmy didn’t know that whenever he wasn’t thinking about saving the planet as Superman, he was entirely consumed by thoughts of you.

“You don’t bring in freshly baked goods for me every week.” To further emphasise his point, Clark held up a plate in front of him containing only the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie, which may or may not have been one of the best things he’s eaten in his entire life.

You’d recently picked up baking on the weekends, having told Clark that you needed something to distract you from your work. This meant the entire office was now spoilt with a new baked good every Friday, so much so that Cat had started complaining about her waistline.

Jimmy’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Whatever you say buddy.” He rapped his knuckles on the divider before sauntering back to his desk.

Clark slumped in his chair, which felt like a vortex - slowly pulling him down further into an all familiar spiral. He would have preferred Jimmy to stand there and argue with him. He knew Jimmy was probably trying to be nice, but that made it so much worse because that meant Jimmy pitied him, like he was a puppy abandoned on the side of the road waiting for someone to show him a shred of kindness.

Maybe it was finally time for him to pluck up the courage and ask you out. He'd been dancing around it since you'd first started at the Planet all those months ago. He could do it. He was Superman gosh darn it. He'd tackled world eating monsters, asking you out to dinner should be a cake walk.

"Any feedback on this week's batch for me?"

Your sweet voice cut through Clark's internal dialogue, acting like a shining light that guided him back to reality.

He looked up at you through his glasses. You were standing in the spot where Jimmy had been only moments ago. Your eyes darted to the plate still lying on his desk before you looked at him expectantly.

"Oh-" Clark started, straightening up in his seat as he adjusted his glasses. "They're um- yeah they're really good. Did you do something a little different with the batter this time?"

Your smile widened. "Yeah I tried using brown sugar, I think it adds a nice twist to it."

"That's what it is. The brown sugar." Clark nodded. "Really delicious."

"Very glad to hear it." You smiled down at him, tilting your head ever so slightly. "You coming tonight by the way?"

"Tonight...." Clark trailed off. You rested your chin on the palm of your hand as you shook your head and tisked.

"Don't tell me you forgot." You teased.

Clark felt his cheeks redden under your stare as he desperately racked his brain. He was hopeless. One look from you and all thoughts flew out of his head like they were fleeing an approaching storm.

"Uh-" Then it hit him. "Oh right. End of financial year party, how could I forget."

"Duh, and it's at good old Duke's. Going to be the party of the year."

Your eyes narrowed when you noticed his expression falter. "You're not thinking of ditching are you Kent?"

"Well-" Clark stammered as he stole a glance at his computer screen. "It's just there's this story that Perry really wants to get out and-"

"-No no no." You cut him off. "I'm up to my ears in this never ending corruption scandal and even I'm finding the time to come. Besides, you work your ass off and deserve some fun. If Perry has a problem with that he can go through me."

In Clark's eyes, you might as well be classified as an angel on earth. You seemed to have a permanent glow, radiating your perfect features. And when you got fired up, that glow burned even brighter.

You could see that he was still wavering. "Please." You pursed your lips. "It won't be the same without you there."

Clark couldn't believe it. You were pouting. Literally pouting those perfect lips and batting those long eyelashes at him. How was he supposed to say anything other than yes? You were his kryptonite, more so than actual kryptonite.

"Ok." He nodded. "I'll be there."

You shot him a radiant smile, enough to make the possibility of pissing Perry off worth it a thousand times over.

"Good." You pushed yourself off the cubicle divider, "hope you're ready for me to drink you under the table Kent."

A bemused smirk twitched up on his lips. "We'll see about that."

Who was he kidding, there was no way he was ever going to get up the courage to ask you out.

You smiled to yourself as you turned away and felt Clark's eyes following you all the way back to your desk.

You knew Clark had a crush on you. It was so obvious even the cleaning lady could probably tell. It made coming to work just that little bit more exciting. Whether it was wearing a new slightly too short for work skirt or brushing your hand seemingly innocently against his when you went to hand him a pen, knowing it would make the apples of his cheeks go red and the sentence he was uttering fall apart on his tongue.

If you were being honest, the feelings were definitely not one sided. How could it be when Clark was well, Clark. But that's all it was. A harmless, fun, not debilitating in the slightest, crush.

You finally let yourself glance up at the clock. Half an hour until drinks. The day had been dragging on excruciatingly slow, like time had fallen asleep at the wheel.

It seemed that everyone else felt the same way. The usual thriving hum of the newsroom had quietened to a dull roar, unenthusiastic keyboard taps and monosyllabic exchanges. Motivated by the optimistic idea that making a coffee might kill time, you forced yourself up and onto your feet.

You shoved a mug under the spout and pressed the button that grumbled the machine to life. You tapped your foot as you waited for the life giving elixir that was espresso to pour out. It seemed even the coffee machine had taken an early mark.

"You're going to give that boy a heart attack one day."

Cat appeared beside you, reaching up in her stiletos to grab a mug.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Cat looked at you deadpan. “Really?”

You shrugged.

She pouted out her bottom lip and dramatically batted her eyelashes.

"It won't be the same without you."

You couldn’t hide the grin that spreads across your lips as you roll your eyes playfully.

“It’s true.”

“Uh huh.” Cat smirked as you moved over to let her use the machine. “You have that poor boy wrapped around your finger and you know it.”

You stole a glance over your shoulder to make sure Clark was no where to be seen before taking a sip of your coffee. Your nose involuntarily wrinkled as the burnt roast singed your nose hairs.

“So I may like to get him a little flustered… what’s the big deal?”

“Oh, I like nothing better than making a man squirm believe me.” Cat wriggled her eyebrows. “But there is the slight complication that he’s completely in love with you. And he's your coworker."

You felt a pang of guilt course through you. You couldn’t lie, half the fun was the way Clark doted on you. He was always noticing when you got your hair done or bought a new dress. He was the first to compliment you on your articles, but he'd also give you honest feedback if you asked for it. If you were ever off sick he'd call and check in on you, always offering to bring you soup or medicine.

He’d even trusted you with the biggest secret a person could harbour. His secret identity.

It was selfish, but you liked the fact that you could get the self esteem boost without the commitment. You flirted but never took it too far, never let him in through the solid walls you’d built up around yourself. Because if you kept him at arms length, there was no risk of him dismantling them.

Was that leading him on? You supposed it was. You winced at the thought of his adoring smile as he offered his shoes when you wore painfully high stilettos that you hadn’t broken in yet, or his umbrella when he didn't have a spare, leaving him standing out in the rain.

“Am I terrible person?”

“Oh god honey no.” Cat shook her head. “That’s not what I meant to imply I’m sorry.”

You frowned, deep in thought as you took a sip of your coffee. Your lips curled in disgust. Why did you think it would be better on the second sip?

“Forget I said anything ok?” She said hastily. “I more just meant… well...what are you going to do if he finally finds the courage to ask you out?”

You froze. You’d never thought about it, never even imagined the possibility that sweet, nervous Clark would actually take the next step.

Cat patted your arm sympathetically when she noticed the frazzled look on your face. “Aren’t you glad we’ve got drinks tonight?”

The Duke was a hive of activity. Corporate suits all suddenly brought to life by the promise of the weekend. It was packed wall to wall with patrons eagerly downing their drinks, excited to celebrate the work week coming to a close.

You were two white wines in and feeling much more relaxed, your corruption investigation now only a gentle hum in the forefront of your subconscious.

You were crammed into a booth, strategically sandwiching Clark between you and the wall. Your skirt had ridden up so the flesh of your thigh was pressed against Clark's under the table. The warmth of his body radiated into yours and the music pulsed through you as you fought to be heard over the din of the bar.

"You've finished your drink."

You looked over at Clark amusingly, "very observant of you Mr Kent."

His brow pinched, his lips pursed ever so slightly in response to your teasing. But the way his eyes brightened gave away his true emotions.

He leant in ever so slightly, his mouth angling towards your ear as he spoke. "Careful, I might have to rescind my offer to buy you your next round." You fought off a shiver as his voice reverberated up through your spine.

You tilted your chin up slightly so you could look up at him through your lashes. "Well luckily I would have rejected your offer anyway. You bought my last two drinks."

His brows jerked up, a casual smile hanging from his lips. "Here I was thinking you appreciated my generosity."

You laughed, leaning in closer just a fraction. "Of course I do, I just think it's time I repay that generosity by buying the next round."

With that you twisted around to sidle out of the booth. This was where the strategy came into play. You'd learnt from previous nights out that if you were against the wall, Clark would never let you past to buy yourself a drink.

You felt a large hand gently envelope your wrist. You turned around on the seat to see him frowning at you.

"You don't need to buy me a drink."

You giggled at the seriousness on his features. "I don't need to, but I want to." You tapped his forearm teasingly. "And I'n not taking no for an answer." Your tone was stern, but lacked any real bite.

He studied you and for a brief moment, the roar of the bar and the chatter of your friends faded into the background, making it feel like it was only the two of you in the room. Your skin encircled by his grip felt like it was on fire.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope." You smacked your lips obnoxiously. He tried to maintain a serious expression but failed, his mouth twisted up into a smirk as he shook his head in defeat.

"Fine. But I'm coming with you."

You felt triumphant in your defeat. "Your company is welcome."

You slid out of the booth towards the bar, Clark hot on your heels. You couldn't control your giddy smile as you felt his hand gently brush over your lower back. It wasn't in a controlling way, it never was, but more of a quiet reassurance that he was there with you.

You loved when he got like this. Slightly more relaxed and touchy, even more clingy.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked.

“Can I get two lychee martinis please.”

You felt Clark shift to stand beside you, his fingertips grazing across your back as he moved.

“Lychee martini’s huh?”

You looked up at him, your features twisting in bemusement. “You act like you love beer in front of Jimmy, but I’ve seen your eyes light up when us girls order our fruity cocktails.”

“Master of deduction all of a sudden are we?”

“No.” You looked up at him innocently. “I just know what you like.”

Even in the dingy lighting you could see the apples of his cheeks grow pink. “Really?” His voice faltered ever so slightly, revealing his nerves.

“What else do I like then?”

He was looking at you so intently, like he was waiting with bated breath to hear your response. This time it was you turn for your cheeks to flush. You suddenly became very aware that his hand was still on your lower back.

Shit. Maybe your liquid courage had made you overshoot this. You were wading on the edge of uncharted waters here, tiptoeing the line between harmless office flirting and something much more real.

What scared you the most was that a part of you wanted to dive in head first.

“There you are!”

Lois’ voice was like cold water over a hot flame, pulling the two of you apart and extinguishing any moment that might have been.

“Do you know what time it is?” Lois’ eyes were wide as she glared at you, it was like Clark didn’t even exist. You forgot how scary she was when she was mad.

“Uh…” You hastily check the time on your phone. “8:37?”

“Oh my god.” Lois muttered. “You don’t remember what I organised for you tonight, do you?”

You stared at her helplessly, desperately racking your brain for a hint of what she might be talking about.

“Oh.” It hit you like a train. “Oh fuck.”

“Oh fuck is right.”

“What is happening right now?” Clark asked, his eyes darting between the two of you.

“Lois organised a blind date for me and I completely forgot.” You inwardly cursed yourself as you fished your lipgloss out of your bag.

She was never going to forgive you for this.

“A date?”

“The restaurant is just on the next block over isn’t it?” Clark’s query got drowned out by you and Lois.

“Yes. He’s been sitting there for like 40 minutes you know.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” You hastily reapplied your gloss before throwing it back into your bag.

You finally turned your attention to Clark. “I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll be back.” You looked over sheepishly at Lois. “On the bright side, you now get a free lychee martini.”

You were so frazzled that you missed the clench of his jaw and the grimace set on his features. Unfortunately for Clark, Lois did not.

“Ok bye!” Not wanting to have to see Lois’ judgmental glare again, you turned on your heel and made a beeline for the door.

Lois shook her head and mumbled something under her breath as she pulled out her phone. "I better go call him to make sure he doesn't leave before she gets there."

She looked up at Clark. "You ok?"

Clark flinched at the way her tone softened, it was as gentle as Lois got, like she was worried he might break. "Why wouldn't I be?" The question came out harsher than he'd intended.

Lois raised a brow but didn't say another word as she pressed her phone to her ear and moved to find a quieter pocket of the bar.

His shoulders slumped as he felt his good mood deflate like a popped balloon.

"Here you go." The bartender plonked the two lychee martinis in front of him. He stared down at them. It felt like they were mocking him, reminding him that the cloud nine he had been floating on had been snatched from him so quickly.

"Yo, did you order these? Wait let me guess, they're for Y/N." Just to dig the knife in further, the universe had sent him a tipsy Jimmy Olsen.

"She ordered them for us but she left."

Jimmy's brow knitted together. "Where'd she go?"

"On a blind date that Lois organised for her."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Clark didn't care to mellow the bitterness on his tongue as he picked up one of the glasses and took a deep sip.

"I'm sorry man."

There it was again - the pity. Jimmy Olsen didn't do pity, which could mean only one thing. Clark was well and truly screwed.

He glanced over at Jimmy to see him surveying the bar, his eyes glassy and his balance slightly off kilter. Jimmy never had any problems with women. In fact, he seemed to have problems with getting them to stay away from him.

He felt himself waver. Rule three was the only one of his rules still unbroken and that was for a reason. Was he really about to stoop this low? Destroy whatever dignity he had left?

The memory of the heat of your leg against his and your wine flushed cheeks invaded his thoughts, compromising his senses. He could never think logically when it came to you.

"Jimmy I-" He stopped himself. The words were thick and heavy on his tongue, like they were desperately trying to claw their way back down his throat. He was going to have to force them out.

"Yeah?"

"I need your help."

Jimmy looked like he'd hit the powerball in that moment, but was quick to throw on a mask of indifference as he leant casually against the bar.

"With?" Jimmy knew what. He just wanted to hear him say it.

Clark sighed in defeat, "with Y/N. I don't know what to do."

"Buddy, I have been waiting for you to ask me for Jimmy's help." His grin was almost impish as he clapped a hand onto Clark's shoulders. "And luckily for you, I have already thought of a solution."

"Which is?"

"Simple." Jimmy shrugged. "Just act like you're not interested." Before Clark could protest he lurched forward and snatched the second martini off the bar.

"Act like I'm not.... interested?" Clark watched as Jimmy downed half the liquid in one gulp.

"Yeah."

Clark blinked, "uh-" He cocked his head slightly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means no more planned coffee refills or lunch deliveries or detoured commutes which yes-" He held up a hand to stop Clark from interrupting. "- I know all about, because I know everything about everyone. The point is, you can still be your nice Smallville self but strictly no boyfriend activities."

"But I'm not her boyfriend."

Jimmy nodding enthusiastically. "Exactly. She doesn't get to redeem boyfriend privileges on a friendship membership."

Clark just felt more and more confused the longer Jimmy kept talking. "Right, ok." He nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he tried to decipher Jimmy Olsen code.

"How will I know if it's working?"

"Trust me. You'll know."

"I just-"

Images of you invaded his thoughts again. Heat coursed through him at the thought of the look you gave him as he slid his hand down the small of your back or when he complimented your baking or writing.

"I don't know if I can."

"Clark." Jimmy clasped onto his shoulder dramatically. "You have the drive to break some of the biggest stories in Metropolis, you have the discipline to ask the right questions at the right time and the patience to wait out a witness or a source, the dedication to craft a story so it practically jumps off the page."

Clark was mesmerised, tipsy Jimmy was never usually this prophetic.

"Take a dose of self-restraint and harness the willpower I know you've got in you."

He nodded, totally absorbed by Jimmy's emphatic display. "Ok, I will."

"That's my boy." Jimmy clapped his back. "Oh and-" He hiccuped. "Best we don't mention this conversation to the others, Cat and Lois will run straight to her. Girl code and all that."

"Good point."

"Hey jackass! Did you drink my martini? Y/N promised it to me." Lois appeared between them, her arms crossed as she glared at the empty glass in Jimmy's hand.

Clark tuned out as they began to argue, the cogs of his mind spinning at how he was somehow going to muster up the strength to resist being at your beck and call for everything and anything. He was Superman, surely this couldn't be too hard - could it?

"Clark Kent on willpower.... got it." He muttered to himself.

You'd woken up on Saturday with a dull pounding in between your ears and sharp sleep in your eyes. Monday had rolled around way too soon after a weekend of bed rotting, but at least you were feeling back to your usual self.

You strolled into the chaos of the bullpen that always greeted you, coffee in hand and handbag jolting against your hip. Cat and Lois were already at their desks. Surprisingly, so was Clark.

"Morning."

"Morning sunshine." Lois greeted, not looking up from her computer.

"How was your hot date on Friday night?" Cat wiggled her eyebrows as she twisted around in her desk chair to face you.

"Not so hot." You answered, dumping your bag underneath your desk. "He was lovely but it was just..." You trailed off as you tried to find the right word.

"Boring?" Cat suggested as you sat down in your chair.

"He's Lois' friend, impossible for him to be boring."

Lois' mouth quirking up slightly was the only sign that she was indeed listening, and agreed.

"No it was just, I don't know, more of a friend vibe. I don't think he really felt the connection either."

"Oh no he was into you." Lois chimed in. You swirled around to look at her in disbelief. "Was never going to admit it when you ended the date with 'so.... friends?' though."

"Ouch." Cat laughed.

"Why'd you have to tell me that?" You whined.

"Just keeping it real."

You groaned as you turned around to face your computer, deciding that it was better to do some work then continue on this conversation any longer.

Cat tutted from her desk, "you should know better than that honey, girls that look like you don't get friendzoned."

You couldn't help but steal a glance over at Clark. He was staring intently at his computer screen, barely even blinking, like he was trying too hard to act like he wasn't hanging on to every single word.

You didn't notice it at first, the subtle shift in the Daily Planet continuum.

You were so caught up in your work that you didn't clock that it had gotten to mid morning and your coffee cup hadn't been refilled, or that after lunch a sandwich hadn't magically appeared on your desk.

In the mid-afternoon you finally got a chance to talk to Clark when the pair of you reached the coffee machine at the same time. The two of you were so busy it wasn't unusual that you'd barely speak some days.

"I didn't see you at Duke's when I came back." You opened the cupboard and reached up on your tippy toes to grab one of your favourite mugs.

"Oh yeah I decided to head home, needed to do some things early on Saturday morning." Clark reached up and grabbed the mug for you with ease.

You went to take the mug from him, but he placed it on the counter before you could.

"Thanks." You smiled. "Well you made the right decision, I should have gone home about four hours before I actually did."

Clark let out a short, polite laugh before picking up his mug and heading back to his desk. You didn't think anything of it, sometimes when Clark got deep into a story he ventured into nonverbal territory.

At the end of the day you habitually looked over at Clark's desk to see if he was ready to leave so the two of you could walk part of your commute together, but he was already gone.

By Wednesday, you were starting to notice something was off.

You realised that Clark had started taking a different route to the kitchen, bypassing your desk entirely. It was the shorter route, so you initially figured that maybe he was trying to be more time efficient. But on the flip side this was the same man who was consistently late and would disappear for hours at a time in the middle of the day to go superhero-ing.

When your stomach growled you looked up from your article to see him sitting and eating lunch at his desk. It was from the same place he always went to, except this time he hadn't brought back a sandwich for you.

You also realised that Clark hadn't called you on the weekend to check on your hangover, or sent you any perfectly curated instagram reels.

At the end of the day you made sure to pack up at the same time as him, so you could casually wonder over to his desk and ask, "you ready to head off?"

"Oh you shouldn’t wait for me, I've started taking a different route home. Saves me like forty minutes each way."

“Ok no problem, see you tomorrow then."

You'd tried to ignore the wave of disappointment that washed over you as you made your way towards the elevator. You really enjoyed your walks home together, catching up on everything you hadn't had time to say during the day. Talking about movies or books or office gossip. Now you just had your airpods as company.

And now that you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.

It was like a loose thread, and now that you'd tugged on it the whole thing had begun to unravel - splitting the rift wide open.

At first you thought you were going crazy, reading too much into things.

He was still pleasant and kind, of course. But there was something missing. It was like someone had filled your connection up with cement and sealed it over. There was no depth anymore, every smile and conversation was clipped and surface level. No more inside jokes or shared glances. No more hovering at your desk for the off chance you might want to have a break and have a chat.

When you brought in a freshly baked batch of cookies on Friday you made sure to make his favourite, but all you got was a polite thank you and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He also never handed you anything anymore. He just put it down on whatever flat surface was between you two, almost as if he was ensured that there was no chance of the two of you even slightly brushing fingers.

When you took a few days off sick all you got was a polite, some might even describe as courteous, text message checking in to make sure you were ok. No random drop by to bring you soup or daily check ins to see if you needed anything from the pharmacy.

He also hadn't touched you since the night at Duke's when his hand had brushed along your lower back. And now it was all you could think about.

You felt like waving at him and saying 'very funny Clark! The joke can be over now!'. But what could you actually say without sounding insane?

'Hi Clark, I noticed you've stopped brushing your fingers against mine when you hand me a pencil or conveniently walking past my desk when I need a refill, everything ok?'. You might as well just say ‘so, why aren't you obsessed with me anymore?'

But saying all of those things would mean that you'd have to first admit that there was something between the two of you, and then secondly that you missed whatever had been between the two of you.

You sighed and flopped down on your couch. It was a Friday and you had no plans except for a date with a glass or two of wine and chinese takeout. That was when an idea popped into your head. Maybe he was just so busy that he'd forgotten you had existed. And if that was the case, you could very much remind him.

You pulled out your phone and opened up your contacts. Clark's name stared back at you, illuminating your face in the dark of your apartment. This was such a stupid idea, but the wine had already gone to your head and before you could overthink further your thumb had pressed onto his number.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you pressed your phone to your ear. The ringing dragged on for so long that you were convinced he wasn't going to pick up. You had just moved your phone away from your ear to hang up when the ringing abruptly stopped.

"Hello?"

"Clark, hey - it's me." You internally cringed. Of course he knew it was you idiot. "Is there any chance you're still at the office?"

"Unfortunately for me, yes."

"Yeah I kind of figured you might be... hence why you were the first call." That loosened a short chuckle from him.

"The reason I was calling is because I accidentally left some reports on my desk that I was hoping to look through tonight... any chance you could drop them over? I appreciate it's a really big ask so totally fine if not."

You could practically hear him having a struggle with himself about what to say through the silence on the phone.

"Sure, I'll head over now."

You beamed, "thanks Clark. I'll pay for your taxi over."

His breathless chuckle crackled through the speaker, "you really don't have to do that. I'll be there soon."

"Ok see you soon."

The second the call disconnected you sprung up and practically sprinted into your bedroom. You rifled through your dresser until you located your cutest pyjama set in the bottom draw. A cream cami set hemmed in pink frills with matching pink hearts dotted all over it.

The second it was on you hurried into the bathroom. You ran your brush through your hair and dabbed on some blush and clear lip gloss. Just enough so you could say 'why yes Clark, I do just naturally look this rosy cheeked and glowy when I'm laying around at home.'

The doorbell ringing seemed to snap you out of your psychosis. What on earth were you thinking? This whole plan was insane. But it was too late now, he was here and you were dressed like this. Might as well make the most of it.

You ran your fingers through your hair and puckered your lips one last time before opening the door.

"Hey I wasn't sure which ones you wanted so I just brought-" Clark's eyes practically bulged out of his head when he looked up from the stack of papers in his hands.

"I- He swallowed as his eyes involuntarily darted down over your figure. "Golly sorry I just- it's been a long day."

You shot him your signature smile as you leant against the door, jutting your hip out. It was working.

"That's ok, thank you so much for bringing them over."

"Don't mention it." He muttered, his cheeks growing red as he hastily shoved the papers into your awaiting arms.

"You want to come in? I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.”

"Sorry I can't I uh - I've got this urgent deadline." He jerked his thumb haphazardly over his shoulder as he took a step back from the doorway.

You frowned. This was not part of the plan. You thought you had him hook, line and sinker.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah it's um... urgent." You watched as he began to back away from the door towards the elevator. The chances of you reeling him in were rapidly dwindling.

“I’ve got leftover cookies and wine. My way of saying thanks.”

“No sorry it’s just- yeah I’ve really got to go.”

"Ok well, I'll see you Monday." You tried to hide the disappointment in your tone. "Thanks again."

"Anytime. Have a good weekend."

Clark waited until he was outside before he pressed his back against the brick of your apartment building and let out a shaky breath. He pressed his phone to his ear and glanced down at his feet.

"Gosh darn it." He cursed, bringing his satchel over the front of his groin to hide his growing excitement.

"Buddy, what's up?" He ground his teeth at the jovial tone of his best friend.

"Jimmy, I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."

"Woah wait, what happened?"

"I'm going crazy." He snapped. "She just rang me asking if I could bring some documents over to her place that she forgot and of course I couldn't say no and when I answered the door she was standing there in these-" He pressed his bag firmer into his groin as memories of your pyjamas taunted him.

"-these lacy pyjamas and I nearly combusted right then and there." He hissed, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot.

"Lacy pyjamas?" Jimmy let out a low whistle. "Geez I didn't think she had it in her."

"Jimmy." Clark bit out.

"Sorry, but I don't know why you're freaking out. This is great."

"How is this great?"

"Because... it means our strategy is working. Think about it. Have you ever known her to just 'forget' something important that is work related?"

The receiver crackled slightly as Clark processed Jimmy's words. He had a point, you forgot a lot of things, but never anything in relation to your work. You were a gun.

"The point is she doesn't. So, she either intentionally forgot them or didn't actually need them."

"But why would she do that?"

Jimmy sighed. "Honestly Clark, your naivety is endearing but also so concerning at the same time. She wanted you to come over and see her in those pyjamas."

Clark glanced up at your apartment building, "you really think so?"

"I know so. This is her trying to remind you that she exists. To tempt you."

"Oh golly... I definitely know she exists." You were literally all he thought about.

"Yes but she doesn't know that. Trust me, it's working. Just keep doing what you're doing."

Clark sighed, "How long do I have to keep doing this?"

"Until she cracks."

"And when will I know when she cracks?"

"Oh, you'll know."

"I don't understand, he used to be literally obsessed with me."

"I'm pretty sure he still is."

You glumly look up from your coffee at Lois. "Something's changed. This is a version of Clark I don't even recognise." You pause as you lift your coffee to your lips. "I want a refund." You muttered into the liquid.

"Maybe he's playing hard to get." Cat suggested.

"This is Smallville we're talking about. Playing hard to get would be physically impossible for him." Lois remarked.

"True. Maybe he's just... going through some stuff."

You sighed and slumped into your chair. "I don't know what I did, but he hates me."

"He definitely does not hate you."

"How do you know?"

"Because, I see the way he looks at you from his desk when you're not looking." Lois raised her brows. "Trust me. It's sickening."

"Then what do I do?"

"Well." Lois leant forward over the table. "Firstly I think we need an answer as to why this is bothering you so much."

You crossed your arms over your chest. "Because Clark is my friend and he's acting weird."

Lois' eyes narrowed, her face sharpening into that interrogative look she often got when she was about to blow a story wide open.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Let's just cut to the chase. We both know you like him." Cat interjected.

Your eyes darted between them nervously. "Why do I feel like this is an interrogation?"

"It's not an interrogation if we already have the answers." Lois said smugly.

"Ok let's just say hypothetically I did have some...feelings for him." You began. "It takes me back to my initial question which is, what do I do?"

Thankfully they were both kind enough not to shout 'I told you so' in your face, but you knew they both desperately wanted to.

"Well the logical answer is to tell him how you feel but obviously you don't want to do that because that would mean you would have to admit your feelings and lower those walls you've built around yourself."

You glowered at Lois. "I don't remember asking to be psychoanalysed."

"Yeah ease up Sherlock." Cat rolled her eyes. "Although she has a point, I agree it's a big jump to outright say anything. I think he just needs a nudge, a reminder that you exist."

You winced. "What if I've already tried that?"

There was a pause as Cat and Lois blinked insync before leaning forward. "What do you mean?"

Your cheeks flushed as you recounted the pyjama incident. Even Lois' infamous poker face faltered at points. Silence enveloped the three of you once you finished as the girls digested what they'd just heard.

"Shit. This is worse than I thought." Lois finally spoke.

"See why I'm stressing! My slutty pyjamas aren't even tempting him."

"You're down bad." Cat tutted and shook her head.

You shot her a glare, "not helpful."

"There's no need to stress yet. Clark's a gentlemen and as innocent as a lamb, he might have not picked up on anything or was too flustered to react."

Cat nodded in agreement. "Clark is hopeless. It needs to be something that gives you guys a chance to spend more time together, like working on an article or going to a work event."

"There is the gala that's coming up, the one Perry invited us all too." You suggested meekly.

"Yes that's perfect."

Lois nodded at Cat's answer in agreement.

"Ask him to go with you, you don't need to suggest it as a date or anything, but even Clark's not that clueless. And if for some reason it went pear-shaped, you can just say something like 'oh I meant like a group of us all go together'."

You looked at them intently, "you two are geniuses."

"Tell us something we don't know." Cat winked.

"Oh and be confident. One smile and bat of your lashes and he's putty in your hands. You're the prize, remember that." You smiled as a rare glimpse of affection crossed Lois' face.

She was right, you had him wrapped around your finger. You could dissolve his willpower in a matter of seconds if you wanted to.

"I can do that."

You finally got your opportunity the day before the gala when you wandered into the break room and realised it was just you and Clark in the tiny space.

"Hey." You smiled.

"Hey." He muffled out as he awkwardly tried to shove the mouthful of egg salad sandwich that was currently glued between his teeth down his throat.

You tried to control your nerves as you confidently crossed the room.

"I can't believe Perry's dragging us to one of those galas again." You commented casually as you grabbed your lunch out of the fridge.

"Yeah I know. Hopefully the food's better than the last one." He'd just confirmed that he was planning to go. Off to a good start.

"Surprised we didn't get food poisoning." You remarked as you shut the fridge door with your heel.

Clark chuckled in agreement before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"So I was thinking..." You trailed off as you perched on the table, swivelling your torso around so you were looking down at him. You swallowed as you caught a whiff of his cologne. This was the closest you two had been in weeks.

"You and I should go to this thing together, you know as a preventative measure to try and mitigate the inevitable boring conversations." You made sure your face was the perfect image of calm, with the addition of a soft smile and a flutter of your lashes.

Clark spluttered at your words causing his food to get caught in his throat and for a second you thought he might actually be at risk of choking.

"Clark are you ok-" You leant forward to touch his arm gently.

He jerked his arm back so quickly you were surprised he didn't get whiplash. The movement was so violent you felt the table shake underneath you.

"Sorry I-I can't."

You recoiled like you'd just been slapped. You felt nausea pool in your stomach. Could he really not bear for you to even touch him? It was like you were a leper and even your presence repulsed him.

You forced a tight lipped smile onto your face. "Got better plans huh?" You were aiming for a teasing tone, but instead it just came out pained. You prayed that he didn't catch the way your voice wavered at the end.

"I um- I'm already bringing someone."

Suddenly it all made sense. The complete shift in attitude, the lack of interest. He'd met someone else. You supposed you couldn't really be mad, you'd gone on a date yourself not that long ago. And yet, you were. You felt the rage bubble in the pit of your stomach, seeping into your bones.

You both had still been friends. Good friends in fact. Or at least you'd thought so. Was that all it ever was? He was attracted to you and then when he found someone better, you were just discarded? That didn't seem like the Clark you knew, your Clark.

Then again, you supposed he wasn't ever really yours.

"I see." You nodded. "I'm looking forward to meeting them." You shot him a smile that you knew didn't reach your eyes.

You pushed yourself off the desk and hastily made your way to the door, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

Your hand hovered over the handle, your heart rooting your feet into the ground. Something inexplicable forced you to twist around to face him. He was still staring at you.

"You know... I actually hate baking."

You laughed bitterly as you thought about the hours you'd spent cursing the kitchen as you measured the ingredients and rolled dough.

"But you mentioned once that you hadn't had a good cookie since you'd left Smallville and I thought what the hell, I can give it a go. And then after your reaction.... I just kept going."

You forced your voice to stay steady as you kept your eyes locked with his.

"Now that I think about it, maybe it was my way of giving you a piece of me without realising it."

The silence between you was taught but Clark's jaw was slack as he tried to make sense of what you'd just unleashed.

"I'll see you tomorrow night."

Without another word you shut the door, giving you the much needed separation. You exhaled a shaky breath as you forced yourself to keep walking back to your desk.

You hadn't realised how much you would miss him. Yes, you still technically saw him everyday, but having him be present and having his presence were two very different things.

He'd always been so reliant. He was like a steady current, always keeping you afloat even when you felt your confidence waiver.

Now you felt like you were a ship lost at sea, floating aimlessly in the still water, your walls well and truly under siege.

The gala was exactly as Clark had predicted. Packed with boring donors who all walked around with stiff upper lips and perfect postures. The waiters were carrying around plates of food that looked like they'd be more suited to be served on Krypton than Earth.

But according to his heart rate, this was the equivalent of taking on an intergalactic threat. He fiddled with his bowtie as he scanned the room. He still hadn't spotted the reason for his rapid pulse.

He'd barely slept last night. Your conversation in the break room playing on a loop as he picked through it, sifting through the inflection of your speech and the micro expressions on your face.

The second he'd said he was bringing someone else, he wanted to take it back, to collect those words up and stuff them back down his throat. He had no idea why he said it. But the look on your face when you’d tried to make a joke of the situation had made him so close to blurting out everything that he'd just said the first excuse that had popped into his head.

He'd wanted to run after you, to drop onto his hands and knees and explain that he'd meant none of it. But when you'd turned and looked back at him, he froze with his mouth open, like a pathetic clown at one of those fair stalls.

He noted the beautiful chandelier and the antique paintings and décor peppered throughout the ballroom. You would love it. He wanted to point it out to you, to tell you how the shimmering chandelier reminded him of you. How it was nearly as effervescent as you - but not quite, because that would be impossible.

"There you are Kent!" Cat and Lois approached him. No sign of you.

"Where's Y/N?"

Clark frowned, "she's not with you?"

Lois and Cat exchanged a look. "She didn't ask you to come with her?"

Clark's cheeks reddened. "How do you know about that?"

Another look was exchanged. Clark got the feeling they were having a conversation right in front of him.

"So you said...no?" Cat folded her arms in front of her chest.

"I-" Clark glanced between them, swallowing nervously at their piercing gazes.

"I told her I was bringing someone."

"And did you? 'cause I sure as hell don't see anyone."

"No." He admitted quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Explain. Now."

Clark felt himself beginning to unravel. "Well Jimmy told me that I should-"

"Well well well, don't we all scrub up nicely!"

The three of them turned to see Jimmy sauntering towards them. He froze when he saw Cat and Lois' murderous expressions. He gulped at the sight of Clark's terrified one.

"You know I kind of feel like I'm interrupting something so I'm just going to-"

"No." Lois' voice cut through the tension like a blade. "I really think you should stay."

"Clark was just about to tell us why he told Y/N he couldn't come with her tonight and that he was bringing a date."

"Wait what-" Jimmy balked.

Lois held up a hand, "continue Clark."

Clark's eyes darted to Jimmy nervously before looking back at her. "Well Jimmy suggested that I act less interested, to stop acting like I was her 'boyfriend'."

"You what-"

"It was just so she could realise how much she would miss him fawning over her." Jimmy protested. "I didn't tell him to turn her down if she asked him out."

Clark winced under Jimmy's glare. "I just panicked, but after everything she said in the break room yesterday, I've decided that I'm going to tell her how I really feel."

There was a pause as everyone processed his words.

"Clark." Lois said slowly, her voice eerily calm. "What did she tell you yesterday in the break room?"

"She told me that she actually didn't really like baking but saw how much I liked it and that... that it was a way for her to give me a piece of her without realising it."

They all looked at him in disbelief. Clark thought Lois might actually punch him.

"Jesus Clark." Jimmy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Remember when I told you that you'd know when she cracked?"

There was a pause as Clark swallowed nervously, "that was her cracking, wasn't it?"

"Fuck." Cat breathed out, catching sight of something behind Clark's shoulder.

Clark swivelled around and felt his heart nearly burst out his chest at the sight of you. The polished floors reflected the shimmer of your floor length pale yellow gown. You turned to grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter, revealing the low cut of the dress at the back.

You met his eyes from across the room. An unreadable look crossed your features as you took a sip of your drink. Clark blinked and you were gone, lost in the sea of attendees.

Clark turned back to see Lois' eyes fixed on him. If looks could kill, he'd be a dead man. He gulped.

"Fix it. Or else the Planet's headline tomorrow is going to read 'Journalist brutally murdered by co-worker over his inexplicable stupidity'."

You had no idea why you were here. It must be some sick and twisted new form of self-flagellation that your brain had concocted. The second you saw Clark standing there in his tux you had felt what little resolve you'd patched up over the last twenty four hours crumble. The only saving grace was that you were yet to see his date. That might just be your last straw.

You should have brought someone as revenge. You’d thought about it. But you didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

You watched a server walk past you, your face scrunching in disgust. If you were speaking to Clark, you would have asked him if he'd flown to Krypton to supply the food at this thing.

Within ten minutes of walking in the door, you'd been cornered by an older man who was claiming to be incredibly interested in your line of work. You watched as his eyes moved down your body. More like the line of your underwear.

"I don't understand how someone like you could be here alone." He purred. "You have to let me take you out onto the dance floor. I won't take no for an answer."

And there it was.

"I'm not-"

"She's not alone."

You didn't need to turn to know who it was. The way his voice crept up your spine was enough to give away his identity. You stole a glance up at him. He towered over you, even in your heels. The heat that radiated from him was enough to make you weak in your knees.

You were close enough that you could see the tick of his jaw as he clenched it. His blue eyes piercing holes through the man in front of you.

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realise." He stammered, cowering under Clark's glare.

He glanced at you and muttered, "Have a lovely evening."

"You too." You answered, shooting him a sarcastic smile as he scurried away.

"Creep." You grumbled under your breath.

His eyes were already fixed on you when you looked up at him this time, like he was trying to mesmerise every detail of your face.

"You look beautiful."

You tried to unscramble your brain as you studied him. The proximity that you had been craving for weeks was clouding your judgement, sending your senses completely off kilter.

"Would you... like to dance?"

The yes that you wanted to say was desperately trying to leap off your tongue. He studied your face like it was a work of art. You could sense his hand hovering over your skin, threatening to touch you. The yes was on the precipice now.

"I'm bringing someone else."

His words echoed in your brain, shoving you back into reality. He'd turned you down and now he had the audacity to do all of this without an explanation?

You took a step back, his outstretched hand falling limp at his side immediately. Your face hardened as you stared at him.

"Actually, I think I need some air."

His lips began to form your name but you turned and made a beeline for an exit before they could reach your ears. The satin fabric of your dress clung to you as you weaved through the crowd, which all suddenly felt much too suffocating.

You went through the closest door you could find, spilling out onto a small balcony overlooking the city. The room that the gala was being held in was so soundproof it was easy to forget that you were right in the heart of it. The combination of the harsh sounds of a humming Metropolis below you and the crisp night air hitting your exposed skin was a shock to the system.

You gripped onto the rail, exhaling a shaky breath as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

You squeezed your eyes shut at the sound of the door opening and closing behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind you. You could feel his presence, sense the way that the energy slightly shifted. Like time stilled around you just for a brief moment.

The sound of your name coming from his lips made you ache. He said it softly, just loud enough that the wind could carry it to you.

"Please just let me-"

"Enough mind games Clark." It was supposed to come out as a demand, but it came out more like a plea as you turned to him.

His glasses were in his suit pocket, leaving his face raw and exposed. The face that you knew only a select few got to see. The one that carried the weight of the world on its shoulders. The one that had thrown your life into disarray.

"For weeks you wouldn't touch me with a twenty foot pole and now you're looking at me like you never want to let me go." Your voice was painfully wobbly as your grip tightened on the rail, like it might somehow steady you in the storm of emotions.

"I know.” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I've really screwed up. But I can explain." His expression was desperate, his eyes shining with a mixture of emotions.

He took your silence as permission to continue. "I didn't have a date for tonight. I made it up because I was so close to telling you the truth and it was the first excuse that popped into my head."

"The truth?"

He inhaled a deep breath. "After the night at Duke's when you left to go to your date I kind of... spiralled. I broke one of my golden work rules and I..." He looked like he was physically in pain from what he was about to admit, "I took advice from Jimmy."

You blinked in surprise. "You took advice from Jimmy?"

He nodded.

"Clark." You spoke slowly as you tried to process what he’d just said. "what advice did Jimmy give you?"

"He told me to pretend I wasn't interested in you and to stop doting on you, something about 'no boyfriend privileges on a friendship membership'."

Despite everything, you let out a snort of laughter. "Oh my god."

"I know, it's stupid. I'm a jerk. I'm so sorry."

You shook your head in disbelief, "no, you're not. I'm the jerk. Or I guess- maybe we’ve both been jerks.”

You let out a defeated sigh at his confused expression. If he was going to be honest with you, it was about time you returned the favour.

"I knew you had a crush on me. I knew for a while. And I enjoyed it. I liked the attention but not having to commit because that meant-" You felt a breath catch in your throat. "-that meant it wasn't ever going to be anything real. That I couldn't get hurt."

He took a step towards you as you felt your voice waiver again. "But then all of a sudden you weren't there anymore and I- I couldn't handle it. And it wasn't about the five refills of coffee a day I used to get without leaving my desk-"

His lips twitched up in amusement at that.

"It was about the fact that I missed our walks home together, the calls on the weekend after a new episode of our show came out, the way our hands would brush when you'd hand me a coffee cup. I just missed you."

You couldn't believe the words that were flowing out of your mouth, but now you'd started spilling your confessions to him, you couldn't stop, like you could feel yourself getting lighter as you unburdened yourself.

"I've missed you too. So much.” He breathed out. "It's why I was acting so strange. I couldn't risk you touching me...because I knew that if I felt your touch I wouldn't be able to hold myself back.” He let out a humourless chuckle.

“Heck, I couldn’t even bear to even really look at you properly. This has been- this has been torture for me. I’ve been on the edge the entire time.”

Your breathing hitched as he took another step towards you. "And don't get me started on that night I dropped those documents to your place."

You swore his eyes darkened for a split second as he looked down at you. You felt the energy crackle and pop as it shifted between you. You knew then. You weren’t on the edge of uncharted waters anymore, you were up to your neck in it.

"I thought I had you dead to rights there." Your tone was light, the side of your mouth quirking up.

He caught his lip between his teeth as he moved forward again. You were almost chest to chest now, so close that you could feel his body heat desperately reaching out to engulf you.

"Believe me, I had to use every last bit of my self control."

"Luckily for you, they're still in my drawer."

His face bloomed red at that. "Don't tease me."

"Who said I was teasing?"

You let out an audible gasp as he finally closed the gap between you, snaking his broad arms around your waist to bring you flush against his chest. You felt warmth bloom across your lower back as his fingers gently brushed your exposed flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He let out a shaky breath as he admired you. "Now that I've touched you again, I don't want to ever stop."

"Then don't." You murmured. Pleaded.

His breath fanned your face as he leant up to cradle your jaw. He tilted your head up so he could press his forehead against yours.

"I love you." He said it reverently, like he was swearing an oath at the alter of you. You squeezed your eyes shut as you processed his words. "I have since the first day you walked into the Planet. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner.” When you opened them again, his eyes were glassy. You swore you could see the ocean in them.

"I love you too. I'm sorry it took me so long to admit it to myself, even when I've known it deep down this whole time."

Then his lips were finally on yours. If he hadn’t been holding you so tightly your knees might have buckled. The kiss was much like him, warm and steady, safe.

You knew it then. Your walls were well and truly down.

But you'd found your safe harbour.

The two of you only broke apart when you needed air, your chests ragged, Clark's bowtie askew.

"What?" Clark asked when he noticed the amused smile playing on your lips as you curled your fingers into the hairs on the nape of his neck.

"Nothing, I just can't believe Jimmy's advice actually worked."

"Me neither." He breathlessly chuckled.

"He can never find out." You both said simultaneously. You both broke into a fit of giggles, your noses bumping against each other as you clung to one another.

"Do you think we should go back inside? The others might be wondering where we are." You murmured against his lips.

Clark shook his head.

“I’ve used up all my willpower when it comes to you, I’m not spending another minute in there when I can have you out here all to myself."

“Good.” You grinned. "Because I’ve realised that I like my Clark Kent with absolutely zero willpower."

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

seeing double

summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader

warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint

notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂‍↕️

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

“Ew.”

The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.

You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.

“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.

McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.

“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.

You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.

After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.

“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.

“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.

“They’re raspberry flavoured.”

“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[ohtobeleah]

single!mom reader who brings her kid to the pitt and said kid proceeds to out the two of them and their secret relationship.

I tweaked this just a little bit, but it did inspire the next 2.5k

“Hi, my names Dr. Robinovitch, but everyone calls me Robby,” the man who addressed you said as he looked over your son’s admission chart. “What brought us in this morning?” He’s still reading over the notes that the triage nurse had recorded. 

“My son, Oliver,” you sounded so exhausted. It wasn’t hard to imagine you’d probably been up for as long as Robby himself had. A sick six-year-old would do that to someone. “I thought he just caught something from school—“ You started, but the words weren’t coming out fast enough. “I’m not so sure it’s just a cold anymore.” 

“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation. 

Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs. 

“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used. 

“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head. 

What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident. 

“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light. 

“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“ 

“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.” 

“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay. 

“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!” 

Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder. 

“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.” 

“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“ 

“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you. 

“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?” 

“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?” 

Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of. 

It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together. 

Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments. 

That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned. 

“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more. 

This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair. 

“I’m your damn primary now, alright?” 

You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips. 

Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before. 

“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.” 

“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw. 

“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller. 

“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.” 

“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer. 

“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove. 

And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg. 

“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?” 

“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face. 

“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?” 

“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you. 

“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?” 

“Nope.” 

“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter. 

“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood. 

“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot. 

“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment. 

“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold. 

“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?” 

“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?” 

“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.” 

“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was? 

“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.” 

“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.” 

“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.” 

“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.” 

By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him. 

“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins. 

Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare. 

“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.” 

Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush. 

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.” 

“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”

*******************

[sweetestcowboy]

CAN'T GET MUCH STRONGER!

୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ brendon park x resident!reader

୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. socially—brendon didn’t have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldn’t stabilize like bones.

୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol

୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)

୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14.4 k

part one: find another soldier!

Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there. 

Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The ‘drama’ that occurred within departmental staff—some of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol. 

Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to him 

He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception. 

Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.

“She’s doing perfectly on her own.” Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. “I mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.”

“That's not surprising. She’s always been miles above some of the other residents.” Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. “She’s managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.”

“I’m sure she’ll be sad to see you leave,” Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. “But, she’s blossoming here. Before you know it, she’ll be running this place.”

“Dr. Emmick,” Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction. 

She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didn’t look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in. 

She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a ‘good morning’ or ‘good night.’

The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.

Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, she’d keep the curious questions to herself.

“We’re only a few months shy from graduation again.” Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small ‘excuse me.’ “Do you have anyone in mind for chief residents?”

Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was. 

He snorted lightly, shaking his head. “At the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for one resident,” Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital. 

Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins. 

Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, “And if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, I’d hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.”

“I’m assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.” Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.

She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, “It’s someone we both have worked with extensively.”

When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.

When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.

Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. It’s not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift. 

Working under his command and his directive as his resident. 

“What about her makes her ideal for the position?” Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.

The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. “You want my professional opinion?”

“Obviously.”

“She is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.” Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didn’t care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. “As a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.”

Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.

“This observation is based on the last three months she’s been on the night shift?” He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.

Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. “As well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.”

“And you're confident in her abilities?”

The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.

No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.

If you had asked him, he’d describe it as running.

“You aren’t?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief. 

“I think that in the majority of the three years I’ve witnessed her work, I’ve noticed moments requiring additional correction.” Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.

The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.

“All residents need to be corrected.” Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. “I’m not saying she’s perfect.”

“It was implied strongly by your choice of words.”

“Well, in comparison to some of the other residents, she’s damn near it.” Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest. 

Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.

“I thought maybe you might agree.” She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.

Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. “Why is that?”

“Because I like to believe you couldn’t possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.” Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where he’d have to turn and face the issue.

What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all he’d wanted, and most of his residents wouldn’t blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.

“Especially not a resident like her.”

He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. “The residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. It’s not a title handed prematurely.”

“Like Sullivan?” She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair. 

Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didn’t bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasn’t to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him. 

But, she had a nasty bite. 

Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick might’ve argued the two female 4th year residents would’ve made wonderful selections.

“Look, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.” She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration. 

When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. “If this is about her moving to night shift, that might’ve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.”

“What do you mean?” He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field. 

“I told her I could use a resident with her skill.” She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didn’t hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did. 

She shrugged, her smile upside. “I didn’t think she’d want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.”

Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.

All the effort he put in was just him being too “proud” and “arrogant.” He expected more from you, and he didn’t need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate. 

“I still stand by the fact she’s exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didn’t even consider her.” She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.

On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to “thank” him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns. 

So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him. 

Philosophy wasn’t Brendon’s strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospital—as a surgeon—that could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.

‘Your patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they don’t make it.’ was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.

He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.

It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves. 

He had put that weight on you. 

He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?

You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.

Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.

He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing. 

Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.

She’d pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.

These weren’t kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.

He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the “shark” persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.

Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.

Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.

Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.

He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, “Where is that one doctor? She’s the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.”

Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, “Would it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?”

Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. “Her shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once you’re resting up in post-op.”

Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. “Good friend of hers, I assume?”

With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. “Roommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.”

A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. “Reminded of my late wife and I.”

Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis. 

He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line. 

Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.

“Where is Dr. Emmick?” Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.

Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, “She got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.”

“Alone?” Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head. 

He knew exactly who was missing. He didn’t need to specify where his curiosity lied.

“No,” Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, “Dr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she would’ve said no to it.” 

“Better her than me.” Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.

“As a fourth-year resident, it should be you.” Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. “How do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute you’re standing over a patient with everything at stake?”

Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. “It was a joke.”

Park didn’t elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.

Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery. 

However, Brendon couldn’t help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.

Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, “I heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.”

Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.

Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago. 

Brendon never embellished the truth—whether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.

“Maybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.” Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. “Do you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?”

Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, “Something tells me you’re going to give it to me regardless.”

Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, “I want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.”

Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasn’t going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. “I don’t want you to think this is some plug just because she’s my roommate or because we’re close.”

Brendon didn’t need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. “She is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.”

“Are you sure she’ll survive without you?” Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasn’t the type of concern Emmick would’ve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t vocalize it yet either.

Sully cocked his head to the side, “I don’t doubt it. The real question is if I’m going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.”

Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didn’t get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection they’d search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat. 

It was like they knew you’d throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to ‘figure it out’ on their own like Park would do.

“The lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.” Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.

Sully chuckled, “If she weren’t set on staying, I would drag her over with me.”

Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patient’s leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department. 

He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldn’t stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by ‘Park the Shark.’ Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, he’d never advocate on their behalf.

Brendon didn’t get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.

“I’m still going to hold her a place over there just in case.” Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss. 

Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. “Shouldn’t you be doing hand-offs with the rest?”

Sully didn’t look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. “I’m telling you this because I’d hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until it’s too late.”

Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didn’t relinquish. He didn’t care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was “best” for his department. 

“You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here.” Sully stated with firmness.

From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didn’t doubt that you’d share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasn’t exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.

What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.

They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didn’t make it easy, and they certainly wouldn’t have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.

Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. He’d chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint. 

Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor. 

He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldn’t handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.

Yet, you didn’t fit that image, physically or metaphorically. 

You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to ‘ease up’ on the only resident able to keep up with him.

He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to ‘ease up’ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands. 

Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.

When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadn’t realized how late the surgery ended.

There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.

It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.

He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh. 

Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although he’d probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.

He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasn’t until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.

“I swear, I’ve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.” You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath. 

Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, “He’s not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.”

“So, how come he’s leaving?” Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.

There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. “He doesn’t see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.”

“And how about you?” Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. “You’re pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?” 

You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. “I haven’t decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.”

“Don’t wait too long.” Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendon’s parents did to him. 

Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didn’t have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didn’t need personal distractions to keep him occupied. 

“Sometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.” Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. “If I had taken my own advice, I would’ve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.”

Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didn’t need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patient’s door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door. 

He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket. 

Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. “Dr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?”

“No,” The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. “I’m here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.”

With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. “I will check on you tonight.”

He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. “So soon? You just can’t stay away from this place, huh?”

While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. “What can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.”

Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.

“If you’re looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.” You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you. 

“How did the surgery go?’ He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.

You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.”

The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldn’t have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasn’t the true reason you had delayed leaving.

Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.

“How come you were pulled to assist?” Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.

When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.

You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. “Is there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?”

The question wasn’t proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him. 

He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.

Working for 24 hours—half of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether you’d give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.

“Typically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.” Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.

You didn’t remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Don’t get used to this treatment. It’s not meant to last.

“I responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmick’s directive to have me on the surgical team.” You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. “It was a learning opportunity.”

Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be ‘equals’ if you could barely speak words to him?

“I have to go home. I work another shift tonight.” 

Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge. 

Brendon’s hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly. 

He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, “See you next week for day shift.”

Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better. 

That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someone’s quality of life.

That is a lot harder said than done when patients weren’t easily agreeable to their plan of care.

Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didn’t understand that type of reliance.

Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.

A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them. 

“We just don’t feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?” The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.

He shouldn’t have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.

“We don’t have precise numbers, but most children recover well.” Brendon’s concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“But, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?” The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her. 

“So we aren’t even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?” She continued with a shaky breath.

He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.

Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.

You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.”

When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?

The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.

Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. “We will need more time to think about this, anyway.”

“Let the nurse know when you’re ready.” Brendon curtly responded.

You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, “What is it?”

“ER needs a consult.” You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.

When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. “Why hasn’t anyone gone down?”

“Bryant did.” You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. “Dr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.”

His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before. 

Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the ‘control’ he had within himself and in his habitat.

When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, she’d check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule. 

Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends. 

“So, how come you're here telling me this?”

You chuckled, grinning subtly. “It’s better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.”

The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didn’t go amiss. That was shady, but something told him that’s exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldn’t admit it, you were intentional with your action. 

You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. “Was that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?”

Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you could’ve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.

“Seemed tense.” You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.

No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.

He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. “Blame Jones. He’s freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.”

He scowled and there was a beat of silence. 

“Is there any way I can help?”

The question was assertive. You weren’t planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.

The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an ‘act’ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.

He was also acutely aware you didn’t stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.

Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.

No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.

“Why not answer the consultation?” Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.

You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. “I’d rather not get on Dr. Robby’s bad side.”

Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked you’d do so easily with someone who wasn’t directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.

Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. “I will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.”

He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. “You better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.”

The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining. 

Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether you’d come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadn’t come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure. 

Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control. 

He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.

You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved. 

The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldn’t tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.

When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you weren’t fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care. 

While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkers—which explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in. 

No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart. 

And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadn’t moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.

He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents. 

“How did you manage to get them to consent?” Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up. 

There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grail—waiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing. 

Standing in front of anyone, he’d feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into. 

You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. “I just sat there and spoke to them.”

“The parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didn’t address.” You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.

You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. “They just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery. 

Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You weren’t rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls. 

The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before. 

The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. “They knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.” 

“It’s all for the benefit of their child.” Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.

It should’ve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk. 

You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. “They know that, Dr. Park.”

With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you weren’t going to put in words for him. They’re still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You weren’t going to bother with explaining yourself anymore. 

“I also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.” You informed, holding the mug in two hands while

heading back to your workstation. 

He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. “Not everyone’s preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.”

The small grin on your face while you typed didn’t agitate him as much as it would’ve from anyone else. Walsh would’ve earned a scowl. He might’ve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year. 

And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.

“Some of us learn differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.” You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. “The point is we learn to do better next time, right?”

When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs. 

Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.

Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.

“All non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.” Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought. 

“My nurses know what they’re doing, Dr. Park.” Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.

Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. “What is the current count?”

“17 including children, right now. It can change soon.” Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.

Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.

“Have you reached out to the rest?” Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.

She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. “I’ve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.”

He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didn’t stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyone’s life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.

As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sully’s steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.

When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. “Residents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.”

“Trauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.” Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.

“Lovely.”

Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. “I will assign you all to cases as they come in.” 

Sully and you both nodded to Brendon’s command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. “Want to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.”

“I’m going to need all R4 and R3’s in the OR.” Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. “I won’t have to check the work of the interns.”

Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasn’t rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.

“Fair point.” Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.

When Brendon looked over at you, there wasn’t any deflation of his prerogative. You weren’t visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didn’t let your face show it.

“Will you be able to manage?” Brendon questioned in your direction.

Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, “I’m going to need you to be alert. Sometimes you’re going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.”

The statement wasn’t wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it. 

He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. “I understand, Dr. Park.”

Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. “Ambulances are 7 minutes out.”

“That’s my cue.” Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. “See you once the dust settles.”

Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. “Don’t’ go biting any of my resident’s head off!”

Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didn’t see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. “Get your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.”

You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers. 

The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kidding—covered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.

You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. “What do you have?”

“Bilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.” You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. “May is closing up.”

The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. “Park, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?”

When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. “I won’t be scrubbing in.”

You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. “What? Don’t tell me you’re going to send me one of your pups?”

Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldn’t believe Park was actually looking at you. “Possible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.”

“What did imaging show?” You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.

“Come on, Park.” Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. “What are you, sweetheart? R3?”

“I’ve done this procedure before.” Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal. 

It wasn’t disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.

Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. “Nothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I don’t need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this man’s possibility of walking.”

Brendon's own disbelief didn’t seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didn’t smile for a doctor with ‘razor sharp’ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, he’d flaunt it.

Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. “Dr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.”

Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.

“You ready?” Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the OR’s down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular. 

Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. “I will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.”

Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. “I didn’t want you defending me.”

Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didn’t deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didn’t know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didn’t rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendon’s guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.

The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.

“I wasn’t.” Was all he plainly said.

He wasn’t defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldn’t have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didn’t come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.

“You better hurry and scrub in.” Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him he’s wrong. Prove to me you’ve got this.

With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2. 

Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.

Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. “You done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that won’t heal on their own.”

Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didn’t help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.

“Thank you, Dr. Park.” Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.

The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldn’t utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didn’t need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldn’t use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do. 

In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didn’t know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant. 

He didn’t want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasn’t your preferred method of surviving—because you weren’t just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someone’s life while living their worst day.

The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.

Brendon didn’t see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and him—his correction and your fear of fucking it up—was his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.

Of course, the method didn’t work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.

It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. “Better you than me. I might’ve socked the guy.”

Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. “You wouldn't have.”

“For her? Yeah.” Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. “Like I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I could’ve made it without her.”

“I don't take lightly when people dismiss her.” Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.

You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spirits—and if that meant warding away what ate the center of it—there was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sully’s face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.

Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. “So, thanks, Dr. Park.”

“I’ll book the OR.” Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning. 

What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.

It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.

All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff. 

The only one missing was a green cap.

“Are they finishing it up?” Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.

She hummed, head still lowered. “Ortho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.”

Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldn’t have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didn’t feel the need to come in after that.

His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, you’d probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you. 

Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed. 

“How was the surgery?” Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.

Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. “Went better than expected.”

“Did Norton give you any grief?” Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your body’s melatonin. From the look of it, you didn’t have anything of substance to run off. 

You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.

“He was fine. Didn’t talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.” The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.

He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldn’t remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. “He's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.”

You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. “Have you told him that?”

“Almost.”`

The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. “Apart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.”

Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didn’t plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.

When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it. 

In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.

You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. “You’re exhausted”

“No, I'm fine.” You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. “I have charting to get done.”

“Which you are barely awake for.” Brendon pointed out.

The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendon’s eyes. 

He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. “You don’t need this. You’re frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.”

“I am needed here.”

He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.

“If I did need you, I’d need you to stay awake and alert.” Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. “Right now you are neither of those things.”

Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. “You could use the help.”

“No, I need you to go home.” Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didn’t have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasn’t an undercut. He wasn’t even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. “I can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.”

“You’ve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?” He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.

With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. “You’re right. It was stupid.”

“It’s the exhaustion.” Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.

“Is Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?” You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face. 

“You’re my resident now?” Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasn’t nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.

“Honorary resident, depending on how I feel.” You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.

The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.

Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical ‘pipsqueak,’ you humbled him.

That wasn’t an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth. 

He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, “Eat something. You’ve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.”

Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small ‘thanks.’ Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients you’ve had in hours. 

After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. “I appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.”

He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. “I probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.”

The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someone’s hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword.  

“If the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton won’t have anything to complain about then.” He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona. 

He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.

“Not to be cocky, but I’m sure he will.” You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen. 

Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. It’s the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience. 

“I better not see you in my OR.” Brendon looked at you pointedly. “Not until your next shift.”

Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident. 

“I promise, Dr. Park.” You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response. 

He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time. 

With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.

“Have a good rest of your shift, and I’ll see you around, Dr. Park.” There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.

He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.

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[rr-after-dark]

"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader

Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.

Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)

Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture

Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!

Word Count: 11.6k

You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.

It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.

Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.

“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”

You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.

While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”

There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.

Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”

Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”

Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”

“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”

She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”

“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”

“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”

“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”

Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”

When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.

A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.

You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”

“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”

His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”

As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”

Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”

You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”

As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”

“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”

That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.

Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.

Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”

“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”

Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”

He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”

Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”

“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”

“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”

They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”

Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?

“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”

You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”

“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”

From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”

Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”

At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”

“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”

Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”

“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”

She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”

Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”

Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”

Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”

Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”

It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.

All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.

When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”

But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”

Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”

“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”

Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”

He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”

“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”

“What’d you say?”

Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”

“Very tactful.”

You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”

Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”

Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”

“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”

You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”

“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”

The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.

When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”

You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”

His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”

Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”

“Yeah, but you’re cool.”

He chuckles, “I’m cool?”

“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”

“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”

“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”

Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”

You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”

“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”

Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”

“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”

You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”

“I can see that.”

You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”

“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.

“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”

He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”

You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”

He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”

Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”

Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”

You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.

After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”

“Am I?”

“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”

“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”

“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”

Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”

The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”

The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.

With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”

His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.

Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”

It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”

“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”

And, god, is that sexy.

You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.

Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.

After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”

You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.

You eat lunch together.

You talk.

You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.

It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.

Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.

He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.

Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest.  With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”

His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”

Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”

“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”

You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”

His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”

That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”

“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”

You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”

“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”

“Sorry again for-”

“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”

“Then thanks.”

“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”

“I can tell.”

As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.

That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.

It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.

The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”

Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”

“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining” 

Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”

Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”

Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”

Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”

When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”

The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…

When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.

You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.

After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”

He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”

“So what was all the yelling for?”

Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”

A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”

Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”

All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”

With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”

“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”

Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”

“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”

“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”

“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m begging you.”

You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”

For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”

That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”

A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”

“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”

“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”

Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”

Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”

You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”

“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”

It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”

“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”

“I have the whole weekend.”

Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”

“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”

“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”

“Ten.”

“Pick me up at 9:30.”

“I could take you to breakfast first.”

“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”

“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”

“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”

Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.

He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”

You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.

Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”

Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”

“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”

“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”

He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”

“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”

“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”

“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.

Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.

When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.

“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”

“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”

Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.

When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”

With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”

His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”

You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.

By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”

He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”

He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.

“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”

You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”

He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”

Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”

“Yup, absolutely.”

You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”

He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”

You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”

“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”

You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”

Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”

It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”

You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”

“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”

Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.

Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1 

Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”

Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”

“Okay, but what if I-”

Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”

You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.

Then it finally starts to get good.

Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.

It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.

Possessive.

The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him. 

When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.

Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”

“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”

He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”

“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”

You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”

“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”

“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”

He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”

“Now that makes me feel sexy.”

“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”

As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does.

All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.

With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.

“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”

You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”

And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.

Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”

“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”

[slow-motion-double-vision]

Your smile, Your ghost (part 14)

Pairing: Brendon Park x femReader (nurse reader)

Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?

Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.

Chapter Summary: Cue the Nick Jonas hit from 2015

Part 13 | Masterlist

——————————————

Dr. Park hated when he was called for consults for the emergency department. He had more pressing matters at hand. His downstairs coworkers were supposed to be competent. Did the attendings not go to medical school like he did? It was ridiculous.

He was going to put it off until an hour of paging and the third phone call, to see if they really did need him. But then you insisted, so he found himself dragging his body to the emergency department.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator. Just to make a point of how much he hated being removed from his sacred OR bubble. He even counted his steps so it would take longer.

As Park got closer to the ED front desk, he spotted Robby leaning against it. He seemed to be in deep conversation with what seemed like the charge nurse. For someone who kept pestering him to come downstairs, Robby was unprepared. Just chit-chatting away. He heard a snippet of the conversation as he got closer.

“She is?” The blonde woman at the desk exclaimed.

“Yeah, Sunny asked me. Of course I said yes,” he looked up from his conversation to meet Park’s eyes. “Park, right here.” Robby gestured towards the room and Park followed him.

Robby kept it short, thankfully. The residents and med students barely spoke to him. Most kept their heads down. Terrified of even looking in Park’s direction.

Just how he liked it.

Park walked out of the room with Robby right behind him.

“I’ll book an OR” Park said over his shoulder as he stuck out his hand for the disinfectant.

“Great. Thank you, Park.” Robby walked away quickly, eager to end the conversation.

Park didn’t mind Robby that much. At least, he kept his head down and was aware of how Park liked to work. Robby also got him an interesting case today. He’d never had an issue with him, really.

As Park passed by the front desk, the charge nurse caught his eye and waved him over. He never really spoke to her before but he nodded at her in acknowledgement as he got closer.

He read her name on her badge. Dana.

“Please tell Sunny to come pick up her stuff. She forgot last time.”

Park frowned at her. “Who?”

“Sunny. Your nurse right now,” she answered like it was obvious.

He racked through his brain for recognition. Was she sure she was talking to the right doctor? He shook his head, still confused.

Dana rolled her eyes and slowly said your name. “She’s left the tray here for almost a week. I’d tell her myself but I can’t catch her these days. Please tell her.”

Park nodded at her and flattened his mouth, walking away slowly.

Sunny?

What idiot gave you such a stupid nickname? You were a generally happy person, but it was too on the nose. He much preferred his secret nickname for you, Ghost Girl.There was a story there at least. One you weren’t fully aware of, but he never forgot about it. Your persistent presence wouldn’t allow him to.

While so immersed into his thoughts, he almost bumped into one of the other nurses of the ED.

“Oh, sorry.” She apologized and stared at him wide-eyed. He started to walk away but still caught her whispering too loudly to another nurse next to her.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Dr. Park. That’s who Sunny’s working with right now.”

Yes, you were. Brilliantly so.

“Ohh, she’s Robby’s favorite nurse, right?”

Park almost crashed into a gurney when he heard those words.

Robby’s favorite nurse?

His steps went quicker as he walked out of the ED. His shoulders felt stiff and he exhaled loudly from his nose. An inexplicable feeling was sinking in his chest.

Robby’s favorite nurse?

Since when? You had never even mentioned Robby before. Out of all your stories, he was never a character in them. No memory or interaction with him was ever detailed either. Not from your mouth to his ears.

Connecting the dots to earlier, he recalled hearing Robby say that you asked him something and he said yes.

What could you possibly be discussing with Robby that you couldn’t discuss with Park? You already talked his ear off. What was one more question? He could handle it.

He took the elevators this time, he didn’t want to spend any more time downstairs anyway.

Now that the diversion was over, Park had to return to the schedule at hand. He had to speak to the nurse about scheduling the OR for the patient. Patient’s chest, abdomen and pelvis had been cleared. Robby said - fucking Robinavitch.

Robby’s favorite nurse?

As if you were property that could be claimed. You were a human being, for fuck’s sake. Who did Robby think he was?

The elevator dinged as it arrived on his floor and the doors opened. Pushing away the thoughts and going back on schedule, he stepped out.

With quick steps he tried again. He had to schedule an OR for the patient with -

You were laughing. He recognized your laugh before he even saw you.

You were leaning against the wall near the whiteboard as you twirled a marker in your hands. A couple of residents and a nurse were laughing with you at whatever you had said.

Park veered towards the front desk to get the patient on schedule and check what was open. As he rattled off the details, his eyes kept drifting back to you. You were smiling and nodding, talking animatedly as ever.

He wrapped up the conversation and walked towards you and the laughter around you.

“The guy almost stabbed my eye,” you laughed. “That’s still not the worst that happened in the ED.

You were almost stabbed? Jesus Christ. He would bet it was somehow Robby’s fault.

“One time -“ you stopped as your audience visibly stiffened at Park’s presence passing by and quietly dispersed away.

You waved at Park and turned around towards the white board. Uncapped the marker and started writing on the board. He called your name and you turned back around.

“Yeah?”

He had questions, concerns and tormented thoughts. What he wanted to say specifically? He still didn’t know. He went with the safe response, instead.

“The charge nurse downstairs. She said you left your dessert tray,” he explained slowly.

You nodded, “right! I’ll go later. We’re busy up here right now.”

He nodded back, “Be ready for the next one.”

You beamed at him as you set the marker down and walked away. His chest felt less constricted.

He turned to the white board. You had written a new question.

“Would you rather work with someone who sings a lot or talks a lot?”

There was an obvious answer for him. You.

He forced the earlier thoughts away and mentally clocked back in to work.

——————-

Dr. Park had slept surprisingly well. He pushed the thoughts away by rationalizing it all. You were working with him right now. He didn’t… hate working with you. Your company wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe there was still a small part of him that feared having to ever deal with an incompetent nurse again and he couldn’t go through that again.

He caught you outside the hospital, the next morning before your shift. You were standing in the parking lot. Seemingly staring at the sky. He approached you slowly and saw visible stress on your face.

This was new.

Park got closer and you didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t greet him either. He tried to look at whatever you were looking at. The view?

He should make sure you weren’t sleepwalking from exhaustion. He waved a hand in front of your eye sight

“Stop,” you gently pushed his hand away. “I got one more minute left.” You stared intensely at the sky.

“One more minute left of what?” He asked, still trying to find what you were looking at.

“Supposedly this soccer player said he stared at the sun everyday early in the morning for 10 minutes.”

“Uh-huh,” Park hummed.

“And it’s supposed to be like a meditation thing. You know, recharge my spiritual battery and cosmic energy…” you explained, full focus on the sun still.

“That sounds scientific,” Park said sarcastically. “How the hell are you a nurse again?”

You laughed and the corners of your eyes creased. The sun shined right on your face as you did.

Sunny. He felt physically ill.

“I like my job,” you shrugged.

“Even the getting stabbed part?” He couldn’t help but ask. Yesterday’s thoughts coming right back to the forefront of his mind.

You smiled while staring at the sky, “you heard me?”

“It becomes a concern when you mention stabbing in a hospital,”

“Well I didn’t get stabbed. I almost” you emphasized, “got stabbed in my eye but security got him before he did some damage.” You shook your head. “It happens, you move on to the next patient,” you refused to meet his gaze. It was odd to him to not meet your eyes as you spoke.

“The attending. What’s his name?” He tried to press. “Robby? He didn’t send you home?”

You snorted “I got my head checked but there was no need to go home. I was fine. I worked a double and everything .”

So, it was Robby’s fault. Calls you his favorite and he can’t even protect you.

Was that how Robby ran his ED? And was that why you were Robby’s favorite nurse? Because you worked yourself to the point of exhaustion and sleep deprivation.

Knowing how the ED worked, you were probably being asked to do stupid tasks, like helping people with the flu or stomachaches. That’s probably why Robby liked you. You probably happily did your job despite the tasks. Park had been a witness to it for the past weeks.

You were too smart to be working in a place like the ED. Downstairs, your talents would be wasted. Upstairs, your talents shined.

You were saving limbs with him. Next to him. Whatever.

Your phone’s alarm went off and you reached for it. Turning off the alarm, you extended your arms balancing yourself. “Woah.”

“What?”

“I don’t think it worked. I’m seeing spots,” your warm hand gripped onto his forearm. He steadied you, his eyes scanned your body for harm.

“You were right, doc,” a mischievous smile formed on your face. “That wasn’t scientific. I should get my degree revoked. I can’t be a nurse anymore,” you laughed at your own joke as you let go of his arm. His arm felt cold again.

He shook his head and looked down, you joked too much sometimes. It worried him.

“You’re gonna have to guide me to the pen and paper. I’m gonna have to turn in my letter of resignation,” you joked and finally turned to look at him.

He narrowed his eyes at you. Like hell you would.

If it was up to him, you’d stay as his nurse permanently. Or at least on the OR floor, where he was sure your skills were being put to use appropriately.

He’d keep an eye out for job listings, that’s for sure. And provide a glowing recommendation if he had to.

———————————————-

A/N: I still get JEALOUS (in a Nick Jonas voice)

Love,

Lizzy✨

Taglist:

@generation-zero @melissa66orion @mayawainfleet @anonymouse1807 @isuckcigbuds @goldfishenthusiast67 @letstryagaintomorrow @lunadi1una @plummetingangel7 @jouska8656 @vesenia123 @tombraiderjones2505 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @lillysbigwilly @mel164 @dee-1-2-3 @laurel-inheaven @glossygirl666 @trulycayla @kearasaltynalapepper @piercethedee @snorklingfae @halfnvt @lala-berry @theradkid

[tumbleweedstillhaspanic]

If Park the Shark was dating autistic reader he’s gonna fight the waiter for her because her spoon is all wrong and it’s giving her the ick…she can’t eat her soup in these conditions.

Also he seems like he’d be down to sit and listen to Reader chat about her current hyper fixations.

[pleasecallmedoll]

Would he also take her to the river to look for pretty rocks?

[thezombieprostitute]

Lloyd Hansen has retired. He's trying to appreciate the finer things in life and along the way he joins Scrabble tournaments and quickly becomes a champion. But then he finds his title threatened by you!

Preternaturally Annoying

Warnings: Asshole Lloyd. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is plus sized, female. No other physical descriptors used.

"Don't use 'preternatural'," Lloyd scoffs. "That's an asshole word."

"You're just pissed that I got a triple word score off your 'tern'," you retort.

Lloyd grumbles under his breath. He really thought he'd burned that square for you.

When Lloyd had been told he needed to retire or he'd be thrown into prison, he'd opted for the safer route, even if it was more boring. But he hadn't been prepared for just how boring.

He'd ended up finding himself walking into the library just to try to find something to do and that's when he spotted you working the reference desk. Not his usual type, but he had to admit those hips combined with the cardigan and hair tied up really did something for him.

Especially when you kept shooting him down. No matter what he did, you never gave in. Never gave him what he wanted. You were a challenge. You were interesting.

When he found out you were running a Scrabble Tournament he signed up for it, knowing it would force you to interact with him. He wasn't expecting to be good at it, let alone enjoying the outlet for his competitiveness. He even took the time to research the best words to use for unusual letters.

And yet, you're still kicking his ass. If you weren't in a public place, he wouldn't be spending so much energy into hiding his erection.

Tagging: @agustdboyoongie; @alicedopey; @alphabetically-deranged; @blacksilks; @blobfishlol; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @iwudbutnah; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @peaches1958; @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare; @thiquefunlover63;

[pleasecallmedoll]

Why do I love the "Yeah, he's a dick, but he'd burn down the world for me" so fucking much????? It's either sad boys that need smooches like Steve, Bucky, and Dean, or fuckin Lloyd Hansen. Very little in between. I'm such a softie that I could never😂

[louferrignojrofficial]

THE PITT 2.10 SUPERNATURAL 5.08

[livfastdieyoung69]

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

richie has a younger sister. her and mikey can’t tell the difference between being in love and being best friends that are way happier in each other’s company than any other time.

wow what a big surprise i’m writing friends to lovers again!

Your brother is annoying as fuck. Everybody knows that — every single resident in the city of Chicago, Illinois knows that Richard Jerimovich is really fucking annoying. So, obviously, by proxy his best friend must be pretty annoying too. And he is, Mikey is his own brand of irritating.

…But there’s just something about him. He’s got that smile, and he looks at you and asks questions like there is nothing in the world he’d rather be doing than talking to you. Mikey’s obnoxious, yeah, but in a way that makes you want to be obnoxious with him. That’s probably half of Rich’s problem, honestly, how much time he’s spent with Mikey throughout the years.

Thanks to that, though, you’ve also spent a lot of time with Mikey — with all of the Berzatto’s, really. You’re closest in age to Sug, so in your younger years you spent most of the family (plus you and richie and all the rest of the stragglers) gatherings trying to make conversation. You’re both…very different people.

You have the same ‘obnoxious by proxy’ issue. It seems to spread from Richie like a fucking virus, and given that he’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a father figure, God help you, you were its first victim. Grandma did not have it easy between the two of you. So, yeah, conversations with Sug were kind of awkward. Natalie, she’s always been like the mother her’s should have been while you’re more of the straggle on little sister clinging to whatever attention anyone will give you. You love her, of course, just like you love Carm, too, but the older you got the more you gravitated towards your brother and Mikey’s company. Eventually, Rich and Bear turned into Rich and Bear and lil’ Bird.

That’s what grandma had always called you. Her little bird, always tweeting and fluttering around the house. Donna had caught onto it and had thought it was the funniest thing considering you’d blown through five different jobs that month.

“Oh,” She’d thrown her head back with laughter, clapping. “Isn’t that true? Like a bird, flying from place to place with no care.”

That’d been a long time ago now. You don’t get to see the Berzatto’s, or even Rich for that matter, very much anymore. Rich and Tiff are married with a baby on the way, Mikey’s running The Beef, Sug’s got her fancy schmanschy boyfriend Pete and her fancy schmanschy bank job, and Carm disappeared to wherever the fuck he went for his equally as fancy schmanschy chef shit. Leaving you just kind of…there. Still fluttering around from stupid job to stupid job like the little stupid bird you are. You did have a stable job for a pretty long minute there — a waitress at this little 24/7 diner. The hours sucked, your co-workers sucked, the food kind of sucked, but the pay was pretty good.

You quit two days ago.

It feels like a relief, if you’re being honest, not having to be tied back down to a place again. You can go back to your usual Birdie ways. Plus, now you can surprise everyone at Donna’s Fourth of July Party you were supposed to work through.

Mikey’s the first one to notice you walking into the backyard from the side gate — he stands from the patio table and points your way with that big grin of his.

“Look who flew in! Hey, lil’ Birdie girl!” He meets you halfway across the lawn with Richie in tow while everyone else waves and greets you from the deck. There’s even something about the way he walks that’s just so Mikey, swaggering and tall, fast and bulky but never in the way.

You laugh, cheeks warm and already achey. Mikey’s always been able to cheer you up like that, like stepping outside on a warm, sunny day after months of rain and sleet, but it’s amplified when he hugs you tight and groans, lifting you onto your tippy toes so your face lands in his shoulder.

“Hey, Bear,” You give him a big squeeze right back, your palms running over his back. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too, my Birdie,” He mutters into your ear while he sets you back down and presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek when Richie starts bitching about sharing and having a turn.

“Wassup, baby Bird?” Rich pulls you into his side to press his lips to your forehead. His stubble scratches over the side of your face, arm tugging around your neck. “Thought you’re ’posed to be working all day.”

“Eh,” You pat Richie’s chest and he takes it as a signal to loosen his grip and start walking back to the deck everyone else still sits on. “Damn the man, it’s a fucking holiday.”

“Did you quit? That’s the type of shit you say when you quit, Birdie.” Mikey snickers from the other side of Rich, who looks down at you with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“That’s the type of shit I say when the man deserves to be damned,” You make a stupid face up at him, pointing a finger into the side of his jaw hard enough to make his face shift the other way.

“Yeah, you totally fuckin’ quit!” Mikey pitches in, his deep laughter ringing through the whole street.

Richie yells your name, your real name, and pulls you into the softest headlock in existence.

“I was just fucking telling Tiff how good you were doing, you little piece of shit!” He pulls at you just a little harder to make you stumble and shriek against his chest. “Six months you made it — y’know how many times you’ve done that? Two!”

“Help me for christ sake, Bear!” Mikey is laughing his ass off, and you believe he takes pity for a moment when he peels you out of Richie’s grip, but five seconds later you’re back to screeching and now thrown over Mikes shoulder while he jogs up the deck’s stairs.

“Hey Sug, Pete, hi Tiff!” You greet who you can see through the hair curtaining your upside down view against Mikey’s back. “Don’t mind me, y’know, just hanging — around!” Before you can finish your stupid, overused joke Mikey throws you back upright. Dizzy from all the fast movements, you stumble into his chest. He throws his big arm back around your shoulder and guides you the few last steps to the table of food laid out that everyone else had already gotten to.

“Watchu want, lil’ Bird?” His thick fingers give him a hard time separating the fancy, stars and striped paper plates Donna got for the occasion but he refuses to let you help or get your own food — just gives your hip a shove, and tells you to go say hi to everyone else while he fixes you something up.

You listen, because Mikey makes it hard not to when all of his instructions are said in that sweet, light voice and he looks at you with those big brown eyes like you’ve never done anything wrong in this world. Mikey guides you to where he’d been sitting next to Richie at the table and stands behind you with a hand on the back of your chair. He grabbed you a water, too, which is already cracked open when he sets it next to your plate on the table.

It’s easy to fall right back into the system of the Berzatto household, especially on a holiday like this, where the only cooking Donna had to do was already prepared side dishes and Mikey could man the grill while she drinks too much for the rest of the night. It’s nice, all things considered, to get to be with your people. To laugh obnoxiously, and listen to all of Mike and Richie’s stupid stories, and drink a little bit more than what would be considered okay if it wasn’t the fourth of July. Mikey keeps bringing you a beer back every time he grabs himself a new one, and who are you to say no to that.

Richie, for the first time in all of his existence, and Tiff are the firsts to leave and considering the woman can’t drink, nobody blames them. Sug and Pete follow shortly after, as well all of the other random gaggles of aunts and uncles and family friends and whoever the fuck. Donna went inside to get another drink, and never came back out. It’s just you and Mikey, now.

You can hear the radio he’d set up on the deck still murmuring something about America and freedom from all the way around the house on the front patio. You walked around the front the house to sit and watch the fireworks the people across the street always fire off. They’ve been done for a while and way too many mosquitoes are starting come out, but Mikey is next to you on the porch swing, calloused, warm hands going up and down over your legs in his lap, so you don’t really care.

“You ever,” You start, staring off into space. When you’re drunk, you let all the stupid shit your mind lets you think leave your mouth, and you haven’t drank in a while, so it’s probably worse. “Bear, do you ever have dreams about The Beef?”

You tilt your head against the back of the cushioned, wooden bench to find him already staring at you. There’s amusement in his eyes, followed by a little bit of confusion as to where you’re going with this.

“No, not really, Birdie,” He shakes his head just a little bit, but it’s enough for his outgrown hair to move over his forehead. You want to reach out and touch it, comb your fingers through it, pull at it and kiss him hard, or maybe sweet and slow instead. Woah. When the fuck did that happen?

“Why?” Mikey asks like he’s a little afraid, but definitely more curious. His hand stops moving, and instead, his fingers tap above your ankle.

“I get—I get these dreams where ‘m at work,” You squirm around to face him better, knees bending as you move to lay back against the stiff arm of the bench that rocks back and forth from all your movement. “They’re not even bad dreams, i’m just doin’ work shit, but that’s what makes them so bad. Like…like it’s so boring and slow and then yknow, I wake up the next day and have to do actually go do it.”

Mikey isn’t really sure what to say about that, but you can tell he’s listening. Mikey always listens, he always nods with your sentences and makes expressions at all the little plot tangents.

“That’s what happens,” You look down to his fingers tapping against your leg. One of his fingernails still has a white line from when you asked him to come help hang a painting after you’d inherited grandmas house. You’d been laughing so hard at something incredibly stupid and couldn’t stop, so he decided to try to nail the thing up with blurry eyes and shaking shoulders. You want to grab his hand and push it up higher or kiss that white line away or maybe hold it in yours and squeeze three times and never let him go. “That’s when I quit, when I get the dreams.”

Your head falls back with a harsh bonk onto the hard wood, arms crossing over your chest when a gust of wind blows through. You wish Mikey had a jacket to give you because he would, he always does, and you could keep it for a couple days to smell him.

“Fuckin’ stupid, isn’t it?” You mumble, looking over and into the stars. His fingers stop tapping, and instead wrap around your ankle with a squeeze, drawing your gaze back to him. His hand is warm, and so is his thigh under his jeans.

“Don’t say that,” He criticizes you, but it’s so soft it hardly counts. The furrow in his eyebrow looks less like confusion and more like concern and sympathy, now. Those eyes of his will kill you someday — all bright and shiny and dark and wet and just so fucking Mikey Bear like. “Don’t let anybody tell you you’re stupid. Nothin’ about you is stupid.”

When he says stuff like that, and looks like that, big and strong and sweet and loving and so content to be with you and just so Bear, who’s been there your whole life and never said you were stupid, or naive, and calls you Birdie for no other reason than because you are simply his lil’ Bird, you want to fall into his lap. You want to wrap around him and smell his cologne and let his hands touch all over you and feel his voice rumble in his chest under you. You want to curl up over his scratchy jeans and seep into his stupid Miller Lite t-shirt and laugh and smile and never have to be apart for months on end because you both have stupid, busy, boring, chaotic, jobs.

So you do. You pull your legs from over top of him and crawl into his lap. He lets out a huff of air, but doesn’t stop you.

“Thank you, Bear,” You squeeze around his shoulders tight, like you had all those hours ago when he pulled you up off the lawn and into his chest. “I have dreams about you too, sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah?” He grins down at you, a palm landing steady against your back to keep you in place. The other smooths over your hair when the wind blows it over your face. “You wanna quit me too, or what?”

“No,” It falls from your lips instantly and hushed, like even just saying it shouldn’t have happened. “Never, Bear. Never ever. Always get em’ when I miss you.”

“Really?” He says it like he would have never thought that to be possible, that someone would ever miss him that much. His hand smooths over your hair again, and his grin widens. “You’re in my dreams all the time, pretty girl.”

Your own grin grows to match his. You’re not sure why — if it’s the pet name, his hands keeping you secure and touching you so delicately, the admission of you being in his dreams, or it’s just because he’s Mikey, and when he smiles you can’t help but smile too. You haven’t smiled this much in a long, long time. Probably since the last time you’ve gotten to spend a full day with Mike and Rich.

“What do we do in your dreams?” You whisper, leaning your forehead to his.

“Lots of stuff,” His head shakes back and forth just once. This time you only notice because you feel him moving against you. “Back to bein’ kids doin’ stupid shit in my bedroom. Our trip to Lake Michigan, when you stole Rich’s sunglasses in the car, remember that? When the waves were so big, y’know,” You nod in unison. “Was takin’ over the fuckin’ boardwalk and we just kept on goin’, got back to the truck soakin’ fuckin’ wet.”

“His sunglasses blew off my face when the wave almost took me,” You murmur, toying with the neck of his shirt. “But you saved me.”

“Yeah, Birdie,” He nods, once. “Those are my good dreams. What d’your dreams with me look like?”

You lean further into him with a pleasant hum, taking the last tiny bit of distance away to lay back against this chest and play with the little hairs over the back of his neck.

“They aren’t with you. You’re not just apart of it, or a memory or somethin’. It’s just you.” Your hand travels down, scratching his neck gently then thumbing at the indentation the tag of his worn, soft shirt leaves over his skin. “You’re just there, that’s all. Just you and me — me and my Bear.”

Mikey’s hand follows the slope of your spine to sit at your waist with a squeeze. His other one pets over your hair one last time before he uses it to push your head away from the crevice of his muscled shoulder and presses a lingering, soft press of a kiss to to your temple.

“Me and my Birdie. You wanna hit the hay, baby, or what?”

In the morning, Richie will show up for his stupid tracksuit jacket he forgot. He’ll find the two of you, Bear and lil’ Bird, sprawled over top of each other on the Twin XL that Mikey barely fit on by himself for the long time he endured it. Thank fuck he got out of there.

Richie will think nothing of it, because you’re Bear and lil’ Bird, and do something obnoxious like start yelling and clapping or throw whatever not too hard object he sees at Mikey’s back while the big man crowds you against the wall in his sleep.

The three of you will go out for breakfast after you throw on a new shirt you stole out of Mikey’s old closet full of his high school years’ clothing and the jean shorts you wore on the fourth. Mikey will sit next to you, throwing his arm across the booth behind you and Richie will complain about sitting on his lonesome. You will not talk about your time on the porch then, nor ever. You won’t talk about the dreams or the pet names or the forehead kiss.

Richie will ask how you plan on getting another job while you drink a milkshake at 9 in the morning. When you roll your eyes and groan against the straw, Mikey will look across the booth and tell your brother he hired you and that you’re starting at The Beef on Monday. You will choke on your milkshake, Richie will yell something expletive, and Mikey will just shrug.

“Said you’d never quit on me, right?”

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[shoniebalognie]

And then there were four

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Jack and Robby made sure to always take care of you, and now that you were pregnant that was exasperated ten fold. And you, you just wanted this baby out by any means necessary.

CW: 18+ MDNI, smut, pregnancy, nondescript birth, PIV unprotected, oral (m/f)

Note: take it easy on me please this is my first piece since taking my break and I feel so rusty!!! Loll, but this was done for an ask that has been sitting in my inbox for soooo long, it is technically a continuation or epilogue of “The Bet” so I will link the other parts as well. Again I am so sorry for the wait but I hope you enjoy!

38 weeks had gone by too fast and excruciatingly slow at the same time. By now it was the middle of July in Pittsburgh meaning you were sweaty, hot, pissed, and way too pregnant to cope. Even though Robby and Jack have been so sweet and kind throughout your pregnancy. Neither caring who the true biological father was, they were both just ready to love this child and you forever. Always making sure your needs were met and that you were comfortable at all times while carrying precious cargo.

It was a sentiment that warmed your heart. At least it was until you had hit the third trimester. Being unable to tie your shoes or put on pants without help tended to put you in a bad mood. All of this along with a small scare at 36 weeks. You hadn’t felt your baby girl kick for a whole day, this had you taking a cab to the hospital to where both Robby and Jack were. Thankfully after a quick scan in south 5 done by none other than the two men who put you in this position, it was confirmed everything was okay, she was most likely taking a long nap.

However, you about strangled both of them when you saw them measure her more than twice before giving each other an odd look. When Robby finally looked over at you and gave a sheepish smile as he reluctantly told you what had them wide eyed and cherry red. Your sweet baby girl was measuring about 10 whole pounds already.

You wanted her out now.

But you weren’t exactly in your right mind to care about their feelings for very long. Seeing how it was 90 degrees with not a cloud in the sky, and your AC was rattling while working overtime. Robby was at work so it was just you and Jack, who hadn’t woken up just yet since he had a shift tonight. So after struggling for about ten minutes to get off the couch you made your way towards the bedroom on a mission. Operation get this baby out of you in the next 24 hours.

As silently as you could, you settled onto the bed grateful that Jack rarely wore more than his boxers to bed. Taking a moment you took in the peaceful expression that settled across his face, counting the freckles that spanned across his skin. Each one had mapped by yours and Robby’s lips at some point.

Soft snores escaped his slightly ajar mouth, making you almost feel bad for what you were about to do. Not completely bad, just a teeny bit. Or at least it did until a sharp kick was delivered to your ribs and you were reminded of what you came here to do.

Jack was both a heavy sleeper and a light sleeper all at once. It depended on the kind of day he had, and today seemed to be a deep sleep kind of day seeing as you were able to reach into the front of his boxers and grip his cock without even a change in his breathing. It wasn't until you pulled it out and gave the already flushed pink tip a few licks that he showed signs of rousing.

A small scrunch of his brows and a slight groan emitted from him as you enveloped his now half hard cock in your mouth, wasting no time you wrapped your lips around him starting with a faster than normal pace. You didn’t have time to spare seeing as his shift was drawing nearer and your needs grew with each touch.

With his length now at full attention you made sure to keep your gag reflex down, mostly because if you gagged you were very likely to pee yourself at this point in your pregnancy and that wasn’t something you wanted to have happen and interrupt your plans.

Swiping your tongue at the little ridge of his cockhead, you knew that would alert him to open his eyes. And it was an almost immediate reaction letting out a gruff moan as his eyes struggled to open under the sheer pleasure that consumed him the moment he became conscious.

“Fuck, baby w-what’s, shit, slow d-down” his voice low and rough from just waking up and strained as he was trying his best to not cum in .2 seconds after waking.

Pulling off him with a slight pop you gave him a sly smirk, “Good morning Jackie!” you sat back on your knees before swinging one leg over his torso so that your back was to him. In one smooth movement you didn’t know you were still capable of, you lined him up with your enterance before sinking down halfway with very little resistance, “Oh fuck, s’big Jackie!”

“H-hold on baby, we shouldn’t be-”

“Oh yes we should, Jack Christopher Abbot! You and Mike fucked this baby into me and the two of you will be getting it out the exact same way you got it in. And I will not hear another word unless it’s no, do I make myself clear” Your voice gave him no room for argument but a pause for his answer. With zero hesitation he found himself nodding in agreement and letting you continue.

With a satisfied nod of your own, you dropped your body weight down onto him. The rest of his length sliding into you and pushing the breath out of your lungs at the overwhelming sensation of having him so deep. A moan left your own throat as pleasure overtook your body, Jack letting his own noises out as he couldn’t help but grip your hips in an attempt to slow you down.

“I don’t w-want t’hurt you” his words low as he voices one last concern before giving into the feel of you completely as you grind your hips against him, “but shit, that feels so goddamn good baby”

His words spurred you on enough to use as much energy as you could to brace your hands on his knees and start riding him within an inch of his sanity. Up, down, grind. That was the rhythm you kept until Jack could tell you were getting tired. Not wanting you to overexert yourself he began sitting his body up and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He pulled your upper body flush with his before tipping over to one side as he repositioned the two of you onto your left.

“Heard from a nurse that laying on your left side can help induce and advance labor” Jack's words were fairly clinical before following up with the start of his thrusts.

Keeping his pace, Jack brought your top leg back and over his hip. Hooking his other hand around your jaw so that he could turn your head toward his. This new angle had his cock pushing deep into your cunt, pleasure forcing your eyes shut as you laid there letting him do all the work.

“Open”

And without a second thought you obliged, warmth filled your senses as you felt his spit hit your tongue. Swallowing it without needing to be told.

“That’s it, such a good girl once you get what you want aren’t you?” the hand that rested at your shoulder traveled down over your swollen belly caressing the taught and stretched skin. He stayed there for just a moment longer before bringing two fingers down and straight to your clit. Creating tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Fuck Jackie!” Your body unintentionally trying to jerk away from the overstimulation. “S’too much, h-hold on”

“Shh, shh, you can take it baby. You wanted it so bad and now you’re trying to run away, I don't think so” Jack was now determined to give you exactly what you wanted, because who was he to deny his precious girl. “Its your turn to shut up and listen”

His pace sped up, hips thrusting and fingers circling your clit at a brutal speed you didn't know he was capable of. However, Jack made sure that he kept a slightly shallow depth not wanting to injure your cervix. Jack was still a doctor after all, and if this was successful you didn’t need anymore trauma.

Everything was overwhelming for you, especially seeing as it had been the first time he or Robby had touched you like this in a long time. And with the addition of pregnancy hormones your whole body was responding to the arousal coursing through you. You weren’t alone though, Jack was in the same situation (minus the hormones). And as a direct reflection of this, the two of you were already on the edge of cumming. His hips stuttered as your walls fluttered around him, both of you desperately trying to hold off for just a bit longer.

You were the first to lose. One hand gripping the sheets and the other wrapped tightly in his short grey curls as your body seized with pleasure, toes curling at the same time your walls clenched in rhythmic pulses choking his thick cock. Moans clawed their way through your chest as your body fully let go, allowing your orgasm to rush down our spine.

The tight squeeze of your body sends him catapulting into his own edge, balls drawing up tight as he releases his hot cum as deep as he can get it. Your bodies were flush and slick against each other leaving no trace of space between. Heavy pants filled the room as the two of you came down from your shared orgasm.

Jack saw how you laid there with a satisfied expression on your face, content that he had you fucked out and tired. But despite your exhausted expression, it wasn’t long before Jack felt you shift and squirm. Still stuffed full of his thick cock and his cum leaking slowly from the space you two were still connected, didn’t stop you from squeezing your pelvic floor. Hearing Jack hiss as you tightened around him once more. With one look into your eyes he knew he was in for a long few hours.

————————

It was safe to say that a few hours later Jack was walking into his shift stiff, limping, and halfway asleep. And while he was taking report from Baran, Robby spotted how exhausted he looked from across the room where he was sat at the nurses station. His long strides had him beside Jack within moments, concern marring his expression.

“You ok, brother? Look like you’re about to drop where you stand” a small huff of a laugh left Robby’s lips as he tried to lighten Jack's seemingly worn out mood while easing his own worry.

But instead of humoring him with a response that addressed his demeanor, Jack just patted Robby’s shoulder and placed a chaste kiss to his lips before walking away mumbling a ‘good luck’ under his breath. An ominous send off for the man who was already having an off day.

Robby had been on edge since he left you this morning, wishing he had just called off so that he could finish some things around the house and keep you company. A thought he wished he had listened to when his fourth trauma rolled through, accompanied by two pregnant patients. Finally finishing with one amputated limb that brought Park the shark down to the ED which was never a good thing.

As Robby walked through the door of your shared home he was ready to heat up food he knew was left for him on the stove and crash on the large California king bed that was practically calling his name. So imagine his surprise as he let his eyes drift closed for only a split second while leaning back against the kitchen counter when he felt a small and eager hand gripped his heavy cock through his scrub bottoms.

“Woah there kid!” Robby's voice cracked and his knees buckled slightly in his stupor “And what exactly do you think you're doing?”

His brow raised in question while he simply watched your bottom lip stick out right before you slipped behind the waist band of his scrubs. Your hand finding exactly what you wanted in seconds, connecting instantly with the warmth of his soft cock. Pumping him at a languid pace feeling how he began to stiffen. Your approach was similar to earlier yet slightly different. Jack needed to be given permission, but Robby, he needed to be begged. He needs to know how much he’s wanted.

“Pleasee Mikey, I need you so bad!” you pleaded with him while lifting up onto your toes and kissing your way up his chest, “just wanna feel you, it’s been so long. Need you to fill me up so bad”

You dragged the syllables in a whiney tone, an attempt to coax him further into you. But Robby just let out a sharp tsk at your behavior, he had absolutely pieced together Jack’s behavior at shift change and your current display of affection.

“This must be why Jack was about ready to drop as soon as he walked through those doors” Robby held your face with both his hands, “tell me what you want sweetheart”

Placing an innocent pout on your face you went to shake your head and tell him you didn’t know what he meant. But you should’ve known he wasn’t as easily manipulated as Jack was.

“Ah ah ah, don’t play dumb with me. We both know you want something” using his hands that rested on your face he tilted your head so that you were looking straight at him, “tell me what it is and I’ll make sure you get exactly what you want.”

His gruff tone had you body buzzing and mind almost blank, but as he walked you backwards towards the couch you finally found your words.

“Please Mikey, I want this baby out of me, and I want you so bad” your body was being gently lowered onto the couch before you were even done speaking. Expertly Robby was able to sneak a pillow behind your lumbar spine so that any pressure was removed in this position.

Rough hands gently slipped off the oversized shirt you wore, revealing your bare and flushed body underneath. Those same hands ran a similar trail that Jacks had hours ago. From your full aching breasts and down to your swollen stomach, his lips placing gentle kisses where his hands leave.

Your gaze followed his movements until you made a sound that was between an annoyed and aroused moan. This was due to the fact that once he had set his lips to where you needed him most he disappeared from your view. Your stomach obscuring his face, but that was quickly forgotten as he gave a harsh suck over your clit and teased two fingers at your entrance.

“You always taste so good sweetheart, I can still taste Jack too” plunging his fingers as deep as they could go, Robby set a new rhythm to your sensitive nerves.

“Fuck Mikey, right there!” You were already breathless at just the start of his ministrations, still so responsive after yours and Jack's escapades.

It didn’t take long before he could feel the telltale flutter of your walls around his fingers. Robby took that as his sign to crook his finger up and to the front, right where that specific spot of yours he knows is located.

“D-don’t stop! Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum Mikey!”

It only took two more strokes before your orgasm seized up your body, choking his fingers with everything you had. Arousal covered his hand and beard when he finally pulled away. By this point he wasted no time before slipping off his pants and boxers in one go.

Spreading your slick up and down his now fully hard cock and moving your legs to rest over his shoulders. Not quite bending you in half seeing as your belly wouldn’t allow it. But enough for you to feel a stretch in your hips, the pillow he placed doing wonders for your back in this position. Notching his leaking tip at your cunt he reminded you to breathe before slowly pushing his way into you.

The feeling of his heavy cock finally pushing his way into you had caused your eyes to roll back so far you swore you could see the inside of your brain. It didn’t matter that Robby had just pulled a mind blowing orgasm from you, it already felt as though you were seconds away from cumming once more. You were doing your best to hold it off, wanting it to last but he was making that task very difficult.

Robby’s pace began a deep and slow, his tip pushing ever so slightly against your cervix with each thrust. Not enough to bruise, but just enough to hopefully help you along. And the amount of arousal coating his cock told him just how much you were enjoying yourself. That and the noises that were constantly ringing through the room.

“Poor baby, went so long without us touching you didn’t you?” You nodded at Robby’s words, “such a desperate little thing begging me to make it better, even after Jackie took care of you”

He felt how your body clenched at the memory that must’ve passed through your mind at the mention of the missing man. Finding himself wishing that Jack could be here as well, he decided to include him. Reaching for his phone Robby snapped a quick photo of the two of you and sent it to Jack. It was mere seconds before the chime of a new message came though. Jack had simply responded ‘she got to you too huh?’

Robby just chuckled before focusing back on you. You who’s eyes were still screwed shut while trying your best to meet his thrusts. Releasing one of your legs to rest at his hip Robby settled forward just a bit more so that he could reach just a little further. His soft tummy resting against yours.

Pulling back until just his tip was left inside you, before pushing back in slow. The friction of his coarse hairs against your clit sent shivers down your spine. Balls pressed up against your bottom with each thrust, every movement had your senses on overdrive.

With one hand securing the leg he kept over his shoulder, his other wandered back towards your chest. Grabbing a hand full of your breasts giving a light squeeze before focusing on your nipples. Rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers before tugging slightly.

“F-fuck, feels so good” Robby pressed a kiss to the inner part of your ankle, “one more f’me, you can do it”

Shaking your head you felt like all your nerves were going off. Too sensitive for another, too tired. But Robby was having none of it. Tilting his hips just slightly and grinding into you with a bit more pressure had you giving in. The leg that was left around his hip you wrapped it tighter bringing him closer as you finally let go.

Your whole demeanor released as this orgasm took over your mind and body. A shudder ran through you as a burst of fluid soaked the two of you and the couch below. Robby not far behind as your body tightened around him. Giving a few more thrusts before he was more than content to simply shove himself as far as he could go before releasing himself into you.

“So full of us in every way now aren’t you sweetheart?” His words went in one ear and out the other as you were too busy trying to stay awake, “let’s get you cleaned up and to bed okay”

With an absentminded nod you allowed him to help you up and to the bathroom. After cleaning you up he tucked you into bed before cleaning the mess the two of you made in the living room and finishing his meal. All the while you were none the wiser to the conscious world, snuggled peacefully in the warm blanket satiated to your hearts content.

The peace however didn’t last long. It was around 1:30am that you woke up in a slight panic. It wasn’t immediately clear what had your unconscious mind in such a worry. Not until two minutes later when you were just about ready to go back to sleep was when you felt a deep cramp flow through your body. Breathing your way through the wave of pain you settled a hand to your stomach, which was now rock hard.

You may not have been an L&D doctor but you knew enough about labor to know it was time to go. Especially when another contraction seized your body less than five minutes later. After punching Robby awake and watching him scramble around the house for the needed bags, he loaded everything and you into his truck before heading to the hospital.

In the frenzy of everything neither of you had remembered to text Jack. Not until the two of you walked in through the ambulance bay doors and were met with his wide eyes and confused expression.

“W-what, is t-that? BABY!?!”

“Fuck!” Clenching your jaw as another contraction hit you, “Yes Jack, wonderful observation skills now get me a damn wheelchair! And if you tell me to breathe one more time Michael I’m going to castrate you!”

It only took five hours before the three of you became a family of four. Your sweet baby girl came in weighing 10lbs 4oz and 23inches with a full head of dark hair and large hazel eyes. And while you cursed them out every moment you could while pushing your little bowling ball out. As soon as she was placed in your arms, and you saw the loving looks fill Jack and Robby’s eyes you were ready to do it all over again.

[st-abbot]

Timebomb - Jack Abbot

(IX) Safeguard

Hey :) Thank you for your patience on this - the move is all done and I'm almost all setttled into my new place after weeks of misery! Here's to a fresh start!

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this ;)

This is a strictly no AI writing blog. Please do not feed my writing in any AI system either.

Series masterlist

Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

Word count: 4,729

Chapter warnings: Language, big feelings.

Chapter Summary: The stress and pressure of the last hours, days, weeks, months finally come crashing down and leave you to deal with everything, and Jack is determined not to let you go through it alone this time.

< Previous

The rest of the ride to his apartment had been silent.

You were glad he hadn't forced the conversation; you needed time to process the day's events, most specifically, the part where he showed up in a cloud of dust and smoke and gunfire like a god damn biblical intervention. Nothing rational could have adequately prepared you to see him come to you like that amidst the chaos; there was nothing you could have done to preemptively raise the drawbridge to withstand the assault. He had caught you well vulnerable, without any more fight in you to protest him taking care of you like nothing had changed.

… Had it?

Changed?

You had done your best in these last months to stand on your own two feet for once in your life, going forward even when all you had wanted to do was to stop everything. You should have been to stand through this too, yet, you still let yourself be led by Jack back into a home that was no longer yours.

So why did it still feel like home?

Why did it felt even more like home than your own apartment?

Your mind felt like a quiet storm, shuffling and spinning conflicting feeling around while you were too tired to keep them in check, solidly tied down somewhere they wouldn't fly away.

And in the middle stood Jack.

On one hand, you hadn't forgotten all the things he'd said to drive you away. They still hurt, they hurt so fucking bad, but your soul conspired against your mind to win a fight that hadn't yet begun.

Jack was like a magnet carved specifically for you, drawing you in and not letting go. His touch was the only one your body responded to, the only one it recognized as the comfort you needed. He was a part of you, living and breathing in sync with you, leaving you incomplete when he was far away.

Just like you were a living part of him.

Walking with him into his apartment after all this time away felt strange. The familiarity crept in your blood and nested in your bone, gently chipping at the tension that had tightened your body for months without reprise. It was welcoming the safety of walls that had protected you for years from the outside world, that bore core memories in their foundation that simply couldn't be covered.

You found yourself overwhelmed, and before you could react, pressure boiled up to the surface, clouding your vision with tears you couldn't force back in. Your feet stopped moving in the middle of the kitchen as the first sob escaped you.

Before you could even cover your mouth in embarrassment, you were pulled in a tight embrace against Jack. His hand went to the back of your head as his hold tightened, and just like that, the floodgates opened. Full body sobs jolted your spine, but he only held you there, whispering in your ear to let it all out.

For some reason, it only made you cry harder.

And suddenly, you were thrown back 12 years back in time, standing at the exact same spot, purging out a different kind of grief as he held you with the same strong, steady arms. The juxtaposed pain was nearly took you out, unleashing every cry of agony you had repressed in between, after you decided you would never allow yourself to break down at all, ever again.

Until now.

Not that you had allowed this in the first place— you were not in control and you were despising it. The walls you had carefully built on quicksand gave in at the slightest tremor, an eventuality that had always been much more a matter of when rather than if.

“M' sorry” You mumbled through tear. “I don't know why—”

He shushed you, his left hand rubbing your back while his right kept your head against his shoulder.

“No, baby, don't be sorry” He mumbled back, his lips finding your temple. “You just went through hell. You were a fucking rock star in there, you're allowed to let it out”

Like your body knew no other imperative than his word, the tears picked up tenfold. You felt yourself melt into him as the fight left you entirely.

After you fell asleep in the rover, Jack had cleaned up the mess at the farm house with the police. He had seen with his own two eyes the infamous injured robber with a hole cut on the top right of his hoodie, and most specifically, the messy yet bomb proof stitching he could recognize out of a thousand. A stitching that bore your signature just as much as the one you wrote with a pen.

That couldn't have been anything but a bullet wound. A fucking bullet wound with no exit point. If you had stitched, it meant that the bullet was out, and if it was out, it meant that you had taken it out.

Without a surgeon, without a doctor. Only with a field dressing kit and your wits. And you kept him alive through all of that.

That feat on its own was fucking insane.

And if the hostages half coherent testimonies relayed to him were to be believed, you had also been the reason why the 18 people in there with you were still alive, too.

“I'm so proud of you” He sighed into your hair. “My brave girl”

You stayed there in his arms, almost limp as your crying finally quieted down. You felt him shift to his right foot and readjust a couple of time, and that's what finally snapped you out of your trance-like state like a shockwave up your spine. You slightly pulled away to take off your weight from him, suddenly hyper aware of his own discomfort.

“Your leg's killing you” You muttered as you looked down to his prostheses. “Where's your crutch? Go sit—”

He pulled you back against him, gently but firmly. “Don't care. I'll stand here as long as you need”

You frowned against his shoulder. “No, I can't, I'll- I'll go get your crutch, you need to sit—”

You felt him shake his head no against yours as he stubbornly held you tighter again. “I don’t want to” His voice then clouded, dropping lower. “I can't”

You closed your eyes as the small hitch in his voice registered. You felt him take a deep, shaky breath under your cheek while the rest of his body stood stiff.

“I fucked up” He finally admitted. “I fucked up bad, and I'm afraid that if I let go you'll be gone again”

Your breath caught in your throat at his raw honesty. You were at loss for words, not having the emotional capacity at the moment to process this in any other way than holding tighter too, hands bunching the back of his shirt.

Then he said your name, repeating it a few more time like a mantra. You shut your eyes even tighter.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry” The words kept tumbling out. “I was a fucking asshole. I hurt you. And I definitely don't deserve you now. But fuck I need you here with me”

Your head spun, dizzy with disbelief at his sincerity and unable to do anything but replay his words over and over again like a lost echo in the caves of you chest. He made his declaration with an astonishing lack of hesitation, leaving no hidden motivation, no space for second guessing, no alternative interpretation but the literal meaning of his words. It made your resolve crumble and fall like it had never been there at all.

You had tried to separate yourself from him, you really did. You had wanted to prove yourself you were strong.

You were not.

And you were okay with the thought, as much as you knew you shouldn't. You were tired of always being strong. And beside, the few moments you had spent with Jack after months of keeping yourself strictly away from him only cemented in your mind the idea that you would always be exactly where you belonged, as long as he stood by your side.

He gently cradled your face in his hands, tilting it up to look at him. Your entire body remained relaxed to it, its long integrated subconscious memory that his touch would never hurt.

“Please” His words were breathless as you locked gazes with him. The redness of his eyes made his hazel irises seem a gorgeous shade of green as he held back tears. “I'll beg you for the rest of my life if that's what it takes, but I can't lose you again. I can’t”

You closed your eyes again and let your forehead fall forward until it touched his. You could feel his thumbs rubbing absentminded circles on your jaw as his breath synced with yours, re-attuning yourselves to each other like you had been for so many years. Jack had made a home entirely too deep under your skin to rip it off, no matter how long you'd go without being near him. You could feel it now as the missing puzzle piece slid back into its rightful place, completing the picture.

No one else would do it for you.

Your hands left his back and gently rested at the base of his neck where your thumbs touched skin. You felt goosebumps erupt under the feather light presses of you fingers there.

“Then don't” You whispered so close to his lips that he could almost taste the words. “Don't lose me again”

You didn't dare open your eyes to watch his reaction, but you felt his piercing stare as your words hung heavily in the narrow space between the two of you. His touch shifted on your jaw, a silent encouragement to own up to your word. You refused to give in, terrified of what you'd see if you did; you couldn't handle another disappointment, not now.

You could feel the slight insistence in his touch.

“Look at me”

Your eyes opened of their own accord, immediately caught in the trap of his gaze.

All of Jack's walls had been torn down, ripped apart in a desperate attempt to let you in. It had been his mistake last time, to shut down, to lock you out in a stupid attempt to protect the both of you. He couldn't even recall from what.

Yet, here you were, letting him off the hook with a stern warning. Don't lose me again. He didn’t deserve that mercy from you, none of it. Yet, you still gave it to him, with no malice, no conditions, no hesitation. You gave him a second chance he thought he had blown long ago, and it made him want to do better, to do so much better so he could be someone worthy of your love.

Luckily for him, he was a very goal oriented man and all the motivation he needed was right in front of him.

“It's me and you now” He finally spoke in a whisper that seared his words into your bones. If felt definitive, steady, certain beyond the shadow of a doubt. “I love you. I want you. All of you. And I'm not letting you slip through my fingers ever again”

You could have sworn the world stopped turning as soon as he said those words. You had imagined a thousand different scenarios in which he'd have confessed his feelings— none of them featuring you bawling your eyes out after a hostage situation— but there you were. Jack Abbot, stripped bare of any pretense, blowing the door wide open into his mind and into what he wanted. The sight was as unsettling as it was breathtaking. It appealed to you in ways previously unknown to your being, knowing he meant it more than anything he’s ever said. And you believed him, God, you believed him.

“Me and you” You repeated, sealing the promise with invisible bounds. “Always”

He nodded once, then again, hand shifting on your face as her rubbed circles over your temples with his thumb. The relaxing motion combined with the crash of the emotions brought another wave of fatigue upon you, and your felt your limbs suddenly grow heavy in his hold.

Of course he noticed before you could even tell him.

Jack had grown just as attuned to your nonverbal as you were, more often than not anticipating your needs before you could voice them. He gifted you the privilege of being known and being seen in a world where you had to be the observant one anywhere outside the walls of your home.

“C'mon” He muttered, nodding towards the guest bathroom. “Let's get that blood off of you, then we can go to sleep, yeah?”

His hand found yours before he even stepped out of your space, intertwining your fingers together to keep at least one line of skin to skin contact. You followed him to the guest bathroom, the very one that you'd made yours, once. This time, it felt bare, untouched, like you had been the last person to step foot in it after you threw everything of yours there hazardously in a backpack with the rest of your stuff.

“Sit”

You glance to where he was pointing on the counter, then back to him to find him already expectant. You shook your head.

“Bathtub”

Your counter offer puzzled him for a moment, his eyes instinctively going to the shower bath in there.

“Your leg” You then added. “You need to sit”

The bath ledge was designed large enough for one to use it as a seat. It was clearly on purpose, with grippy material and a folding door instead of a rail. It was meant to be easier to use for Jack if the shower in his room with the chair was to be unusable for a period of time.

You held out your hand in support as he took a careful seat first, straddling the ledge of the tub with prosthetic leg on the outside. You followed him suit, sitting in from of him.

There was a moment of silence then as you just stared at each other. You knew what you logically should do next—and it's not like he had never seen you in a sports bra before. Still you hesitated, hand ghosting at the hem of your shirt. The action felt loaded now, it felt strangely intimate whereas before it was nothing but an operational necessity.

Jack's eyes went from your face, to your hand. Yet he said nothing of it, feeling for himself the shift. He waited for you, basking in the serenity of the moment. It was the dead of the night, everything was still. There was no rush, no expectation, only you.

He watched your movement with fascination as you finally peeled your shirt off, carefully pulling it over your head. The damp cotton, probably ruined by blood and sweat to ever wear it again, was stuck and dried already to your skin, leaving itchy spots behind.

Jack didn't follow the motion of your arm throwing the shirt on the floor. Instead, he mapped the streaks of dark red coating your skin, linking scars together like a constellation. He spotted the old faded ones from your youth, the ones you acquired from simply existing at the wrong place at the wrong time. Then the newer ones you gained from being the best version of yourself, one that stood solidly between danger and the innocent, one that made sure the cycle of violence did not get past you even if it meant absorbing the hit.

You had been shaped by violence, but you've never let yourself be defined by it. You had never raised a hand against a fly, even if some might have deserved push back. Despite your tough façade, you were kind to those who needed kindness, a calming presence to those who needed grounding, an honest voice through the noise.

Sometimes Jack wondered how you did it—how you managed to stay that strong all the time, always taking hits that you never returned.

You felt your muscles involuntarily contract and shiver under his gaze like his hands were already trailing over your skin. He was appraising you as if it was the first time he saw you—truly saw you—which, in a way, it was.

Wordlessly, he reached in the small shelf behind him, grabbing a washcloth, soaking it under warm water from the bath faucet.

He started with your face, gently wiping off the remnants of the blood he couldn't get with the antiseptic wipe back at the farm house. His free hand came to rest at the base of your skull, gently supporting your head against the soft pressure on your cheek. He took great care to clean the wound on the cheekbone, working around the blue-ish swelling as he watched your reaction for any flinching or wincing.

“How'd you get that one?” He muttered, rinsing the washcloth.

“Butt of a semi automatic” You replied under your breath. “Spoke out of turn”

A small, almost imperceptible smile grace his lips as his touch returned to your face. He only hummed, as if saying of course you did. He could be telling you to be careful, and to stop putting yourself in unnecessary danger, but that would make him an hypocrite, and beside, he'd be lying to himself to think this fearless side of you wasn't incredibly attractive to him. He could well imagine you in there, calm, collected and competent, seeing someone in need and not thinking twice before helping them.

“Well, it won't need stitches” He said as he moved your head slightly to the side. “Just a bit of care”

The movement you made was barely a nod as he moved the washcloth to your hairline. He could see the dried blood on the right side of your scalp, sticking to your hair, and while that would take a proper shower to get off, he'd a least be able to relieve the itching he just knew you'd been ignoring for far too long.

He watched you as your eyes flickered closed at the contact of the warm water on your scalp. Your shoulders finally starting to relax at the almost petting motion of the washcloth. He moved through your scalp, then behind your ears and down your neck.

Your eyes reopened as he reached your collarbone, the pattern of the washcloth becoming a bit less purposeful. You found him with a laser like focus on the gleaming of the droplets under the low lights, eyes suddenly much darker as he traced it down a pale streak of blood and sweat to the swell of your breast. The intensity of his gaze took you by surprise, sending a shiver up your spine and erupting your skin with goosebumps.

That made is eyes flicker back up to yours, not losing the heat on the way up.

You could feel your heartbeat quicken as you held the staring contest. His nonverbal was loud and clear as he fought with himself, trying so damn hard to remain proper. It was interesting, to say the least, to observe Jack Abbot be anything than fully dedicated to his task; to discover that some things, some really, really simple things could distract him and make his mind wander.

Still, like the good soldier he was, he recomposed himself, pretending he couldn't feel the heat of your skin through the washcloth. You recognized the renewed determination in his eyes, the same he had when patients were rolled his way in the ER.

Watching him like this was just as enticing as his touch on you.

Careful, efficient, controlled.

The contrast with the heated darkness in his eyes was an fascinating one. It woke up feelings within that had been dormant for years, quiet, laying in wait for someone to bring them forward.

“You found me”

You didn't know why you said it, but it came out on its own, deviating the course of your thoughts with a sharp left hand turn. All this overthinking about finding long lost feelings steered your mind to it, coming to the realization that Jack had found you awfully quick in that safe house. The robbers had been so certain they hadn't been followed, they had checked the radars multiple times to make sure no police were on their trail.

Yet, that SWAT team had appeared in front of you barely half an hour after you holed up in there.

Jack barely even faltered, only looking up at you as he wiped the last of the blood on your ribs. He threw the washcloth in the tub as his eyes crinkled, crow feet prominent under the soft light of the bathroom.

“I'll always find you”

There was something in his eyes then that made you tilt your head to the side. There was a part of you that was really flattered, that wanted to just melt into him.

There was another, however, that read the glint in his eyes, one you were most familiar with, and figured it out by yourself. The glint that pulled you into familiar territory, into this irresistible lure that enthralled you to reach forward for it at the cost of breaking the moment.

“It was the location thing, wasn't it?”

He couldn't help the smile and chuckle this time.

“I was trying to be sweet”

You felt yourself mimicking his expression, feeling the first genuine smile stretch your lips in months. Something new, lighter set in your heart at his teasing tone.

This was the Jack you knew.

“It was very poetic”

He rolled his eyes playfully as he began standing up, carefully avoiding to put weight on his prostheses. Without thinking much, you lifted your arm, offering it as a railing. His hand went to it automatically, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He muttered a quiet thanks as he regained his footing, then offered his hand to you. You followed him up and into the hallway, right past the guest room.

You had been in room only a couple of time while you had lived there. You had preferred to leave it as his space, his own little world to retreat too.

It felt like him.

Free of clutter, straight to the point, but still warm enough to feel safe.

“You can grab a t-shirt in the dresser” He said as he let go of your hand and sat on the side of the bed. “Underwear too. I promise they're clean”

You couldn't help but snort as your fingers drummed on the oak dresser.

“The two drawers on top”

He really did try not to look. He really did.

As soon as you began peeling off your bra, he occupied himself with taking off his leg, pointedly not looking in your direction to defend whatever modesty he could afford you—like he hadn't been staring at your chest like a teenage boy moments ago.

It was the sound of the drawer being pulled open that made him look, a natural, human reaction to noise.

It's not like he looked for long either. It was just a quick glance that he redirected to the floor as quickly as he could, but it had been long enough to see the architecture of your bare back muscles at work, flexing and pulling as you slipped his shirt—his shirt— over your shoulders. He could feel himself blushing like a schoolboy at the thought of watching you undress in his room tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after.

It felt strange.

It felt strange to want something he was allowed to have. It felt strange to be able to let go the guilt of wanting, after all these years denying himself. The road ahead was far from clear, he wasn't naive enough to think it would be rainbows and unicorns—not after everything, not after the specifically cruel way he almost fucked it up. But for the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to.

Something to hold on to.

“… want one?”

He blinked as your voice snapped him out of his head, his eyes finding you in the doorway. He pointedly kept his gaze on your face and not on your bare legs. “Huh?”

Your expression turned slightly amused as you watched him very clearly come back from a trip into his own mind.

“I said, I'm gonna grab a glass of water, want one?”

“I'm good” His voice came out hoarse. “Thanks”

You gave him a nod and retreated to the kitchen. He could hear you move around, opening and closing the cabinets and turning on the faucet as he massaged his leg. Then your footsteps returned, growing closer to the room. He glanced at his nightstand and frowned, then angled his body to face you.

“Hey, I forgot my—”

He was interrupted by you throwing him a small orange bottle, which he caught more by reflex than any conscious decision he made.

“Lyrica on the counter” You finished for him with a small smile as you made your way to the bed. “Right next to the fridge”

He just watched you, eyes wide.

You placed your glass on the nightstand and sat on the bed with him, letting out a drawn out yawn, and seemingly having not idea that Jack had blue screened.

He had a bad habit of leaving his medication in the kitchen, as it was easier to remember to take before leaving for work if it was there. That arrangement, however, meant that often than not, he had to drag himself back there in the evenings when he inevitably forgot to bring a pill with him to go to bed.

You had not only remembered where he always left his medication, but you had brought it to him without him asking you for it.

You noticed the lack of movement on his end as you pulled your legs under the covers. You blinked a couple of time, tilting your head to the side. “… Did I bring the wrong medicine?”

He let a few beats pass, his features morphing into a warmth resembling renewed amazement. He could see it now as clear as day, that something that had always been there but that he never let himself perceive. He felt both incredibly stupid for not welcoming this sooner, and incredibly lucky that he somehow wasn't too late to do so. There was absolutely no doubt now, he couldn't be anywhere but by your side.

He didn't want to be anywhere else ever again either.

“Nope” He finally breathed out, chest suddenly much lighter than it's been in months. “It's… exactly what I needed”

You gave him a small cryptic smile as you slid deeper under the covers, feeling your body melt of its own accord at the safety and comfort his space naturally wrapped you with. Heaviness quickly overcame you as your mind forced you to let go, finally freeing you from the survival mode you've been stuck in for months now. You felt him joining you shortly after, his arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his warm chest as if you had done it for years.

That's how right it felt.

You nestled yourself deeper into his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent. “Thank you”

You felt his hum vibrate in his chest under your cheek. “For what?”

“Finding me” You mumbled back, feeling yourself finally drift off.

You didn't see his expression change, but if you had, it would have broken your heart. You had played it off lowkey earlier, but there was no filter holding you back now. You sounded small and vulnerable and fragile—something you'd never allow if you hadn't been on your last fumes—expressing gratitude for something he should have been doing long ago already. He held you a bit tighter as he chased the lump in his throat.

“I meant it, by the way” His words were breathless over your hair. “I'll always find you”

Your breathing changed then, slowing down to a soft rhythm.

Then he added, more so for himself than you now unconscious form.

“One way or another, I will. I promise”

•••••••••••••

Next [upcoming]

[pleasecallmedoll]

Ughhh! Feelings! This was fantastic!

[mimosa-sexypeople-contests-2026]

I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:

Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed

[mimosa-sexypeople-contests-2026]

In case anyone missed it