Hi everyone, welcome to my blog. My name is Denny and I am a writer who loves to read fanfics and post aesthetics. I do post fanfics that are both non-nsfw and 18+ or NSFW. This is a warning, if you are underage do not interact with those works. All of them are individually tagged by the writers. This blog is:
- A safe space
- A collection of aesthetics including pictures and quotes
- A library of stories from all fandoms
- Contains 18+ works
- Fandoms include but not limited to; Hockey, Avengers, And other TV Shows & Movies
SUMMARY ➩ living next to the cody family was already a difficult task to manage and it only gets more complicated when the eldest boy gets back from prison
SAFE HAVEN 2
SUMMARY ➩ Pope only feels like himself when he’s alone with you in your apartment
CLEAN SLATE
JACK ABBOT
PRAISE PERFECTION 2
SUMMARY ➩ striving for perfection and running off nothing but study books and bitter coffee, you’re struck by your new night shift attending and his gentle praise that gets under your skin
PAPER THIN WALLS
SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.
TILL DEATH DO US PART
SUMMARY ➩ Before Jack was a widower, he was a husband. (your love story from his eyes.)
SAMMY BRYANT
A GOOD MAN
SUMMARY ➩ moving in with your older sister tammi, you develop an odd fixation on her husband
BONDED IN GRIEF
SUMMARY ➩ after losing your husband nate, you find comfort in his partner
RESISTING TEMPTATION
SUMMARY ➩ sammy is beyond tested when nate’s new babysitter gains interest in him
PRIVATE SHOW
SUMMARY ➩ Sammy is insecure, lost in his marriage and lacking excitement in his life until he meets you, a stripper who misses the thrill of dancing simply because she wants to
STAN ROSADO
PRINCESS PROTECTION
SUMMARY ➩ You’re convinced the boy next door is your soulmate and the feeling hasn’t faded even after ten years apart
MISC
IN THE SHADOWS elvis schmidt
DARYL DIXON
The Silence of It > One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen
summary: It began in a lecture hall—in the back row of a Bioethics lecture, where you both learned about each other in silence. It began with understanding, then solidarity, and finally love.
w.c: 4.2K
warnings: lil angst-y, college au-ish, imposter syndrome, the complexities of Brendon Park, slow burn, fluff, inaccuracies of top schools, no physical descriptions, grammatical errors, etc.
a/n: this is part one of this! I feel like this deserves to be a three part series than just a whole fic on tumblr. Idk it would just be too long if I put the whole thing in a single post?? IDKKK but enjoy! Also: reblogs, likes, comments, asks are appreciated!
The consensus is that Brendon Park is a family man. It was a fact that almost felt laughable. A joke in itself. Because there was no conceivable way someone so serious as Brendon could want children. Let alone have a wife. Not in the way people expected. Not in the way that resembled warmth.
He was arrogant, blunt to the point of rudeness, and incredibly demanding due to his high expectations. The only times anyone has ever seen him soften were in the cases that involved children. Even then it was minimal—five, simple words at most. They were delivered with the same controlled restraint he always applied to anything and everything.
But if you really looked, there was something about the way he handled children that didn’t fit the image others had of him. His movement was always careful—gentle in a way that felt unconscious. His voice never raised at them, his expression was softer, and he never rushed them. It’s almost eerie how at ease children seemed to settle in his presence.
Still this unanswered question often lingered: Was he even capable of loving?
It was rumored he was married. Had been for years prior to medical school. Many were quick to deny this because who could stand Dr. Park for that long? Love him?
You did.
You met Brendon during your freshman year of college. He was Biochemistry major, and the two you ended up in the same Introduction to Bioethics class. A general education class that neither you wanted to take but were required to.
You were eighteen. He was nineteen.
You sat in the back row. The front row was reserved for students who seemed confident in their intelligence. Students who raised their hands without hesitation and spoke as though they never doubted themselves.
You weren’t one of them. Because every time a professor posed a question, you knew the answer. Or at least you thought you did. But that little voice in the back of your head convinced you and told you otherwise.
That you were wrong. And if you were wrong, everyone would know you didn’t belong there. That they’d laugh at you for being wrong. Because you should’ve studied harder, prepared enough, been smarter.
So you kept to yourself and kept your head down. Made yourself invisible to avoid being the center of possible humiliation.
You studied everyday, prepared, and understood the lectures. Kept your notes neat enough for them to look printed.
Everything you got done was through effort, preparation. From spending hours hunched over your textbooks in the small kitchen of your tiny apartment that you grew up in. It was barely big enough for you and your mom. The walls were painfully thin to the point that the sound of the fighting couple next door could be heard. The heater only worked when it wanted to. Hot water was practically a luxury.
But it was home.
It was where you spent countless hours of studying while waiting for your mother to come home from working a late, extra shift at the diner. Highlighting definitions and concepts until the words began to blur and rewriting notes obsessively until you retained them.
It was purely hard work and dedication that got you sitting there in your Bioethics class.
Yet it didn’t erase the feeling of being one step away from being exposed. As if someone would fully realize that you truly weren’t supposed to go there. That you were pretending. That you simply got lucky.
But the irony was that you did belong. You simply didn’t know it.
And neither did the tall, awkward football player who sat next to you every single day until the end of the semester.
Brendon didn’t look like he belonged there either. He felt it too.
He was a biochem major, but not the kind students assumed could breeze through classes effortlessly. He wasn’t academically gifted like that or like most of his peers.
He was there because of football.
A scholarship earned in his final year of high school—something he rarely spoke about or really acknowledged.
Had it been up to him, he never would have accepted it.
College was never part of the future he imagined for himself. He would have graduated high school, quit football, and joined his father in construction. It wasn’t glamorous as getting a law degree at Yale, but it was familiar. Easy. Predictable. Realistic.
At the time, the scholarship felt like a mistake. A fluke. An opportunity meant for someone who yearned for it. Needed, wanted it more. Someone who was smarter than him.
He was Brendon Park: star quarterback, mediocre grades, and the first person in his family to go to college.
He remembered the day he came home from practice with the offer. The sky had already darkened by the time he walked through the front door. He sat across from his father at the kitchen table in the house that they could barely afford anymore. His father was still wearing his bright, dirty neon orange shirt and old jeans that were starting to tear.
The light on the ceiling caught the glass of the frame of his mother’s photograph. She was smiling at them from a different time. Beside her was a cream-colored vase filled with fresh tulips.
His dad never forgot. Not a single day since her death. It had been a tradition, an unspoken rule. He would always bring her a bouquet of tulips.
Tulips had been her favorite.
The house was quiet except for the baseball game playing from the television in the living room and the scrape of his fork against a plate. His father, David, let out an irritated grunt as he stared at the TV, his team failed to score base.
The folded offer letter had burned in his pocket.
Brendon stared at his dinner. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Could he even classify it as good news? For the first time in a long time, he felt nervous. Anxious even.
Across from him, his father lifted a familiar, green bottle of Heineken to his lips. Almost immediately, Brendon knew he had been caught. His father had noticed the way he pushed the broccoli around in his plate. He noticed his silence, his tense shoulders, and the way he isn’t paying attention to the game like he always did.
“What’s wrong?” His father asked.
Brendon swallowed thickly. Like he swallowed a stone. He placed the folded letter on the table in between their plates.
“I got offered a scholarship for football.”
The words came out quieter than he intended. They felt heavy. David lowered the bottle back down and leaned forward, his forearms against the wooden table.
“A scholarship?”
Brendon nodded. “For college. At a division 1 school.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Brendon had stared at his old man’s expression, waiting for a shift in it. To understand what he was thinking. To know what he was feeling.
If he too was doubting the news. Doubting if it was worth even taking the opportunity. Doubting him.
David leaned back and crossed his arms, staring at him back. “That’s a good thing.”
A strong part of Brendon disagreed wholeheartedly. He didn’t think it was a good thing. That it would be a waste of everyone’s time and resources. Money that could be well spent on a more deserving student.
“I guess.”
“What do you mean ‘you guess?”
“I mean…” Brendon looked down back at his plate, inhaling softly. “It’s a top university.”
“So?”
“So it’s not for people like me.”
Immediately, his father’s expression soured. And the feeling of regret for saying those words hit him. People like him implied his father. Or his own mother.
“What do you mean: people like you?” David questioned. His voice didn’t raise, it remained steady. Like he was trying to understand where his son was coming from.
Nervously, Brendon rubbed the back of his neck. He slowly looked up to meet the heavy gaze of his father. “For smart people. My grades aren’t great because I suck at school. I’m not smart enough for it.”
It’s silent again for a brief second as his father stares at him. Then, the sound of his father’s booming laughter fills the room. He’s astounded and it’s the type of laughter where someone said something so stupid. So ridiculous.
“You’re tellin’ me that a four-year university is offering you a scholarship to play for their school and you’ve decided that you won’t do it because you think they’re wrong?”
“Dad that’s not—“ Brendon tried.
“No.” His father shook his head and pointed his fork straight at him. “You’re doing it.”
He remembered feeling angry.
Upset that his father couldn’t see his perspective. That he couldn’t understand his reason. That he refused to acknowledge the reality of the situation. That Brendon wasn’t good enough to do it.
“But—“
“You got offered an opportunity that millions of people spend their whole lives wishing for.” David scowled. “And you’re thinkin’ about rejecting it just because you don’t think you’re good enough?”
“Because I’d fail!” Brendon snapped.
“Then fail.”
His father had stated it like it was simple, so matter-of-fact that Brendon thought he had misheard him. Like it wouldn’t be a big deal.As though failure wasn’t something to fear. As if it wasn’t the worse possible outcome. That it was okay.
“What do you mean ‘fail’?” Brendon scowled. “Isn’t the point of college to pass?”
“Sure.” David shrugged.
“What—“
“Go. Try it out. If you fail, you fail.” David shrugged. “And if you hate it, then you can come home.”
Brendon blinked. Why was his father so comfortable with the idea of him failing? Most parents wanted their kids to succeed. Demanded him to be better. Most would’ve pushed harder. Expected more.
Instead, his father sat there with a half-finished beer and empty plate, looking unbothered at the possibility of him failing.
“Look, son…” David sighed. “Construction will always be here. I’ll still be here.”
He motioned towards the letter. “But this opportunity—it’s not handed out like candy, yknow? Not for people like us.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“You don’t have to know if you’ll succeed, Brendon.” His father said. “But you have to be willing to at least try.”
The heaviness in his throat is back as if a log was placed there. He glanced at the photograph of his mother and the tulips next to her. He didn’t respond because he didn’t know how. His father took another sip of his beer and added,
“And if this fancy, university thinks you’re worth betting on, then maybe you should stop acting like you aren’t.”
Welcome Week had already come and gone—an organized week of events designed to welcome incoming freshman to campus. To celebrate the major milestone in every student’s life. There had been speeches about the sense of community through clubs, campus life, opportunities, and the importance of making lifelong connections.
There had also been an alarming amount of fraternities trying to scout him.
Brendon had no interest in joining them.
His father had driven him across the country under the guise of helping him move into his dorm. In reality, the two Parks understood and knew what it really was. It was a goodbye.
It was the final stretch before an entirely different life would begin.
The drive was filled with terrible gas station coffee, snacks, crappy roadside diner food, and conversations about sports, drama between the men at the latest construction site, and jokes. But there were things left unsaid that the two Park men wanted to say.
Neither of them knew how.
By the time they reached his campus, things still remained unspoken. His dorm was smaller than the bedroom he unfortunately left behind. There was barely enough space to fit all of his clothes in the narrow closet. The few boxes he’d brought were stacked neatly in a corner. His duffel bag of football gear sat by the door felt bulky and inconvenient, taking up more space than it should.
This no longer felt temporary. It felt permanent.
That was somehow worse.
His father stood awkwardly by the door after helping him unpack, his brawny body was stiff. This was the moment. Neither of them were good at saying goodbye.
David rubbed at one eye before pulling Brendon into a hug. It was awkward and yet, it was a familiarity that made Brendon not want to pull away. To cling to his father.
It was the kind of hug that only existed because not hugging would have felt wrong. But it was one that Brendon didn’t want to let go of. Even if it was stiff and painfully awkward.
His father’s rough hand patted his back. “Good luck, son.”
Brendon nodded as they both pulled away from each other.
“And remember what I said.” His father spoke softly.
The scholarship, the strong possibility failing, the possibility of succeeding, and the opportunity to be there. His father turned his body and reached to hold the golden door knob. David paused and he turned back to take one good look of his son.
His son was his splitting image, every feature belonged to him except for his eyes. His eyes belonged to his mother.
Brendon furrowed his eyebrows as he noticed his father’s hesitation. David’s eyes were red. Tired even. He looked older than Brendon remembered. But they were warm and they held something that he couldn’t quite name.
“Dad, did you leave something—“
“Your mother would’ve been proud of you.”
The words landed harder than anything else. And before he could even respond, his father shut the door behind him. Leaving him with to dwell in the silence and deal with the impact of his father’s last sentence. The room felt too empty and too quiet for his liking.
His mother would’ve been proud of him. The weight of those words pounded against the walls of doubt that he built and carried with him across the country.
Eventually his gaze drifted to his class schedule on his small desk. Biochemistry, his major. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had chosen it. It sounded interesting enough when he filled out his application, he supposed.
But now he’s surrounded by students who seemed to spend years of preparing for this. Students who had genuine interest in their field of study. Students who took opportunities for research and graduate programs. Who had a plan for what they wanted to do in the future.
Students that genuinely belonged.
Brendon Park wasn’t them. At least, he didn’t think so.
Because as he sits in his first Introduction to Bioethics class all the way in the back next to a girl—staring at a future he could no longer predict—all he could think about is that everyone seemed to know where they were going.
While he was still trying to figure out how the hell he even got there in the first place. Whether it was deserved.
-
It was the first official day of both of your first fall semester. Your first class had been Introduction to Bioethics.
His eyes were snapped forward as the professor made her way into the noisy, lecture room. There were about 300 students sitting and some rushed to look for a seat in the sea of heads. The professor introduced herself and soon came the round of ice breakers.
Students introduced themselves. Many of them spoke confidently—about themselves—of their dreams and aspirations. A lot of them had wanted to be doctors, lawyers, researchers, and scientists.
Some wanted to change the world.
But when it got to Brendon’s turn? He just gave his name and that he liked football. Quick and efficient because no one needed to know that he was uncertain about his future. That he didn’t know what to even do with a Biochemistry degree.
Then it was your turn, the girl that he sat next to. You had been nervous, voice trembling as multiple eyes turned to look at you as you gave your name and what you liked.
Tulips, you said. Before you immediately sat down with a quiet sigh of relief as the next name was called. Immediately, he understood you didn’t like to draw attention to yourself. That you preferred to keep yourself invisible, to get by without someone noticing.
But he noticed.
As the next two weeks passed by, every Monday and Wednesday, you found yourselves occupying the same seats in the back row without fail. It had became a routine at this point. Neither of you chosen this arrangement out loud. It was just a familiarity that you both clung to despite not having spoken a word to each other.
You would smile at him in greeting every time as he made his way towards his seat. He would nod in return. That was the extent of it all. You were not friends. You were just classmates that sat next to each other.
But somehow, you both learned so much about each other with so little information.
You knew he arrived to lecture pretty early with damp hair as if he just got out of the shower, just a few minutes before you and before the class would officially start.
And you knew he was some sort of an athlete. The duffel bag and the blue athletic ran down his forearm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. On some days, you caught a glimpse of the blue underneath the collar of his neck. Sometimes there the bruises. Mainly scrapes that would occasionally run on the chiseled line of his jaw.
You also knew that he read the assigned chapters before class started because he would reference them during the required discussions. You were surprised how serious he took the class. Because every single time he took out his textbook, you couldn’t help but notice the condition of it.
Every single chapter was highlighted. It had annotations floating above certain words and concepts. The margins were crowded with notes. Sometimes there would be a single question mark next to a definition or concept he didn’t understand.
Other times, there were brief notes scattered on the margins in tiny, hurried letters like:
“Ask Professor to explain.”
“Read again.”
“What??”
“Don’t understand.”
These were notes of someone attempting to be good at being smart. They showed the vulnerability that he kept hidden, to avoid looking like he didn’t belong there. It revealed that he was someone scared of falling behind, of missing something that everyone else understood—of failing.
You understood. You recognized the feeling. Your own notes resembled that.
He noticed things about you too.
That every lecture, you arrived 15 minutes earlier than most students even when you looked exhausted.
He noticed the way you’d flinch when the professor would call on you and your answer would make you sound unsure despite having studied hours and already having written the answer on your notes.
The hesitation was always something he noticed. That you were afraid to be wrong despite knowing the answer.
He knew you rewrote your notes. Not once, not twice, multiple times as if the first and second version of them weren’t good enough. That they could be better.
These were all just details. Small, insignificant things. The kind of thing you would notice if you were already paying attention to.
But the list of these details grew.
Soon, he would find his eyes searching for your familiar smile as he walked up to the back.
You would start recognizing the sound of his pencil scratching against paper when the professor would start speaking.
Neither of you acknowledged this. Neither of you needed to.
Because somewhere between the silence, you both started keeping track of each other without meaning to. Without it meaning anything.
It became simple awareness. And one Monday, just before class had ended and students were rushing out of the class. You stayed back, rewriting a line in your notes. Brendon had stayed back too. Staring at his notebook with furrowed eyebrows like he was thinking of something. Something that bothered him.
You didn’t look at him despite being well aware of his presence. Normally, he’d nod at you before walking down. Or let out a quiet ‘thank you’ if you lent him a pen or pencil before leaving.
You assumed he was going to leave soon like he always did. But he didn’t.
Instead, his voice came out quieter than you expected but the deep timber of his voice sent shivers down your spine. You don’t think too into it.
“Why do you act like you don’t know the answer?”
You pause your writing and you turn to look at him. “What?”
Brendon hesitated—for a second. Like he was reconsidering, regretting whether he should’ve said anything at all.
“The professor— when she calls on you, you act like you’re unsure of the answer.” He said.
A beat passed by.
“But you know it. You always know the answer. You just— You hesitate. Every time. Like it’s wrong.”
Immediately, you felt exposed. That he had noticed the part of you that you didn’t want anyone to see, to acknowledge. He opened a can of worms and just left it out on the table, attempting to understand the habit you thought no one saw.
Nervously, you swallowed. “I don’t hesitate.”
But it came out wrong. It came out too defensive before you could fix your tone. But Brendon— he didn’t say anything. He nodded like he knew you’d say that. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He should stay quiet. Should keep to himself—
“You do, though.” He said.
You could’ve laughed at the irony of this. Because you also noticed that he hesitated too when he got called on. That he’s unsure if the answer he says is correct despite diligently reading the chapters every night. Despite having evidence of that in his textbook.
Maybe you should’ve ended the conversation there. Put away your notes and packed your backpack and left. But you don’t.
Again, you say: “I don’t hesitate.” It sounds colder than you intended to. Still defensive.
“I wasn’t trying to—“ Brendon looks at you for a second before he turns away.
And it’s silent again as Brendon looked down at his notes. The normal rhythm of the room is gone now that it’s just the two of you. His notes are sloppy and they look like he tried his best in keeping them organized. His aren’t like yours—neat and impeccable to the point they look like they were printed. He almost looks like he was trying to make himself smaller for having started a conversation that already costed him more than he meant it to.
Then he quietly adds, “I just noticed is all.”
You inhale sharply and you look at him longer than you ever really had.
“That’s a weird thing to notice.”
It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t cold. It was just an honest fact. An observation.
A statement that was enough to elicit some sort of reaction in Brendon. His lips twitched and it looked like he was attempting to hide his expression before he turns to look at you with something that resembled a tiny, amused smile— no, smirk.
“Yeah,” Brendon shrugged. Like he didn’t have a better answer. “I guess it kind of is.”
“Do you notice weird things about other people too?” You slowly close your notebook.
He looked at you for a moment, like he was deciding whether to be honest or not.
“No,” Brendon said.
He paused almost questioning if his answer would be wrong. “Just you, I guess.”
Your eyebrows shoot up and you stare at him with surprise. Immediately, he knew he shouldn’t have said that. His jaw tightens and he clenches the pencil in his grip as he averted his gaze from you.
He looked away from you quickly. Too quickly for it to not mean nothing. A faint warmth crawled up to the tips of his ears—subtle. Embarrassment.
“That came out wrong…” He muttered. “I didn’t mean it in a weird way– just—“
He stopped himself from talking more, from explaining. Because it would just make things worse if he continued. He’d only make you uncomfortable.
You didn’t respond right away. You just didn’t know what to say. You weren’t sure what he truly meant by that. But it seemed that he was kicking himself in the ass for it. That he regretted bringing it up.
“Why?” You asked.
It was simple. A one-word question. Something he should be able to answer easily.
But he doesn’t know how to.
He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were smiling at him, barely. It was small, practically unnoticeable. Encouraging. Like you were trying to coax the answer out of him, to understand what he meant.
You’re not making fun of him. You didn’t seem uncomfortable. You’re also not pulling away from him.
And somehow that made it worse.
“I don’t know.” He admitted.
You both just sit there collectively alone in the silence. Voices faded and footsteps echoed in the hallway of the building. But the space between you two stayed. You both don’t fill the silence, you just sit there finally acknowledging each other’s presence.
hey, i don't know if you do request, but what about brendon Park x wife!medical malpractice attorney? and they have a kid together who needs urgent medical attention for a sprained ankle, aaaand she is just as intimidating as park. u can feel the pressure and tension in that room for both having the shark and a well recognized medical malpractice attorney
okay I did peds reader bc they’re almost the same??? lol
brendon park x peds wife!reader
SHALLOW WATERS
"what've we got?" robby asked as the paramedics wheeled in.
"11 year old male, bp 119/73, HR 111, RR 20. apparently he took a fall; reporting pain to the left ankle." the EMT leaned in closer. talking in his ear. "neighbors called it in."
the attendings eyebrows drew in. “parents?" the medic tipped his head toward the kid discreetly. "he said his parents were at work— didn't say where. but he was adamant about coming here.”
robby glanced at the boy then back to the EMT. almost as if needing clarification. “we were closer to Presby.”
it wasn’t new to have patients rerouted. but it wasn’t something they’d ask for. especially by someone this kid's age. if his condition was worse, they would’ve taken him to Presby. no hesitation.
“his name?”
“Henry— didn’t get the last. we were trying to get his heart rate down, his adrenaline was high.“ the medic explained. “besides his request to come here, he didn’t talk much after that. I assumed he was still in shock from the pain.”
“and the neighbors didn’t say anything else? where his parents are or where they work?” robby needed something. the medic shook his head. “not to me.” his head turning over to his partner. “Pzsonyi— did the couple tell you anything about the parents?”
“said they were doctors.”
and he was adamant about coming here.
“that should narrow it down. not like we have a hospital full of those—” robby said sarcastically. “we got it from here.”
robby turned and walked towards where the nurses were. the blonde already fixed on him as he approached.
“you good?” dana asked as she watched over the rim of her glasses.
Robby’s hands went behind his neck as he blew out a breath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
he then looked over his shoulder where the boy was across the floor of the department. “the 11 year old patient that just came in” his head gestured back. Dana’s eyes following. “would you be able to work your magic and get his emergency contacts? came in without anyone. according to the EMT, his parents work here.”
the charge nurse's eyes pinched a bit.
"they work here?"
Robby shrugged. “I’m not for sure,” Dana gave him a look, rolling her eyes.
“one of the medics said his parents were doctors and the other told me the boy was insistent on coming here. It’s a long shot but I could only assume.” robby scratched his beard. Dana gave him a nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
His hands clapped together, grasping one another as he gave her a tight lipped smile. A silent thank you before he turned to leave. heading over to where Henry was.
Jesse was with him. A smile on the boy's face despite his damp cheeks.
“Henry, right?” robby started as he grabbed some gloves. blue eyes stared back at him, then a nod. a quiet ‘yes sir’ given.
it was a small movement. the corner of Robby’s mouth lifted up.
Respectful.
his attention turned to Jesse. “500 mg of acetaminophen, 350mg of ibuprofen. and let’s get him in for xrays.” Jesse nodded as he gets the meds ready.
“We’re gonna get a hold of your mom and dad, Henry– let them know you’re here.” robby circled back to the patient. The attending watching. The boy’s lips parting before licking the bottom. almost as if it was on the tip of his tongue and he decided against it. “Okay.”
“I hear they’re doctors here, any chance I might–”
“Robinavitch.” Dana peeked in. Robby glanced up. The charge nurse's head tipped the other way. “a word.”
Robby gave Henry’s shoulder squeeze. “I’ll be right back, in the mean time, Jesse here,” hand motioning to the tall male nurse, “aaaand” Robby’s head swiveled. eyes catching two of his students.
Student and first year resident.
“Whitaker. Ogilvie.”
the two turned when they heard their names. Robby signaling them over.
“Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Ogilvie,”
“Student Doctor.” James interrupted with a finger up. Robby paused and nodded. “Right– are going to assist.”
“Dr. Robby, we don’t–” whitaker’s words fell short as the older man delivered a shoulder pat. “You got this.” gloves snapped off as he sailed out. The blonde was standing in the hall with pressed lips, tablet held to her chest, and an amused glint in her eyes.
“Did you work your magic?”
A smile stretched across Dana’s face. “I feel like you’re gonna regret asking me.” she laughed. “I did— and you’re never gonna guess who mom and dad are.”
Robby eyed her. “Who?”
Dana flickered her sight a few feet away to where the boys were. her finger pointing to the younger one who sat on the hospital bed.
“you’ve got a baby shark in there.”
Robby blinked. then let out a laugh.
not a nervous one and not an amused one. It was one someone gave when they were just given information they couldn't fathom. Or really, didn’t like. Almost like not wanting to hear what they were just told even if they asked for it and now they were suffering the consequences.
that kind of laugh.
“of course they are.” hands rubbing his eyes as he fell back onto the heels of his feet. “Are we sure?” he squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Dana grinned. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Did you already let them know?” robby asked.
“And what? risk the chance of there being blood in the water because I waited to tell them that their son was down here. What are you fucking kidding me? Of course I told them.” the charge nurse gave him a wide look as if not believing he really just asked a stupid question.
He was a man afterall.
Robby blew out a breath. “Fuck– okay. When are they–” his question answered when you guys approach.
“Park.”
It was rare to see you both down here at the same time. Not that it never happened, it was just unexpected. The interns said it felt wrong. like seeing a shark itself in the shallow waters.
You hadn’t even acknowledged robby; passing right by. Brendon barely sparing a nod.
“Better not have anyone incompetent with my son.”
Henry looked up when he heard his dad. A wide smile stretching when he saw his mom.
Your persona was washed off. Not at all caring that you were completely exposed. Out in the open. Your hand caressing his cheek, his smaller one on top.
“Are you okay?” a quiet ask. eyes watching him as he nods. “I’m okay.”
A satisfied smile before you press a kiss to his forehead. Squeezing his cheeks in your grasp.
Whitaker and Ogilvie just stared. One not wanting to interrupt and probably too scared to do so, while the other stood with wide eyes. His mouth parted like a fish out of water.
Brendon pressed another kiss to the other side of his head. before his eyes lift to his boy's foot. an ice pack resting on his ankle.
“is he on meds?” Brendon asked as he leaned up. his hand brushing against his son’s hair before pulling gloves out of his scrub pocket. snapping them on.
“500 mg of acetaminophen– 350mg of ibuprofen.” Robby clarified. arms crossed as he nodded.
“iced the area to—” “I’m not blind.”
Whitaker closed his mouth.
“dad.” brendons eyes caught his sons. the boy giving him an unimpressed look that you knew he inherited from the man in front of him. “don’t interrupt.”
your suppress a smile. his words sounded familiar.
brendon cleared his throat. “finish.” gaze on the r1 for a split second before he diverts it.
Whitaker looks to robby, then looks to you then the young boy. he knows now how Ogilvie felt. only this time it was a little more reassuring knowing the kid had his back. he didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.
“We uh— just iced to reduce the swelling, elevation above heart level. bp now, 105/61, HR 89, 99 on room….” his eyes finding Henry’s. the youngest park giving him a thumbs up.
“xray?” you asked from the side. "dr. robby already had them in order.” whitaker verbalised.
“we’re still waiting to get him in.” the attending intervened quietly. you slowly peeled yourself away from your son. "I'll be back— make sure dad doesn't kill anyone." you joke drily as you leave.
it earns a giggle from the kid.
Ogilvie, who had been surprisingly quiet, turns to where you just left. eyes wide as his head spins. “was she being serious—”
"It was just one time." Henry shrugs.
"One?” Whitaker and Ogilvie echo. Robby’s lips pursing as he watches in amusement. head shaking at how easy it was to reel them in.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no given name
Warnings: Heavy angst, emotional neglect, marital conflict, pregnancy, divorce discussion, loneliness, hurt/no comfort, Jack missing an important event, a painful marriage breakdown, emotional abandonment, public humiliation, pregnancy reveal, divorce papers, and unresolved ending.
Author’s Note: Inspired by the kind of heartbreak that does not end just because someone leaves. Loosely inspired by Janine Berdin’s What If I Miss You For The Rest Of My Life?
This will be one of the few works I’ve decided to allow reblogs on, mostly because I want to see how I feel about it before deciding whether I’ll allow reblogs on future fics. I haven’t been the biggest fan of reblogs in the past, so please be respectful of that.
Summary: Jack promised he would be there. For once, on the most important night of your career, you believed him. But when the hospital takes him away again, you are left to stand alone beneath the lights, accept an award with his chair sitting empty beside you, and carry the secret you had planned to share with him. By the time he finally comes home, the marriage has already broken in a place apologies cannot reach.
I have built a house where I wait for your return
The dress had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for almost two weeks before Jack finally noticed it.
You had left it there on purpose, though you told yourself you hadn’t. You told yourself it was there because the closet was too full, because the garment bag was too long, because the silk would crease if you shoved it between winter coats and blazers. You told yourself a lot of things because admitting the truth felt too humiliating, and the truth was that part of you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to remember without being reminded. You wanted him to walk past it after a long shift, pause with his hand still on the doorknob, and say, “That’s for the gala, right?” like the date lived somewhere in his head that wasn’t overcrowded by trauma charts, shift changes, hospital pages, and everyone else’s emergencies.
It was a black silk gown, simple in the way expensive things were simple. Off the shoulder, fitted through the waist, smooth over the hips, with a slit that opened only when you walked. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The fabric caught the bedroom light softly, almost like water, and every time you passed it, you imagined wearing it beside him.
That was the part that embarrassed you now. You had imagined it.
Jack in a dark suit. You in the black dress. His hand at the small of your back while people congratulated you. Maybe he would be tired, because he was always tired, but he would be there. You pictured him standing slightly behind you when people asked questions about the hospital contracts, his expression quiet but proud, his thumb brushing your hip like he needed to remind himself you were real. You pictured him leaning down and saying something low near your ear, something dry and teasing, something only meant for you. You pictured walking into a room and not feeling like you had to be impressive alone.
Three weeks earlier, he had stood in the kitchen with the invitation in his hand, wearing sweatpants and an old Pitt hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes had looked bruised underneath from exhaustion, but when he read your name embossed in gold, he smiled.
“Dr. Y/N Abbot,” he said, running his thumb over the raised lettering. “Founder and Chief Systems Architect. This is fancy.”
You had been sitting at the island with your laptop open, pretending not to watch him too closely. There was a half-empty mug of tea beside your hand that had gone cold while you answered emails, and Jack had been barefoot on the kitchen tile, still carrying the warmth of the shower and the fatigue of the hospital with him.
“It’s a major industry gala, Jack. It’s supposed to be fancy.”
He looked up, amused. “I know. I’m just saying. This is real fancy.”
“You’re acting like I invited you to prom.”
“Kind of feels like it,” he said, setting the invitation down. “Except I don’t think anyone at my prom was casually entering billion-dollar valuation territory.”
You laughed despite yourself, and he came around the island, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. For a moment, you let yourself lean back into him. He smelled like soap, coffee, and hospital laundry detergent, that clean, sterile scent that had somehow become part of your marriage. His mouth brushed the side of your neck, and for a second, the kitchen felt like a place where both of your lives still fit.
“Don’t say it like that,” you murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” Jack said, his voice low against your skin. “In a good way. My wife builds technology hospitals are fighting to buy, and I’m over here trying to remember where I left my badge.”
You turned in his arms and looked up at him. His hands stayed at your waist, warm and familiar. You could feel the small tremor of exhaustion in him, the way he was never fully still after a hard shift, like some part of his body was always bracing for the next alarm.
“So you’re coming?”
His smile softened. “Of course I’m coming.”
“You asked Harper to switch?”
“Already done.”
“You’re not on call?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Jack’s expression changed then, the teasing fading into something more careful. He touched your cheek with his thumb, and you hated how quickly your heart wanted to believe him. It was always like that with Jack. One gentle touch, one serious look, one promise said in that tired, sincere voice, and all the loneliness you had been trying to gather into evidence loosened in your hands.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m coming.”
You searched his face. “This one matters to me.”
“I know.”
“It’s not just dinner. We’re announcing the hospital network implementation contracts. The rollout plan. Market entry. The valuation estimate. This is the kind of night people remember.”
Jack nodded and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be there. I promise.”
That was the version of him you kept loving. The version that meant it. The problem was, Jack almost always meant it. If he had been careless, maybe you could have hated him properly. If he had forgotten because you did not matter, maybe the grief would have sharpened into something cleaner, something you could hold without blaming yourself. But Jack remembered in fragments. He loved in fragments. He showed up in small, exhausted pieces and looked at you like he wanted to give you everything, right before the world asked him for more than he had left.
And you kept living on those pieces.
A hand on your waist in the kitchen. His mouth against your temple before a shift. The rare mornings where he woke before his alarm and pulled you back against him like sleep had made him honest. The way he still looked at your face sometimes, quietly, almost helplessly, like he was surprised life had ever given him something soft. You had survived on that for longer than you wanted to admit, and that was the humiliating part. Not that he hurt you. Not even that he missed things. It was that one good look from him could still make you forgive a loneliness he had not yet apologized for.
On the night of the gala, he called you at 5:18 p.m.
You were standing in the bathroom in a silk robe while your makeup artist packed up her kit. Your hair was pinned into a low twist at the back of your neck, with a few pieces left soft around your face. Your earrings were already on, small diamond drops that caught the light whenever you moved. Your face looked finished in the mirror — warm skin, dark lashes, softly lined lips — polished enough that no one would know how nervous you were.
The bathroom smelled like hairspray, powder, perfume, and the faint steam from the shower you had taken an hour earlier. On the counter, your lipstick lay uncapped beside a little dish holding your wedding rings, which you had cleaned that afternoon because you thought there would be photographs of the two of you. The whole apartment felt too quiet, too prepared, like a stage waiting for someone who had not arrived yet.
Your phone lit up on the counter.
Jack.
Your stomach dropped before you even answered.
“Please don’t,” you said immediately.
There was a pause on the other end. Then Jack sighed, and the sound told you everything before he did.
“Y/N.”
You closed your eyes. “You said you weren’t on call.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You said you switched.”
“I did.”
“Then why are you calling me like this?”
He sounded tired already. Not physically tired exactly, but braced, like he knew he was about to hurt you and hated that knowing. “Harper’s kid got sick, and they’re short. It’s bad. I wouldn’t go in if they had coverage.”
You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner was perfect. Your lips were perfect. Your whole face looked calm in a way that made you feel almost detached from it.
“Did they ask you, or did you offer?”
Jack didn’t answer quickly enough.
You let out a small, humourless laugh. “Oh.”
“They were drowning,” he said.
“So you offered.”
“I said I could come in for a few hours. I’m going to try to get out as soon as I can.”
You pressed your fingertips into the cool marble counter. The makeup artist moved quietly in your peripheral vision, pretending very hard not to listen.
“Jack, the reception starts at seven. Dinner is at eight. Speeches are at nine-thirty.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“That’s not fair.”
You looked down at your wedding band in the dish. The diamond caught the bathroom light, clean and bright and cruel.
“I can’t do this right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
The silence stretched. You could hear hospital noise in the background already: a distant page, someone calling for transport, the low hum of a place that never cared what anyone had planned.
“I’ll make it,” Jack said, but his voice had changed.
You heard the lie before it fully left his mouth.
“Don’t,” you said softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me a second promise to cover the first one.”
He exhaled. “Y/N.”
“I have to finish getting dressed.”
“I love you.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
He waited, but you did not say it back. After a few seconds, he said he would text you when he knew more, and you ended the call before he could apologize again.
The makeup artist stood very still, her brush bag in one hand, pretending she had not heard enough to understand. You looked at her through the mirror and smiled with the exact expression you used in investor meetings.
“Sorry about that.”
Her face softened. “No, don’t apologize.”
You picked up your lipstick and opened it even though your lips were already done. “I’m fine.”
She did not believe you, which was kind of her. At least she did you the courtesy of not saying so.
You waited until she left before you put your rings back on. For a moment, you stood in the quiet bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. The woman looking back at you was composed, elegant, expensive. She looked like someone who knew exactly where she was going. She did not look like someone trying to decide whether it was more pathetic to cry before the biggest night of her career or to still hope her husband might walk through the door in time.
You got dressed carefully. You stepped into the gown and pulled it up over your body, smoothing the silk over your hips with both hands. The dress fit perfectly. That almost made you cry. You had wanted Jack to see it. You had wanted the private little intake of breath he sometimes gave when he forgot to pretend he wasn’t stunned by you. You had wanted him to look at you like he remembered you were not just the person waiting at home with leftovers and patience.
Instead, you zipped yourself up alone.
The first news segment aired from the lobby of The Pitt just after 7:00 p.m.
It wasn’t unusual for the televisions in the emergency department to run local news with the volume low. Most of the time, no one paid attention unless there was a weather alert, a mass casualty incident, or something affecting hospital funding. It was background noise beneath sharper sounds: monitors beeping, wheels rattling, phones ringing, curtain rings scraping open and shut.
Jack was at the desk reviewing imaging when one of the nurses looked up at the television.
“Wait,” she said. “Is that your wife?”
Jack’s head lifted.
The screen showed the front of the Meridian Grand, a luxury hotel downtown with a glass canopy and warm lights spilling onto the rain-dark sidewalk. A reporter stood outside in a wool coat, holding a microphone while guests moved behind her in formalwear.
The lower-third banner read:
L/N POWER SYSTEMS CELEBRATES MAJOR HOSPITAL GRID CONTRACTS
Company valuation expected to climb as implementation phase begins
Jack’s hand tightened around the tablet.
The reporter smiled into the camera. “Tonight, L/N Power Systems is hosting a private gala following a major round of hospital infrastructure contracts that could place the company among the most valuable emerging players in emergency energy systems. Founded by electrical engineer Dr. Y/N Abbot, L/N Power Systems has developed adaptive microgrid technology designed to keep critical hospital units powered during grid failures, natural disasters, and rolling outages.”
A resident standing nearby glanced between the television and Jack. “Dr. Abbot, that’s your wife, right?”
Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Damn,” the resident said, clearly trying to sound impressed rather than awkward. “That’s huge.”
Jack did not respond. The broadcast cut to a graphic showing projected contract values, implementation timelines, and valuation estimates. The numbers were careful, couched in analyst language, but the implication was obvious. If your company hit its implementation targets and the contracts expanded the way people expected, you were on track to enter billion-dollar territory.
A nurse whistled quietly. “Billion with a B?”
Another nurse said, “And she designed the actual system?”
Jack looked at the screen. “Yeah.”
The nurse shook her head. “That’s wild.”
The camera returned to the hotel entrance just as your car pulled up. Jack knew it was you before the door opened. He recognized the way Mara, your assistant, stepped out first and turned back toward the car, one hand hovering near the open door.
Then you appeared.
For a second, the desk around him faded out. The dress looked different on you than it had on the hanger. It followed your body with quiet confidence, the black silk catching silver from the camera flashes and gold from the hotel lights. Your shoulders were bare. Your hair was pinned low, elegant but not severe, and the diamonds at your ears glittered whenever you turned your head. You stepped under the canopy and smiled for the cameras.
It was a beautiful smile. It was also the smile you wore when you were trying not to feel something.
The reporter turned as photographers called your name. “And there she is now, Dr. Y/N Abbot, founder and chief systems architect of L/N Power Systems. Dr. Abbot has been described by analysts as one of the most closely watched engineers in the hospital infrastructure space, especially now that her company’s adaptive grid platform is moving from pilot installations into large-scale implementation.”
Someone at the desk said, “Jack, aren’t you supposed to be there?”
Nobody meant it cruelly. That almost made it worse.
Jack swallowed, still watching as you paused beside the step-and-repeat, your clutch held neatly in both hands.
“I was.”
The answer made the area around him go quiet.
On-screen, a reporter asked you, “Dr. Abbot, tonight is being described as a turning point for your company. What does it mean to have hospital systems moving forward with implementation?”
You smiled, and Jack noticed your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch.
“It means the work is becoming real,” you said. “Designing the system was one part of it. Proving it under stress testing was another. Implementation is where it starts to matter for patients, doctors, nurses, and everyone relying on those seconds when the grid becomes unstable.”
The reporter asked, “There’s already discussion of a possible billion-dollar valuation. Are you thinking about that tonight?”
You gave a small laugh, polite and controlled. “I think my CFO is probably thinking about it more than I am. The valuation matters because it affects growth and deployment, but for me, the focus is still the technology. If a trauma bay stays powered during an outage because of something my team built, that means more to me than a headline.”
The reporter thanked you. You nodded, smiled again, and moved inside.
Jack stood very still until the charge nurse beside him looked over. “You okay?”
He dragged his eyes from the screen. “Yeah.”
She held his gaze long enough to make it clear she did not believe him. Then a trauma page came through, and the whole department lurched back into motion. Jack handed off the tablet, shoved his phone into his pocket, and went where he was needed.
Again.
At the gala, people kept asking where your husband was.
You answered the first few times with patience. “He got called into the hospital.”
Most people responded kindly. Some even looked impressed, as if Jack’s absence made the two of you nobler somehow.
“Oh, of course. Emergency medicine.”
“That must be so difficult.”
“You both do such meaningful work.”
“Power couple, even when you’re in different places.”
You smiled through all of it. “Yes. He’s very dedicated.”
The ballroom was beautiful, but after a while its beauty started to feel almost cruel. The ceiling was high and painted cream and gold, with chandeliers throwing soft light over round tables covered in white linen. Each place setting had a black menu card with gold foil, a small arrangement of white orchids, and a tiny glass votive candle. Along one wall, a projection displayed animated renderings of your adaptive grid system: hospital wings lighting in sequence, power rerouting through alternate pathways, emergency loads stabilizing under simulated failures.
Your company’s leadership team sat near the stage. Your engineers were at the tables closest to you, dressed in suits and gowns that looked slightly unfamiliar on them. You loved seeing the people who had built the system with you getting treated like they belonged in rooms where money moved. Some of them kept taking discreet pictures of the menus and the floral arrangements. One of your junior engineers had shown up in a suit that still had a faint fold line in the sleeve from being fresh out of the garment bag. Another kept touching the stem of his wineglass like he was afraid of breaking it.
You should have been happy. Part of you was happy. That was what made the grief feel so unfair. The night was not ruined. The contracts were real. The applause was real. Your team’s pride was real. Your name on that screen was real. All of it was real.
So was the empty chair beside you.
By the tenth time someone asked where your husband was, you stopped hearing the question as a question. It became part of the room.
Where is he?
In the clink of champagne glasses.
Where is he?
In the scrape of chairs being pulled out for other wives, other husbands, other people with someone’s hand resting warmly against the backs of their seats.
Where is he?
In the empty space beside your plate, where his name sat in elegant black ink on heavy cream cardstock.
Dr. Jack Abbot
You stared at it for too long once, long enough that Mara touched your elbow beneath the table.
“You okay?”
You smiled before you answered, because that had become its own kind of muscle memory. “Yes.”
But your chest ached with something so childish and raw that it embarrassed you. You wanted him to think of you. Not the company. Not the press segment. Not the award. You. The woman in the dress he had promised to stand beside. The woman who had cleaned her wedding rings because she thought there would be photographs. The woman who kept glancing at the doors like wanting him hard enough might make him appear.
You hated yourself a little for that.
You hated that even surrounded by applause, even with your name glowing behind you, some stupid, tender part of you was still waiting to be someone’s favorite thing in the room.
Mara stayed close, fielding conversations when she sensed you needed a breath. She wore a deep green dress and carried a tablet even though you had told her not to work tonight.
“You’re doing great,” she murmured when a hospital executive walked away after asking too many questions about rollout costs.
You looked at the champagne flute in your hand. You had not taken a single sip.
“I’m doing rich-woman cosplay.”
“You are a rich woman.”
“Not emotionally.”
Mara almost laughed, then looked at your face and didn’t.
Your hand went to your clutch, where the white envelope from the doctor’s office was tucked beneath your phone. You had not told anyone. Not Mara. Not your mother. Not Jack.
Especially not Jack.
The result had come through that morning after bloodwork confirmed what the home tests had already said. Five weeks. Early enough that it still felt secret and unreal, but real enough that the nurse had told you to start prenatal vitamins and book a follow-up appointment. You had sat in your car outside the clinic with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the printed result until the words stopped looking like English.
Pregnant.
At first, you cried because you were happy. Then you cried because you were scared. Then, worst of all, you cried because the first person you wanted was Jack, and you had already known there was a chance he would not be there when you told him.
During dinner, your phone buzzed once. You checked it under the table.
Jack:
I’m still here. I’m so sorry. I watched your interview. You looked beautiful. I’m proud of you.
You stared at it for a long moment. For a second, you felt nothing. Then the hurt arrived slowly, settling into the parts of you that had already made room for it.
Mara leaned closer. “Is it him?”
You put the phone face down on the table. “Yeah.”
“Is he coming?”
You smoothed the edge of your napkin in your lap. “No.”
Mara went quiet. Across the room, your CFO was laughing with two investors. Someone from the hospital network raised a glass toward you, and you smiled back automatically.
“I don’t want to cry in this dress,” you said.
Mara’s voice softened. “Then don’t. Be mad instead.”
You looked at her, and something in your chest tightened. “I’m so tired of being mad.”
That was the truth you never said out loud. Anger took energy. Anger required the belief that something could still change if you made enough noise. You were so far past that now. You were tired in a way sleep could not fix, tired of dressing up disappointment until it looked like understanding, tired of giving Jack the best parts of your compassion while keeping none of it for yourself.
The first time the lights flickered at The Pitt that night, nobody really reacted.
Hospitals had a way of making disaster feel routine at first. A monitor blinked. A ceiling light hummed. Somewhere behind the desk, a printer stopped halfway through a page and then coughed itself back to life. The nurses looked up, annoyed but not afraid, because annoyance was easier to wear than fear.
Jack was in trauma two with both hands pressed around a patient’s bleeding thigh when the second flicker came.
This time, the room noticed.
“Power?” someone asked.
“Backup should catch,” a nurse said, but her voice had gone thin.
Then the overheads steadied. The monitors held. The ventilator kept its rhythm. The trauma bay stayed bright.
A few seconds later, someone from facilities came over the radio, breathless and stunned.
Only for a second, but long enough for the words to land somewhere beneath his ribs.
Adaptive reroute.
Your system.
Your work.
Your sleepless nights, your marked-up schematics, your laptop glowing blue at two in the morning while he came home too tired to ask what you were building. Your hands, your mind, your stubbornness, your company, your impossible little gap between failure and recovery.
The trauma bay lights stayed on because of you.
And he was not beside you when the world clapped for it.
“Dr. Abbot?”
Jack blinked and looked down. His gloves were slick. The patient was still bleeding. The room still needed him.
“Clamp,” he said, voice rough. “Now.”
He kept working because that was what he did. He kept people alive. He kept rooms from falling apart. He kept going until the crisis passed and everyone around him could breathe again.
But after, when the patient was taken upstairs and Jack stepped into the hall, the television over the nurses’ station was still showing the gala.
Your gala.
The reporter’s voice filled the space between ringing phones and rolling carts.
“Moments ago, L/N Power Systems’ adaptive grid platform stabilized a critical load interruption at an emergency department participating in one of its pilot programs. Company officials have not yet confirmed which hospital experienced the event, but analysts are already calling tonight a live demonstration of the technology’s value.”
A resident looked from the screen to Jack.
No one had to say it.
Jack already knew.
The hospital had needed you tonight too. The difference was, the hospital had gotten you.
He had not shown up for you at all.
Jack saw your acceptance speech from the staff lounge.
He had missed the start because a patient had crashed, and by the time he made it to the lounge, his scrub top was damp at the collar and his hands still smelled faintly of antiseptic even after washing them twice. Someone had turned the television volume up because your gala was now the top local business story of the evening.
You were on stage behind a podium, your award resting beside the microphone. The lights made your skin glow and turned the black silk of your gown almost blue at the edges. Behind you, the screen showed a slow animation of your company’s system keeping a surgical wing powered during a simulated outage.
Jack stayed in the doorway.
On the screen, you took a breath and looked out at the room.
“When I started this company, a lot of people told me the idea was too difficult to scale,” you said. “Some were polite about it. Some were not. I was told hospitals already had backup systems, that emergency power was a solved problem, and that the failure gap we were focused on was too small to justify the investment.”
You smiled slightly, and the audience laughed when you added, “The thing about engineers is that if you tell us the gap is small, we tend to ask what happens inside it.”
Jack’s throat tightened. He had heard you practice versions of this speech in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. He had teased you once for rewriting one paragraph eleven times. You had thrown a pillow at him and told him the paragraph was weak.
Now you were saying it without him in the room.
“We built this system because seconds matter,” you continued. “A few seconds without stable power can change what happens in an operating room, in a trauma bay, in a NICU, in an elevator carrying a patient between floors. The goal was never to make hospitals perfect. The goal was to give them a better chance when everything else is failing.”
The staff lounge was quiet. Jack noticed one of the nurses standing near the coffee machine, arms folded, watching with damp eyes.
You glanced down briefly, then back up.
“I’m grateful for my team. I’m grateful to the hospital partners who believed in the technology early. I’m grateful to the people who asked hard questions, because they made the system better.”
You paused.
Jack knew that pause. He knew it because he had lived with you long enough to hear the breath you took before saying something that cost you.
“Tonight is a professional milestone, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel personal too. Building something this demanding changes your life. It changes your relationships. It tests who shows up, who wants to, and who actually does.”
Jack’s face went still.
On-screen, your expression remained calm, but your voice softened.
“I’ve learned that success does not make loneliness disappear. It can fill a ballroom. It can put your name on a screen. It can bring applause, contracts, and congratulations. But at the end of the night, you still know which chair beside you stayed empty.”
Nobody in the lounge moved.
Jack looked at the floor. He did not have to see the screen to know the camera would have found his empty chair. A place card with his name. A dinner plate cleared untouched. A visible absence.
But the camera did find it.
Not for long.
Just long enough.
There it was on the television: the chair beside you, empty beneath warm ballroom light. A white place card sat above the untouched dinner setting.
Dr. Jack Abbot
Someone in the lounge inhaled quietly.
Jack stared at his name on the screen.
It was different seeing it like that. Not as a missed text. Not as a fight waiting to happen. Not as something he could explain with patients and short staffing and impossible nights.
It was a space with his name on it.
A promise that had a shape.
An absence everyone could see.
You continued, steadier now. “I am proud of this company. I am proud of the team who built it. And tonight, I am proud of myself for believing that the things I needed were worth building, even when I had to build them alone.”
The applause started slowly, then grew.
Jack stood there, unable to move.
One of the residents near the table said quietly, “I’m sorry, man.”
Jack nodded, because there was nothing else to do. A minute later, his pager went off again.
You left the gala after midnight with your award in one hand and your clutch in the other.
People tried to stop you on the way out. A board member wanted to introduce you to someone from a national health system. Your CFO wanted five minutes about a follow-up call. A journalist asked for one more quote. You gave polite answers, promised emails, and let Mara run interference until you made it to the lobby.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist. The hotel’s front drive shone under the lights, slick and dark like spilled ink. Your heels clicked against the polished stone as you waited for the car. The night air was cold against your bare shoulders, and Mara draped your coat over you before you could pretend you were fine without it.
“You don’t have to go home,” she said.
You looked at the road. “I know.”
“I can book you a suite upstairs.”
“I already did.”
Mara turned to you.
You kept your eyes forward. “I booked it this afternoon. Just in case.”
Her expression changed, but she did not make it worse by reacting too much. “Okay.”
The car pulled up. The driver took your award and placed it carefully in the back seat. When you slid into the car, the dress gathered around your legs in a pool of black silk. Mara got in beside you.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The city moved past in blurred lights and wet windows. Billboards, traffic signals, restaurants closing for the night, people standing under awnings with cigarettes and phones. The world looked ordinary, which felt insulting. Something inside you had cracked open, and outside, people were still ordering late-night fries.
Mara broke the silence gently. “Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”
You looked down at your clutch. “I’m pregnant.”
The words came out flat, almost too calm.
Mara’s head turned slowly. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Your eyes burned immediately. “I found out this morning.”
“Does Jack know?”
You shook your head. “I was going to tell him tonight.”
Mara covered her mouth for a second, then lowered her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
That was what undid you. Not the empty chair. Not the text. Not the speech. Just someone being sorry for you without making you explain why you had the right to be hurt.
You bent forward slightly, one hand pressed over your stomach, the other over your mouth, trying not to sob too loudly in the back of the car. Mara moved close and put an arm around your shoulders, careful of your hair, careful of the dress, careful of all the pieces of you that were barely holding.
“I wanted him there,” you said, voice muffled through your fingers. “I wanted one night where I didn’t have to understand.”
Mara rubbed your back. “I know.”
“I hate that I still wanted him.”
“That’s love,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t always leave when it should.”
You cried harder at that, because she was right. You thought you had moved past needing him like that. You thought if you got busy enough, successful enough, full enough, maybe you would not notice the missing parts so much. But then something happened, something beautiful or terrifying or important, and he was still the first person you wanted to tell.
You looked out the window, watching the city smear itself into streaks of white and red through the rain. Pittsburgh looked softer from inside the car, almost forgiving. Like it did not know what had happened to you tonight. Like somewhere behind all those lit windows, people were still coming home to each other.
“I’m sitting here with an award, a company people are saying might be worth a billion dollars, a baby I don’t even know how to feel brave enough for yet, and all I can think is that I wanted my husband to call me his girl one more time and mean it like nothing else in the world mattered.”
Mara reached for your hand.
You let her take it.
“I don’t know where to put all of this love,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part. I can leave the apartment. I can sign papers. I can sleep somewhere else. But what am I supposed to do with all the years I spent loving him?”
Mara squeezed your hand.
You looked down at your wedding ring.
“What if I spend the rest of my life missing him?”
The question was so quiet it barely felt spoken, but once it was out, there was no taking it back.
Jack came home at 2:38 a.m.
He opened the apartment door quietly, like quietness could make his absence smaller. The living room lamp was on. Your award sat on the coffee table, still gleaming, still heavy, still proof that the night had happened whether he had attended or not. Beside it were two envelopes. One cream, one white.
You were sitting on the couch in your gown. You had taken your earrings off. Your hair had loosened, soft pieces falling near your cheeks. Your lipstick had faded, and there were faint marks under your eyes where you had cried and carefully wiped the evidence away. Your heels were lined up beside the couch. Your bare feet were tucked beneath you.
Jack stopped near the door. “Hey.”
You looked up. “Hey.”
He closed the door and set his keys in the bowl by the entryway. The sound was small and domestic, so painfully normal that you almost laughed. How many times had you heard that exact sound? Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. His tired sigh. Your voice asking if he had eaten. Marriage had so many tiny rituals that survived even when the people inside them were falling apart.
“You’re still dressed,” he said.
“I know.”
“I thought you might be asleep.”
“I thought a lot of things tonight.”
Jack looked down. He was still in his scrubs under a dark jacket. His hair was messy from running his hands through it, and there was a line across his cheek from where a mask had pressed into his skin. He looked exhausted. He looked guilty. He looked like the man you loved.
That was inconvenient.
That was devastating.
He stepped farther into the room. “I watched your speech.”
You nodded.
“You were incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. The way you talked about the system, the contracts, all of it. You were…” He stopped, searching for the right word. “You were exactly who you are.”
Your eyes filled, but you blinked the tears back. “That would have been nice to hear in person.”
Jack flinched. “I know.”
You looked down at your hands. Your rings caught the lamplight.
He came closer, stopping at the end of the coffee table. “I’m sorry.”
You smiled a little, but there was no warmth in it. “You say that so much.”
“I know.”
“I think that’s part of the problem.”
Jack sat in the armchair across from you instead of beside you. You appreciated that. At least he could still read a room.
“I didn’t want to miss it,” he said.
You looked at him. “I believe you.”
He seemed thrown by that. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you sound like that?”
“Because wanting to be there and being there are different things.”
Jack rubbed both hands over his face. When he lowered them, his eyes were red. “Harper called. They were short. I thought if I went in early, I could help stabilize things and leave before dinner.”
“You thought.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t call me before deciding.”
“I didn’t want to stress you out while you were getting ready.”
You stared at him, and he heard it as soon as he said it.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
“You didn’t want to stress me out, so you made the decision alone and told me after.”
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I made the wrong call.”
“You made the familiar call.”
He swallowed.
The room settled around those words. Rain tapped softly at the windows. Somewhere outside, tires hissed against wet pavement. The apartment smelled faintly like his hospital jacket and your perfume, like two lives still pretending they knew how to touch without hurting each other.
“You don’t understand what it’s like there,” Jack said quietly.
The words came out tired. Not cruel. Not even angry at first. Just exhausted enough to be careless.
You went still.
Jack looked at you and immediately seemed to regret it. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” you said softly. “Say it.”
He closed his eyes. “I just mean, when someone is dying in front of you, when there aren’t enough hands, when people are looking at you like you’re the last thing standing between them and the worst day of their life, it’s not easy to walk away.”
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
That one hurt.
You stared at him for a second, and something in your face changed. Not anger. Not even shock.
Exhaustion.
The kind that comes when someone you love finally says the thing you always knew they believed underneath all the apologies.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack opened his eyes. “What?”
“You’re right. I don’t know exactly what it’s like to be you.”
His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I—”
“But I know what it’s like to keep the lights on when a hospital can’t afford for them to go out. I know what it’s like to have people depend on something I built, something I signed my name to, something that could fail in ways that would haunt me. I know what pressure is, Jack. I know what responsibility is.”
His face softened, shame creeping in.
You looked at the award on the table. “And I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people congratulating me while my husband is on a television screen’s other side, using my work to save people, and still somehow unable to show up for me.”
Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not fair.”
The words came out before he could stop them.
You laughed once, small and wounded. “There it is.”
“Y/N—”
“No, it’s okay. It’s not fair. Someone was dying. The hospital was short. Harper’s kid was sick. There was a trauma. There was a power issue. There’s always a reason, Jack. There is always a reason good enough to make me feel awful for being hurt.”
His jaw worked, but no words came.
You leaned forward slightly, your voice low. “You know what the worst part is? I believe all your reasons. I believe they’re real. I believe they matter. I believe you’re a good doctor and a good man and that people are alive because of you.”
Your eyes filled.
“But I also believe I have been lonely in this marriage. And you keep asking one truth to erase the other.”
Jack looked down.
You reached for the cream envelope on the table. Your fingers brushed over the thick paper, and Jack’s gaze followed the movement.
“What is that?” he asked.
You held it in your lap for a moment. Jack looked at you like he wanted to memorize you and beg forgiveness at the same time. You wondered if he knew how often you had done that to him.
Memorized him, you meant.
The slope of his shoulders when he came home defeated. The faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his hands looked too capable around a coffee mug, too gentle when they touched you, too absent when you needed them and they were somewhere else holding someone else together. You had loved his face through every version of your own disappointment. You had loved him in doorways, waiting for him to take off his shoes. You had loved him across dinner tables where his phone kept lighting up. You had loved him in bed while he slept beside you, too exhausted to notice you were crying.
You had loved him so thoroughly that leaving him felt less like choosing yourself and more like cutting your own heart out before it could beg you to stay.
“I don’t want you to be a lesson,” you said suddenly.
Jack’s brows pulled together. “What?”
You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to look back one day and tell people you taught me what I deserved. I don’t want you to become some sad, useful story about growth. I wanted you to be my husband.”
His face broke.
You swallowed hard. “I wanted you to be the person I came home to. Not the reason I had to learn how to stop waiting.”
Jack stared at you, and for a moment, you saw the words land somewhere deep enough to hurt him. You almost hated yourself for noticing. You almost hated that even now, a part of you wanted to soften the blow.
“When you asked me to marry you, I thought I understood what you were asking,” you said.
Jack’s face shifted. “What does that mean?”
You looked at him, and the ache in your chest sharpened. “I thought you were asking me to share your life. I thought it meant we would make room for each other, even when it was hard. I knew your job would be demanding. I knew there would be nights you couldn’t leave. I knew I would have to be patient sometimes.”
Your voice stayed even, but Jack’s expression was already changing.
“I didn’t know I was signing up to become the easiest thing to cancel.”
He closed his eyes. “Y/N.”
“I didn’t know I would have to feel guilty for needing you.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty.”
“But I do. Every time. Because there’s always a patient, or a shift, or someone sicker, or something worse. And I know those things matter. I’m not pretending they don’t.”
You set the cream envelope on the table and slid it toward him.
“I just can’t keep living like my pain only counts if it’s an emergency.”
Jack stared at the envelope. For a few seconds, he did not touch it. Then he picked it up.
You watched him open it. You watched him read the first page. You watched the colour leave his face.
“Divorce,” he said quietly.
You folded your hands together so he would not see them shake. “Yes.”
He looked up at you, stunned. “You want a divorce?”
“I don’t want this version of marriage anymore.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You breathed in slowly. “I know.”
Jack stood, then seemed to realize he did not know where to go, so he sat back down hard. “When did you decide this?”
You looked toward the window. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.
“I think part of me has been deciding for a long time.”
He shook his head. “No. We’ve had hard months. I know that. But divorce?”
“You keep saying it like I’m being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No,” you said. “You’re trying to find the part where I did this wrong, so you don’t have to look at how long you were doing it to me.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “That’s not fair.”
The words left him fast.
Too fast.
You looked at him, and he looked like he wanted to reach across the room and take them back.
“Stop saying that to me,” you whispered.
His face cracked. “I’m sorry.”
“I am so tired of being told my pain has to be fair to yours.”
Jack covered his mouth with one hand and looked away.
You wiped your thumb over your ring. “I sat at that table tonight with your name card beside me. People kept asking where you were, and I kept making you sound noble because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Jack looked crushed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I did. Because I’m used to protecting you from how it feels to be married to you.”
His mouth opened, then closed again. That was the first time he really had no defense.
You continued, softer now. “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Jack. That would be easier. You’re kind. You care about people. You work yourself into the ground because you can’t stand leaving anyone unsupported.”
Your eyes met his.
“But somehow, I became the person you could leave unsupported because I was good at surviving it.”
Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not how I see you.”
“I know. But it’s how you treat me.”
He pressed his palms together, his hands shaking slightly. “I can change.”
You looked at him with so much sadness that he almost looked away.
“I needed you to change before I had to beg myself to stop hoping.”
The room was quiet after that.
Then Jack noticed the second envelope. The white one. It sat beside the award, small and plain, with the doctor’s office logo in the corner.
His eyes stayed on it too long.
“What’s that?”
You felt your throat close. This was the part you had dreaded most. The part that made everything feel impossible.
You picked up the white envelope. Jack watched you like his body already knew what his mind did not.
“This is what I was going to give you tonight after the gala.”
His face went still.
You held it out.
He did not take it right away.
“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Please just open it.”
He took the envelope. His fingers were careful, almost gentle, as if the paper might bruise. He pulled out the test results, unfolded them, and read.
You watched the exact second he understood.
His lips parted. His eyes moved over the page again. Then again. When he looked at you, his face had fallen apart so completely that you had to look down.
“You’re pregnant,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since this morning.”
“This morning?”
You nodded.
Jack looked back at the paper, then at you. “You went alone?”
“I didn’t know if it was real yet. I took tests at home. Then I booked bloodwork.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
You laughed once, and it came out more like a sob. “You weren’t even there when I tried to tell you after.”
He took that quietly.
He deserved it, and he knew he did.
You pressed a hand to your stomach, more for comfort than anything else. “I had this whole plan. It feels stupid now.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It was.” You wiped under your eye carefully. “I thought we’d get through the gala, and then maybe we’d go somewhere quiet. Maybe the balcony or the car. I thought I’d hand it to you and you’d look confused for a second, and then you’d understand. And I thought, for once, the night would feel like ours.”
Jack’s eyes filled. “I should have been there.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He put the divorce papers and the test results down on the table with shaking hands, keeping them separate, like mixing them together would make the whole thing more unbearable.
“I want this baby,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “I know.”
“I want you.”
You shook your head slowly. “Jack.”
“I do.”
“I know you want me.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“That’s not how this works.”
He stood again, and this time he came around the coffee table but stopped a few feet away from you.
“I’ll do better,” he said.
You looked tired suddenly. Tired in a way he had never really let himself see.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it differently now.”
“You always mean it.”
He swallowed hard. That hurt him because it was true.
You stood too, the black silk falling around you as you rose. Without the heels, you looked more vulnerable. Less like the woman from the news. More like his wife, barefoot in the living room, exhausted from being brave in public.
“I don’t want to punish you,” you said. “I need you to understand that. I’m not doing this because I want you to suffer.”
“It feels like suffering.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Your voice broke. “Because staying feels like disappearing.”
Jack’s face tightened as if he had been hit.
You looked down, trying to keep your breathing steady. “I don’t recognize myself anymore sometimes. I used to tell you everything. I used to get excited to share things with you. Then I started editing myself because I didn’t want to add pressure to your life. I stopped telling you when I was upset because you already looked crushed when you came home. I stopped asking for dates because it was humiliating to watch you check your phone the whole time.”
Jack closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The words came out quietly, but they landed hard.
He opened his eyes again. “You’re right.”
That made you cry harder, because you had wanted him to argue. You had wanted him to give you something to push against. Instead, he looked at you with tears in his eyes and finally saw the damage.
“You’re right,” he said again, his voice rough. “I should have asked. I should have noticed. I should have made room for you without you having to keep proving you needed it.”
You covered your mouth for a second.
Jack looked at your hand, then your stomach. His voice softened. “Are you okay? Physically?”
That question broke something small inside you.
“I think so.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are you nauseous?”
“A little.”
He nodded, doctor mode flickering in, then dying immediately because he seemed to realize how badly timed it was.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m doing the thing.”
You let out a tiny, sad laugh. “Yeah. You are.”
Jack wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I want to come to the appointments.”
“I know.”
“Will you let me?”
You looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know yet.”
He nodded quickly, even though it hurt. “Okay.”
“I’m not saying no forever.”
“I understand.”
“I just can’t make promises tonight to make you feel better.”
He breathed in shakily. “Okay.”
You moved toward the chair near the hallway and picked up a small overnight bag.
Jack saw it, and panic crossed his face before he could hide it.
“You packed a bag?”
“Yes.”
“You’re leaving tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
You looked at him.
He nodded once, backing off. “Right. Sorry.”
“I’m safe.”
“Okay.”
You slipped the bag over your shoulder. The movement was ordinary, almost boring, and somehow that made it worse. This was what leaving looked like. No screaming. No slammed drawers. Just a woman in a black gown picking up a small bag because she had reached the end of what she could carry.
Jack followed you to the entryway but kept a careful distance.
“Can I drive you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can I at least walk you down?”
“No.”
He pressed his lips together, trying not to fall apart completely.
You put your hand on the doorknob. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Jack said, “Do you still love me?”
You closed your eyes.
Of course he would ask the one question that did not save anything.
“Yes,” you said.
His breath caught behind you.
You turned back to face him, and there he was: wrinkled scrubs, red eyes, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but had finally learned that wanting did not give him the right.
“I love you,” you said, and the truth of it nearly ruined you. “I love you so much that I stayed long after I started feeling alone. I love you so much that I kept making excuses for you because I knew you were tired, because I knew your work mattered, because I knew you were good.”
Jack’s eyes filled again.
“But I can’t keep giving you access to me just because you’re sorry after,” you whispered. “I can’t keep building a home out of promises you only remember once I’m already hurt.”
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.
“I know.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
You looked at him for a long moment. You thought of the gala. The black dress. The empty chair. The envelope. The baby. All the nights you had waited and waited, feeding yourself on old versions of him, surviving on memories like they were meals.
“Be someone our child can count on,” you said. “Start there.”
Jack nodded, crying silently now. “I will.”
You wanted to believe him.
God, you wanted to believe him so badly that for one dangerous second, your hand almost left the doorknob.
But then you remembered the chair.
You remembered your name being called in a room full of people while the place beside you stayed empty.
You remembered that love had not been enough to bring him there.
So you opened the door.
The hallway outside was quiet and softly lit. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbour’s television murmured behind a closed door. Life was still going on in all the ordinary ways.
Jack said your name once more.
You looked back.
He stood in the entryway with your award visible behind him on the coffee table and the two envelopes lying open beside it.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
You gave him a small, broken smile. “I know.”
And that was what made it worse.
Because you knew.
You knew he loved you. You knew he was proud of you. You knew he would miss you when the apartment went quiet and the hospital could no longer give him somewhere else to run.
But knowing had never been the same as being held.
So you stepped into the hallway. This time, when you walked away, you did not wait for him to follow. You heard the door close gently behind you, and the softness of it hurt more than a slam would have.
After you left, Jack did not move for a long time.
The apartment stayed quiet around him. The lamp hummed softly. Rain touched the windows. Your heels were still by the couch, lined up neatly, as if even your heartbreak had manners.
On the coffee table, the divorce papers sat beside the pregnancy results.
The ending and the beginning.
Both addressed to him.
Jack picked up the remote with a hand that did not feel like his and opened the news replay. He did not know why. Maybe because grief made people stupid. Maybe because some part of him thought if he watched the night properly, he could punish himself into becoming the man who should have been there.
The video loaded.
There you were again.
Black dress. Soft hair. Bare shoulders. That careful, beautiful smile.
He watched you enter alone. He watched you answer questions alone. He watched you sit at the table alone. Then the camera panned, briefly, almost accidentally, to the empty chair beside you.
His name card was clear.
Dr. Jack Abbot
Jack paused the screen.
The room went silent.
There it was.
Not a feeling. Not an argument. Not your sensitivity. Not his schedule. Not bad timing.
Proof.
A chair with his name on it.
A space he had promised to fill.
Jack sat on the couch slowly, still staring at the frozen image. His face crumpled, but no sound came out at first. He had cried before. He had cried after losing patients. He had cried in stairwells, in supply closets, in the shower with one hand braced against the tile.
This was different.
This was not the grief of failing to save someone he had only just met.
This was the grief of realizing he had been losing you slowly while calling it survival.
His eyes moved from the frozen screen to the divorce papers.
Then to the pregnancy result.
Then back to your face.
“How do I forget you?” he whispered, but there was no one there to answer.
The apartment seemed to hold the question for him.
Your perfume still lived faintly in the room. Your mug was still in the sink. Your cardigan was still folded over the back of the chair. The book you had been reading was still open on the side table, a receipt tucked between the pages because you hated using proper bookmarks. There was a sticky note on the fridge in your handwriting reminding both of you to buy more oat milk. There was a pair of your socks half-hidden under the coffee table because you always kicked them off when you were working late. There was a framed photo from your courthouse wedding on the console, both of you laughing because Jack had been unable to get the ring onto your finger at first.
You were everywhere.
That was the cruelty of it. You had left, but the life you had built with him remained behind like a house still waiting for its owner to come home.
Jack covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward, shoulders shaking.
For once, no one was paging him. No one was asking him for help. No one was bleeding, crashing, coding, crying out, reaching for him from the other side of a curtain.
For once, there was no emergency left to run toward.
Only the life he had kept meaning to choose.
Only the wife he had loved too late.
Only the baby he had learned about on the same night he learned she was leaving.
Only the empty chair beside you, waiting on a screen for a man who never came.
And the worst part, the part that finally broke him open, was that Jack knew this would not be a clean grief. He would not miss you once. He would miss you in places. In the kitchen when the coffee brewed too strong. In the car when he passed the hotel downtown and remembered black silk under gold lights. In the emergency department when the power held steady because of the system you built. In every waiting room, every hallway, every quiet elevator ride where he would think of you standing somewhere else, living a life he was no longer trusted to enter.
He would miss you when the baby came.
He would miss you when your child had your eyes.
He would miss you when people asked about his wife and he had to learn how to say your name without saying mine.
Jack stared at the empty chair until the screen blurred.
For the first time all night, he understood that you had not left because you stopped loving him. You left because you were terrified you would spend the rest of your life loving him from a room he never came home to.
And Jack, too late, finally knew what it meant to wait. Not for a patient. Not for a shift to end. Not for the next crisis to pass. But for a woman who might never come back.
The television stayed paused on his name.
The apartment stayed still around him.
And Jack sat there in the home you had built together, finally surrounded by all the love he had assumed would wait forever.
☆ SUMMARY: Months after Jack broke your heart, you attempt to move on by going on a date. The problem? You run into your ex-boyfriend before you even make it out of the parking lot.
☆ CONTAINS: Ex!Jack, younger, fem!reader, dating app slander, mentions of shooting someone. No descriptions of readers' appearance, except that hair is put up while at work, wearing makeup and a dress.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: Whipped this up in a day in an attempt to get the creative juices flowing! Almost done with school for the summer, so hopefully I can get back into writing<3 Is it meh? Yes. Is it also a start? Yes! PS. I have a 1K special up where you can request some things, so check it out if you’d like!
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @sweetmelodygraphics
“So, a little birdie told me someone's got a hot date tonight?”
The teasing lilt in Trinity Santos' voice does not go unnoticed by you, even after hours of saving lives and being slammed with paperwork as a reward.
That's healthcare for you.
“I’m going to shoot the little birdie,” you scoff, rubbing your eyes rougher than one probably should. “And it’s definitely not a hot one,”
“But it is a date,” Trinity perks up, a cheshire like grin forming on her face while she spins the chair you're sitting in and charting to face her. “Tell me everything– who is he, how did you meet, what are you going to wear–”
“Okay, slow down!” A small laugh unfortunately manages to escape you, and you don’t know whether to be touched or offended over the fact that she was this invested in your love life. “There’s nothing to tell, I haven’t even met the man yet,”
“Oh, ew,” she immediately says, grimacing in disgust, “You met him on the apps? That’s low, even for you babe,”
You stare at her blankly, momentarily stunned.
“Desperate times means desperate measures,” you finally say, officially finishing charting and logging out of the computer. Standing up, you start making your way towards the lockers, Trinity's excited voice following behind you.
“I mean, not that desperate. I know one man that would go out with you in a heartbeat,”
Opening your locker, you take out the little duffel bag you had to bring into work today. In order to make it to the date on time, you’d have to get ready at work, and as much as you hated drawing attention to yourself, you wouldn’t have time to make it back home.
So you’d done your hair the night before, hoping for the best when you tied it up for work, shoved your makeup kit, as well as your dress and heels into a bag and made your way to work.
This was also the exact reason you had asked to get out before handoffs. And Robby owed you just enough favors to let it slide, but not before giving you a suspicious look. You knew better than to tell your ex-husbands best friend– and by default spy– why you suddenly needed to cash in on those very handy, very hard earned favors.
“Yeah, and me and that man are broken up for a reason,” you snort, promptly shutting down any insinuations and blaming it on her sleep depravity.
Slipping off your scrubs, you falter when you hear Trinity snort at the action.
“Excuse me? What happened to privacy–”
“Alright, alright– sorry!” She amends, throwing her hands up in defeat and turning around.
But the sound of her laughter is already replaying in your mind and you huff at your own insecurity, crossing your arms.
“What is it, Santos?”
Immediately turning back around, Trinity gives you a sheepish smile, before her eyes dart to you, still standing in your underwear.
“Are we, like, super committed to the granny panties?”
You gasp, throwing your scrub top at her face when she speaks.
“Rude! They’re not granny panties, they’re just, you know…” you defend yourself, digging through your duffel for your dress. “Comfortable. They’re comfortable, Trinity,”
“That’s kind of the problem, babe. You’re going for sexy and alluring– not comfort! Trust me, I’m the last person to tell someone to change for a man, but those–” she points an accusing finger at your matching set, “Are just one big turnoff, my friend,”
You groan, running a hand through your hair.
“You cannot be telling me this right now. I don’t have any spare underwear with me– are you sure you’re not just biased?”
Trinity gives you a sad look, then walks to the door, peeking her head around the corner.
“Mohan! Get in here–”
You gape, quickly tugging your work pants back on and crossing your arms over your chest.
“What the hell? Hello, I’m like naked in here–”
“Oh calm down, we’re doctors,” Trinity waves you off, and before you can say anything else, Samira Mohan walks into the tiny excuse of a locker room.
Her eyes dart between Trinity and you, before going down to your chest, where a very sturdy looking bra is in place.
“For the date tonight?” she says carefully, noting the agitation on your face and the amusement on Trinity’s.
“Does everyone know?” your answer confirms her words, and Samira gives you a gentle smile, officially dismantling the last irritation in you.
Slumping against the lockers, your head hits the metal with a small thump!
“Okay,” she finally says, adopting the same, comforting tone she uses when explaining treatment plans to patients, “I don't think they're bad,”
“You lie, sweet child of mine,” Trinity sighs dramatically, crossing her arms when she looks back at you.“Literally just go commando at this point,”
Shaking your head, you snap out of your haze, going back to your bag and digging your dress out.
It’s not like you’re going to sleep with the man.
You weren’t ready for that just yet, your mind echoes to you, but you quickly stop the spiral you feel forming.
If you were still with Jack, you wouldn’t have to worry about first dates and underwear–
Okay, no.
“Zip me up please?” is what you say instead, looking between the two women helplessly.
Noticing your sudden quietness, Trinity obliges and does what you ask. The zipper slides up your back smoothly, and for once, she’s quiet.
“Hey, come on,” she says softly, giving your shoulder a squeeze once she's finished. “You look pretty,”
Samira nods, taking a hold of your other shoulder and leading you to the mirror, a small smile on her face as you watch her reflection watch you.
“You look good,” she says simply, in a way she knows does more of an impact on you than an overflow of compliments would.
Your eyes linger on your reflection, smoothing down any crinkled pieces of fabric as an attempt to self soothe. But there was something deeply humiliating about standing in a hospital locker room, while two coworkers attempted to convince you that you weren't a complete disaster.
Admittedly, you do agree. You looked pretty wearing something other than scrubs and letting your hair down for once– hell, even applying new lipstick makes you feel reborn.
Taking one final look, you straighten your shoulders before walking back to your bag and taking your heels out, putting them on and shoving your bag back into the locker and dumping your dirty scrubs into Trinity’s arms.
Payback for the panty comments.
“Wish me luck, ladies,” you say, the small purse you’d brought with now swinging on your shoulder.
“Knock him dead, babe!” Trinity grins, and Samira gives you a supportive thumbs up beside her.
Twenty more meters and you're out of here, on your way before anyone can properly see you.
You take a deep breath, trying not to cringe or look at people as your heels click against the linoleum floors. The doors to the ambulance bay hiss when you step through them, a small sigh of relief escaping you once the evening breeze washes over your face.
Rounding the corner towards the parking lot, a yelp escapes you when you crash into someone.
“Shit!”
Strong hands grab your arms before you can stumble backwards and crack your skull open on the pavement and die in your granny panties.
“Christ, slow down,” a familiar voice mutters and your stomach instantly drops.
Fuck.
The last person you wanted to see, the reason you were leaving work thirty minutes early and watching your back like a criminal, instead of a grown woman simply going on a date.
Jack Abbot, in all his fine glory, dressed in one of those tight, white shirts he loves and his usual cargos.
His hands are still wrapped around your arms, your own are still gripping his forearms, far too close for your already scrambled mind to be able to handle right now.
Pulling away, you quickly smooth down your dress once again, clearing your throat.
“Hi! Uh– nice catching up, I should probably–” you laugh awkwardly, motioning vaguely with your hands towards your car.
Jack doesn’t say anything, his eyes unabashedly travelling across your body. First your styled hair, then to your painted lips, then to the dress, gaze lingering on your exposed legs.
“You’re awfully dressed up for work,” He mutters dryly, head tilting once his eyes lock with yours once again. “But I suppose this wasn’t how you came in at seven am,”
“Wow, nothing gets past you, huh?” you can’t help but quip, ignoring the warm feeling in your belly at the sight of him fighting a smile at your words.
The evening breeze catches a loose strand of your hair and blows it across your face. Before you can move it away, you notice Jack's hand twitch, but ultimately stay rooted by his side.
"Clearly not. Are you going to answer or keep being a smartass?”
Against your will, a small smile forms on your face, and you shake your head and cross your arms.
“I should be on my way to a date,” You finally concede, gauging his reaction.
Yeah, to see if he even cares anymore.
Unfortunately, as Jack glances toward the parking lot before looking back at you, he asks:
“Is he not picking you up?”
For some reason, his words send a wave of embarrassment through you. Like you have to prove to him that you’re not going out with a piece of shit, like you’re not downgrading, or settling, or desperately trying to get over Jack by going on shitty dates.
“It’s the first date, I’m not having him know where I work,” you mutter petulantly, shifting on your feet, the pain growing more intense the longer you stand there. “That’s just common sense,”
Jack hums thoughtfully, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance, then. I haven’t been on a proper date in a while,”
Asshole.
You know he’s talking about your relationship, that petty bastard.
“And who’s fault is that?” the words come out sharper than intended, but you’re too deep into this to notice, or even care about it.
“You know, normal people would just let it go,” Jack muses, eyes narrowed in amusement as he takes a step closer to you.
“Normal people also don’t interrogate their ex in the parking lot,” you retort, chin raising defiantly as your irritation spikes at his indifference towards seeing you moving on.
You’d once heard a rumor of another attending on the surgical floor reportedly laying it on pretty thick at some gala.
It had you eating ice cream for dinner for a week, just the thought of him moving on from you that easily.
Your phone buzzing in your purse fills the silence, and you’re suddenly made aware of the entire reason you're standing here in a dress and heels instead of driving home to watch terrible reality television.
“I should go,” you say quieter than intended, clearing your throat afterwards.
The amusement fades from his face, replaced by something harder to read, and for a moment, Jack doesn't say anything, his eyes flickering to your purse and where your phone is buzzing.
A cruel reminder to him of the fact that you indeed are moving on, probably with some guy your age that wouldn’t have to worry about how you’d look walking down the street with him.
“Yeah, don’t let me keep you,” Jack mumbles, shifting on his feet as he follows you with his head when you walk past him slowly.
Your heels sound against the pavement, the loud clicks taunting in his ears, like a clock reminding him of the time he's running out of, both in life and with you.
“Fuck,” He mutters under his breath, scratching the scruff on his face harshly, before walking after you. “Hey, wait–”
“I really have to go, Jack,” you don’t stop walking, in fact speeding up a bit.
You couldn’t trust yourself around him.
“You don’t even know this guy!” Jack throws out in a desperate attempt to get you to stay, to make you argue with him, anything to make you stay– to choose him again, even if it only were for a moment.
You stop so abruptly your heel almost catches on a crack in the pavement, before you’re whirling back to glare at him.
“Are you serious right now?
Despite your anger, Jack can’t help but notice how pretty you look while glaring at him, and even though he'd be six feet under if looks could kill.
“I’m just looking out for you,” He has the nerve to say, shrugging slightly while he walks up to where you’ve come to a stop.
“I don’t want you to look out for me! You wouldn’t need to if you hadn’t–” you stop yourself from lashing out, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. “...Why are you doing this?”
“I’m worried about you, I mean– leaving work early, dressing up, then running straight into me because you aren’t paying attention–” Jack lists, the lies falling from his lips unconvincingly.
You scoff, turning around and walking back towards your car.
“Goodbye, Jack,”
Panic fills his veins, and his hand shoots out and grabs your arm, pulling you towards him.
“Fuck, okay! Alright, just–” Jack sighs, running his free hand through his silver curls, “Just wait, okay? Don’t just…go,”
“Then tell me why you’re being like this,” you press him again, impatiently.
Jack takes it as a small victory when you don’t rip your arm out of his grip.
“I don’t want you to go out with him,”
“You don’t even know him–” you roll your eyes at his shitty explanation.
“I don’t want you to go out with anyone,” Jack interrupts, jaw clenching as he forces the words out. “I don’t want to see you laugh with anyone, or leave work early because you’re seeing someone, or see you get dolled up for another man,”
The words echo in the empty parking lot and land bitterly in your ears.
Your mind couldn’t help but betray you at this moment.
Why wait until now? Is it to make sure his words are devastating enough? To make you lose the progress you thought you had made after he broke your heart?
Was it really all his fault if you could let yourself be this affected by his words?
“You’re such an asshole,” you say shakily, eyes welling up with unshed tears.
Jack nods, a bitter smile forming on his face.
“Yeah, I know,”
He doesn’t argue with you, because he agrees.
He is an asshole. A selfish, greedy asshole who wants nothing more than to get on his knee and grovel at your feet, because the biggest mistake he’s made is thinking that letting you go is an act of love.
Over the fear of what others might think.
Over the fear that there will come a day where instead of him taking care of you, you’ll be taking care of him, while he takes advantage of your youth, all while knowing you’d be too sweet to leave him.
Jack stares at you, your teary eyes and trembling lips, he stands there and he stares at the woman he still loves.
“I’m fucked up, I know. But every morning I wake up and you're still the first thing I think about,” he begins, swallowing thickly when he feels a lump form in his throat. “I look for your car in the parking lot before I walk in. I mean fuck, even at handoffs, I look for the charts that have your signature,”
The tears are definitely ruining your makeup now. You were late beyond belief for the date, and the buzzing in your purse had ceased ten minutes ago.
And yet you have no urge to go anywhere anymore.
“That’s kind of sad,” you sniffle, muttering weakly.
Jack chuckles weakly, fingers tightening around your arm before he reluctantly lets go.
“It’s really fucking sad,” he agrees easily, resisting the urge to wipe the tear tracks off your face.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” you meet his gaze at last, and Jack sees the confusion and fear in your eyes that comes with the possibility of forgiving him, or letting him make it up to you.
“I don’t know, I just…” he begins,“I couldn’t let you leave thinking I didn’t care. That I don’t care,”
“Do you think your age is secret or something?”
Jack blinks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
“What? No–”
“Do you think I didn’t see the grey hair, and wrinkles, and the glaring at screens before we got together?” You continue, stepping closer to him, gaze landing on the evident smile lines, and signs of his life actually being lived.
“You’re making me sound worse than I am,” he grumbles quietly.
“And what really sucked is that you thought I hadn’t already thought of all that when we started this, that there would come a time when you needed me more than I needed you. You keep acting like you lured me into a relationship with you, and acting like I didn’t consider any of it,”
Your voice is steady when you speak, finally wiping the tears away as your feelings spill, the weight on your chest lightening up with each word you speak.
“I saw it. I saw it and I still chose to be with you, so I really don’t understand what favor you thought you did me when you ended things,”
Jack is silent, for once. No sarcastic quip, no flirty deflection– he just stands there and lets the words sink in, feeling incredibly stupid.
He knew you were bright, incredibly empathetic and intuitive. Of course you hadn’t just thrown yourself into this blindly. You’d chosen him on purpose, and Jack was too blinded by his own fears to let you love him the way you wanted to. In turn, he’d hurt himself, but most importantly, he’d hurt you.
“I may have overestimated my own charm,” he says, sounding almost embarrassed.
Despite the earlier tension, his words make you laugh softly, and Jack perks up like he’s been rewarded with something.
“For what it's worth, breaking up with you was the stupidest thing I've ever done,” Jack adds, lips stretching into a tight lipped smile, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes, still stubbornly resisting the urge to just give in to him.
“You’re still not fully forgiven,”
“I know,” He nods solemnly.“I’d love it if you did, but I know you can’t, and that’s okay,”
“And you have a lot to make up for,” you continue, not letting up. You had, after all, been tortured for months.
“I do,” Jack says instantly, the answer coming so quickly it almost throws you off.
After everything the two of you had been through, it felt like a step in the right direction. A moment of tense silence ensues, and you know it’s because Jack doesn’t want to immediately jump back into things and make it seem like he's brushing things under the rug.
You decide to throw him a bone.
“...You’re way too old to be playing with people's feelings,” You finally joke, and Jack bites his lip until he’s unable to hold the grin back any longer.
“Hey, that’s still a sensitive topic,” He tuts, a faux hurt expression forming on his face. “And if I’m so old, I guess I won’t be able to drive us to that restaurant you like so much?”
Your eyebrows raise in suspicion.
“That’s real cute, but don't you have work?”
“Robby owes me one,” He shrugs, hand landing on your waist, “Besides, we can’t have this dress go to waste, right?”
You let him lead you towards his car, the smile on your face growing wider at his ridiculousness.
“I suppose not,”
And for the first time in months, Jack didn’t feel that sharp, stinging in his chest whenever he took a breath.
Welcome to my little corner of tumblr. Here you shall find current works, series, one-shots, crossover, and other stuff as well. Thank you so much for everyone enjoying the things out there, its been fun to indulge in my little happiness and fantasies. :D
Most of my works are reader-insert fics with she/her pronouns, no fixed face claim, and “Y/N” used when needed. Please make sure to read the warnings before each fic.
THE PITT
JACK ABBOT
I Hate You, Jack Abbot
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no fixed face claim
Genre: Second-wife angst, grief, stepmother angst, emotional neglect, marriage tension
Summary: Jack Abbot thought he was ready to remarry. You were steady with his son from his first marriage, patient with his grief, and gentle with the parts of his life he still could not touch. But being loved by Jack does not mean being chosen by him. It means living in his first wife’s shadow, loving a child who is afraid to need you, and slowly realizing that sometimes love is not enough when it arrives at the wrong time.
I can keep my cool, but tonight I’m wildin’
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Singer!Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no fixed face claim
Inspiration: Loosely inspired by Tyla’s song “Water”
Genre: Age gap, jealousy, celebrity AU, private relationship tension, sensual angst
Summary: Your relationship with Jack Abbot is private, not secret. You do not post him, parade him, or let the internet turn him into a headline because Jack has already given enough of himself to war, medicine, and survival. But Jack, in his early fifties, does not always know how to stand beside a late-twenties global pop star with billions of views, luxury brand deals, red-carpet gowns, and songs featured in movies and TV shows. When you invite a few people from The Pitt to your concert and Samira Mohan helps steady Jack backstage, jealousy turns your most sensual rain-soaked performance into something sharper than either of you expected.
Are You Mine, Doctor?
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Soulmate!Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, “Y/N” used, no face claim
Status: Ongoing
Genre: Soulmate AU, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, medical drama
In a world where soulmate bonds are supposed to be romantic, yours has always felt more like a recurring symptom. For years, your soulmate’s emergency notes have appeared across your skin: clipped commands, trauma shorthand, and cold replies from a man who never seemed to want you back. Then you arrive at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and recognize the handwriting on Dr. Jack Abbot.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |10
take your troubles away from me
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no given name
Genre: Heavy angst, marital conflict, pregnancy, hurt/no comfort
Jack promised he would be there for the most important night of your career. For once, you believed him. But when the hospital takes him away again, you are left to accept an award alone, with his empty chair beside you and a secret you had planned to share with him. By the time he finally comes home, the marriage has already broken in a place apologies cannot reach.
The Baby Gift That Gave Him Away
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no given name
Genre: Fluff, humor, domestic Jack, dad Jack
Santos and Whittaker are forced by Dana to shop for a baby shower gift for one of the nurses. What should have been a simple errand turns into a crisis when two tiny chaotic twins help them choose a gift and accidentally reveal that their father is none other than Dr. Jack Abbot.
Retired Means Retired
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Supernatural!Wife!Reader
Crossover: The Pitt x Supernatural
Reader: She/her pronouns, “Y/N” used, no face claim
Genre: Heavy angst, hidden past, grief, supernatural horror
You left hunting behind a long time ago. You built a life with Jack, two daughters, and a front door that did not need salt lines anymore. Then Sam and Dean Winchester come to Pittsburgh with a case file, and for one night, you let yourself believe you could still be everything to everyone. Jack never knew the truth until you came home in a way no wife, no mother, and no person ever should.
Wait. Hear Me Out: Jack Abbot x BAU!Reader
Pairing: Jack Abbot x BAU!Reader
Crossover: The Pitt x Criminal Minds
Reader: She/her pronouns, “Y/N” used, no face claim
Genre: Crossover, emotional comfort, tired married people, soft Jack
You’re in Pittsburgh for a BAU case, exhausted, emotionally drained, and running on coffee and spite. Jack Abbot has just finished a brutal ER shift, looks like he hasn’t slept since 2009, and still somehow decides your biggest emergency is the fact that you haven’t eaten dinner.
BRENDON PARK
No Scrubs, Just Surgeons
Pairing: Brendon Park x Popstar/Actor!Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, “Y/N” used, no face claim
Status: Ongoing
Genre: Celebrity AU, secret marriage, hospital gossip, romance, light chaos
When one of the biggest pop stars and actresses in the world suddenly announces an indefinite hiatus, the internet immediately spirals. But when she is photographed arriving in Pittsburgh wearing both an engagement ring and a wedding band, the mystery becomes impossible to ignore, especially for the staff at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
Her Podium, His Fancam
Pairing: Brendon Park x F1 Driver!Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no face claim
Genre: Fluff, F1 wife/mom energy, internet chaos
After taking P1, all you want is to celebrate with your husband and son. Unfortunately, the cameras catch Brendon Park holding your baby under the podium, and the internet immediately loses focus.
Behind The Scenes: Baby Shark
Pairing: Brendon Park x F1 Driver!Wife!Reader
Bonus Scene from Her Podium, His Fancam
Summary: During a Porsche YouTube promo with Mick Schumacher, you accidentally expose Brendon’s hospital nickname, your son’s favorite bath toy, and the fact that your very serious surgeon husband sings Baby Shark at home. Brendon would like to be removed from the narrative. The internet, naturally, refuses.
Genre: Pure fluff, married couple teasing, toddler cuteness
MICHAEL “ROBBY” ROBINAVITCH
SPOTTED: New F1 Romance in the Air?
Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F1 Driver!Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no fixed face claim
Genre: Fluff, fame reveal, soft-launch chaos, public attention, cliffhanger ending
Summary: Robby takes you book shopping and to a quiet Italian restaurant during your August break, completely unaware that everyone around him seems to know exactly who you are. You told him you worked in motorsports, and technically, that was true. It just left out a few very important details.
ANIMAL KINGDOM
ANDREW “POPE” CODY
Babygirl Series
Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no given name, known as “Babygirl”
Status: Ongoing / Collection
Genre: Dark romance, Cody family dynamics, possessive Pope, angst, crime family drama
Babygirl was supposed to be a nickname, something soft the Codys gave you before it became more familiar than your own name. In Oceanside, softness does not stay innocent for long. You become Deran’s first safe place, J’s quiet reminder that there can still be a future outside Cody blood, and Pope’s one weakness — the woman he loves like a locked door, a loaded gun, and a warning.
PARTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
Oops!... I Did It Again
Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no physical description, no face claim
Genre: Toxic romance, jealousy, possessiveness, Cody family tension, angst
Everyone in Oceanside knows Andrew Cody belongs to you. He is your shadow, your guard dog, your weapon, and the one man who would choose you even when choosing you ruins everything. But when Smurf pushes you into another one of her games, your messiness collides with Andrew’s devotion, and the night ends with a secret that threatens to turn the Cody house inside out.
a little small talk, a smile, and baby, i was stuck
pairings: brendon park x f!reader
Park hates you, or so you think. And so what happens if one night you question him as to why?
warnings: smut. creampies. hints of robby x reader (but not really). park being readers biggest and silent supporter but posing like an opp. teasing. bantering. park's in love with her, your honour. park cooking for reader. biting kink (both!) dirty talk. park being narcissistic. a little bit of choking. banter for days. fingering. park being condescending. praise kink! excessive use of parenthesis from yours truly. aftercare from the shark <3 oh he is soooo soft for her.
notes: this is technically part one to the series! but you can definitely read it as a stand alone, as i made all the parts so! i decided to break it up because it was hella long, and i thought it would be more enjoyable this way! as always, let me know what you think!
word count: 6.1k+
based on the blurb that i did here: it started out with a kiss
dont go wasting your emotions masterlist | the pitt masterlist | masterlist | ask
There was no doubt about it, Brendon Park hated you. You had no concrete proof, but it was a feeling. You don’t think he hated you at first sight, but maybe, most definitely, the second or third time he met you.
You could feel his ire towards you whenever the two of you were in the same room. Robby often having to step in so he wouldn’t be too harsh, somehow that action eliciting more snark from the surgeon.
Which was a blow to your ego, you admired him, one of his nicknames was ‘Ortho God’ for a reason. Call it a need for approval or whatever, but you hated the fact that he seemed to hate you with no reason at all.
Not adding to the fact that you thought he was attractive, something that would never leave your mind because who in their right mind would find Park the Shark attractive? He was cocky, rude, blunt and had a God complex.
But still.
There was something about him that just made you gravitate towards him. Maybe it was his seemingly unshakeable confidence, his competency in his job, or the fact that his brain was probably as big as his forearms.
Tired of him pretending you don’t exist when he walks into the same room as you, was what brought you here today.
“Why the fuck do you hate me? You asked, bitterly swallowing the liquor and pointedly ignoring Park’s amused chuckle. “That’s fucking disgusting,” you passed the whisky to the man next to you.
“That’s what you get for not ordering those fruity drinks,” he remarked, gladly taking the drink from you and downing it. If you noticed he moved the drink so his lips could be where yours were, you didn’t say anything.
“How do you know what I drink?” Flagging down the bartender, you asked for your usual go-to and turned to Park. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t hate you,” he eventually answered, in a tone that suggested that you were stupid to think that he hated you. “I hate how you act Robinavitch.”
You pulled back, “Excuse me?”
Park rolled his eyes, “You’re dewy-eyed every time he comes around,” he started. “I’ve seen you in action, you’re tough, you know your stuff, you command the room, you’re willing to get down and dirty, but when you’re with him, or if you think he’s around?” Park made a disgusted face and scoffed.
“You’re clueless, as if being in a trauma bay is a field trip for you, and you’ve never encountered an actual medical case.”
Balking at this criticism at your person, you were quiet, mulling over what he said. You tried to remember all your encounters with Park when Robby was around. Grimacing, you could see where he was coming from.
Were you really like that? When you were with Robby? If someone like Park - who doesn’t come down that often sees it, who else does? Were you the fucking laughing stock of the ED?
Fury and embarrassment ran through you and you steeled yourself, “What’s it to you?”
“I want you to be the best,” he answered, ordering another whisky. Park turned to you and under the light you saw the intensity in his eyes, the blatant expression almost too much for you. “I know that you can be the best.”
You were stunned at his words.
“You can’t be the best when you’re too busy making sure that Robinavitch is noticing you, or whether he’s fucking one of the nurses again,” Park said truthfully.
You want to say that Brendon Park is a liar. That he uses people to gain advantage. But he doesn’t. He’s mean, crass, blunt, impatient but not a liar.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Park glanced at you, watching as you fiddled with your drink.
You scoffed, “Could have fooled me.”
“I don’t want you to waste your potential. I’ve seen too many people in this field make themselves smaller so they can have the hot shot attending,” Park explained.
“Speaking from experience?” You quipped and you mumbled an apology when he threw you a glare.
“You have promise, you could make a good Chief one day, can’t do that when you’re too busy crying in an on-call room when you found out Robinavitch was fucking Hastings,” at the mention of the two people that have been the cause of your tears for the last few weeks, Park saw you tense, and then you relaxed.
“That was one time!” You cried out.
“You’re too attractive for him anyway,” he threw out, gulping down his shot, while looking at you through his peripheral.
“Is this your way of getting into my pants?” You snipped.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” he smirked. “But no, if I wanted to fuck you I don’t need to use pretty words.”
“Oh really?” You sneered, and deep down inside you hated yourself because you knew he was right. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Why because you’re such an Ortho God that me having sex with you would give me some of your godly medicinal powers?” You hissed, narrowing your eyes, trying to figure out his plan.
You followed the path of his mouth turning to a smirk, “No, I just know that you find me attractive as much as I find you attractive.”
You feigned a disgusted noise, snorting into your drink, “I never said I found you attractive.”
“Oh, so do your eyes just follow everything attending that walk through the ED?” He remarked. “And do you accidentally like years old posts on their private Instagram as well?”
“That wasn’t me,” you mumbled, downing your drink, embarrassment alive and well, digging itself into every crevice of your body.
Park laughed loudly, “Sure, baby,” the drinks making his lips a little looser. “Pretty sure I have a screenshot somewhere.”
At the nickname, you squirmed in your seat. You weren’t uncomfortable per se, just confused that Park was talking to you like this. You squinted your eyes and poked him, trying to make sure that it was him in front of you.
“What are you doing?” He leaned back, trying to figure out what you were doing.
“Why are you talking to me now?”
He took a moment to say anything to you, a silence that you filled by looking at him.
“You did well today,” he begrudgingly said. Thinking back to your day, you remembered exactly what he was talking about. Park was called down for a consult, you were the resident in charge of the case.
You caught something that the others didn’t see, that Robby didn’t see. They brushed you off at first, and you were frustrated at the lack of trust in your judgement. It wasn’t until Park came into the room and backed you up that people believed your claim.
“A compliment? From Park the Shark?” You heard him huff and you could practically hear him roll his eyes.
You didn’t know if it was the flowing of alcohol through your veins, or the fact that Park was actually talking to you, or the fact that conversing was easier than you anticipated. More comfortable and fun that you could ever imagine that you wanted to continue to talk to him.
“So, back to that screenshot,” you smiled sweetly. “You were lying about that, right?”
Park laughed and you watched, mesmerised at the rare sight. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” turning to you, a gleam in his eyes, “But if you don’t believe me, I can always show you back at my place.”
“Smooth,” you rolled your eyes but downed the rest of your drink.
You both stared at each other, knowing what each of you wanted. As if you were telepathically connected, Park paid for both of your drinks and looked expectantly at you.
“I’ll call an Uber,” Park pulled out his phone, looking at you when you let out a breath through your nose.
“You’re presumptuous,” you said but hopped off your chair, grabbing your things.
“He’s on his way, let’s go,” putting his phone back, he waited for you to go past him, his hand landing on the small of your back.
-
You were tense next to him, Park could feel it. Taking initiative, he placed his hand on your thigh squeezing once. You looked up to him, tracing his jawline with your eyes.
“If you don’t want to do this, say so,” Park said, being uncharacteristically gentle. “I can book an Uber for you when we get to my place and we don’t have to speak about this ever again.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, “Now I really know you want to get in my pants.”
Narrowing his eyes, he pinched your thigh, causing you to yelp and the Uber driver to look at you. Nodding at him reassuringly, he looked back to the road.
“Are you always this mouthy?”
Shrugging you turned to him, “Guess you just have to find a way to make me shut up.”
Park grinned and the sight of his canines made you swallow. There was something so animalistic about him when he smiled at you like that. Feeling your heart begin to race, you felt yourself lean up.
A clearing of a throat broke the two of you apart, you mumbled an apology, but didn’t move away from the warmth of Park.
-
“I hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs.
Park threw his keys by the side table and smirked at you, “I can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, he squeezed once. “Up,” he commanded and you obeyed. “Good girl,” seeing your reaction at those words, Park filed the response away in his brain, fully intending to use it within the next thirty minutes.
Lifting you up, you felt your back hit the door, and before you could complain, Park placed his mouth over yours. It was soft, softer than you thought his lips would be (not that you ever thought about his lips before this). Moaning quietly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Deepening the kiss, you could feel his tongue slowly trace your bottom lip. Parting your lips, Park slowly slid his tongue, lazily allowing it to map out your mouth, your own tongue docile waiting for his command.
“So needy,” Park smirked against your mouth, his tongue collecting both of your saliva from your chin and licking it back to your mouth. Feeling emboldened you stroked the underside of his tongue with yours, earning a groan from the man. Grasping the hair at the bottom of his neck, you pulled, eliciting another groan.
Park pushed you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach, “Feel that, princess? Hope you can take it.” He swallowed your moan, this time completely taking over control, moving one hand to the back of your neck, he wrapped his hand around your hair and this time, it was him that pulled.
Licking up your exposed neck, he could hear your panting from above, wanting more of your noise, Brendon sank his teeth in gently to the meat of your shoulder.
“Brendon,” you gasped, his teeth leaving an imprint on your soft skin. You rutted against his bulge, earning a hitch of breath from the man in front of you.
“I’m not going to fuck against my door,” he said against your lips. “Come on.”
You briefly looked around his room. It was nice. Clean and precise, just how you thought Park’s room would be (again, not that you ever thought about that, definitely not), a few personal touches here and there.
Feeling laughter bubble out of you, “Is that a picture of yourself on your table?”
“I look good,” you looked back to the picture and he had you there. He did in fact look good, very good.
“You’re narcissistic,” you replied.
“I have good reasons to be,” he pulled his shirt off, tossing it somewhere in the room. You took a moment to look at him. The plains of his chest, the sprinkling of his chest hair, how broad his shoulders are. Just how fucking big he is. Wetting your lips, your eyes dragged down his happy trail, eyes landing on his bulge.
He closed the distance between the two of you, clashing your mouths together again. Park grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, hands straight going to your ribs. You let your hands wander around his chest, eventually landing on his belt buckle.
Biting his bottom lip, you moved your mouth down his neck, mouthing open kisses down his stomach. You heard him curse above you, spurring you on, you kissed the tent of his pants, your hands working on unbuckling his belt.
Tugging his pants down, you noted the wet spot on his underwear, kissing the outline of his cock, you felt Brendon place his hands on your head. Pulling down his briefs, you watched his length appear. Practically salivating, you couldn’t help but lick the precum on the tip of his head. You rolled the liquid in your mouth, allowing it to coat every crevice. He tasted salty, masculine, and you wanted more.
“Fucking hell,” Brendon gritted out, as his fingers gripped your hair.
Sitting back on your heels, you took a moment to look at him. He was huge, to say the least. Big and thick in all the right places, a thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You took a moment to just admire his length, fingertip trailing against a particularly prominent vein.
Licking your lips, you opened your mouth, ready to taste him properly. Before you could, you felt a tug on your upper arm. Brendon looked down at you, “Not tonight. Been thinking too long about this to not be in your pussy right now.”
“You’ve thought about this?” You cocked your head to the side, and Brendon looked down at you and a little light flared up in his chest.
Before you could think about what he meant, Park yanked you, grabbing your face and messily kissed you. Grinding his leaking cock into your stomach, you moved your hand downwards until you were able to grasp it.
He hissed as he felt your hand on him, slowly twisting your hand up and down, spreading his precum around the head of his cock. Briefly pulling away from him, you brought up your hand and locked eyes with him. Sensually licking his cum off, you watched as his nostrils flared, his breath getting heavier, looking down you could see his cock twitching.
With what could only be described as an actual growl, Park wrapped his hand around the nape of your neck, and roughly yanked you back to his mouth.
“Get your fucking pants off,” he commanded against your lips.
Kicking the rest of his pants off, you did the same, almost falling when it got caught on your ankle. “Careful,” he mumbled gently, as he caught you.
Removing your pants for you, he laid you down on the edge of his bed. “Cute,” Park smirked as he stared at your underwear with cherries on there. His eyes focusing on the large wet spot.
“Shut up, I didn’t know I was going to have sex with you,” you whined, closing your legs slightly.
“So you would have worn something different if you did know?” He said arrogantly, and it took everything in you to not kick him in the head. Hot as he might be, he was still the arrogant Park you knew.
Sensing your annoyance and that you were going to say something, he leaned forward and licked you through your underwear. A moan escaped your mouth as you felt him suckle your clit through the fabric.
Tasting you, Park grunted and he felt himself subconsciously move closer to you, arms coming beneath your thighs and yanking them to his body. Kissing across the span of your pelvic area, you yelped when you felt him nip your inner thigh.
Rutting into his bed, Park would have been ashamed of his actions, acting like a teenage boy tasting his first pussy, but you were here. You were under him and he really didn’t fucking care if he came right now just from tasting you.
Having enough of the fabric in his way, he ripped the cotton, apologising by placing a soft kiss on your mound, eventually sliding down to your clit.
“Prettiest fucking pussy,” as he spread your lips, your hole clenching at his actions. “Taste so fucking good,” he said against your hole. Lapping at your slick, your hands hovering near his head before you threaded your fingers through his hair.
“Brendon, fuck,” you cried out, head falling back as you thrusted up to his face. Cupping your ass, he pulled you impossibly closer, allowing you to practically ride his tongue.
You could hear the lewd slurp of his mouth, feel his drool combining with your slick. Brendon thrust his tongue into your hole, trying to get as much essence as he could, swallowing it down like it was his life elixir.
Placing his thumb on your clit, Brendon growled as he felt you tighten even more against his tongue, moving away with an audible pop, he dragged his fingers down until he was at your entrance.
Flicking his eyes back up to you, he watched as you arched your back as he entered your hole with two fingers. He closed his eyes at your warmth, the tightness and smoothness of your channel. He pressed deeper into your heat, eventually landing on your sweet spot.
“Bren,” you sighed out as he began curling his fingers. You clenched your jaw, breath taken away from the sheer size of his fingers.
Needing his tongue on you again, he pulled out his fingers, dipping them into his mouth and moaning at your taste.
“You have the sweetest fucking pussy, baby,” he mumbled against your clit, sucking it into his mouth, Brendon almost rolled his eyes to the back of his head at the noises you were making. “Can’t believe you kept her from me.”
You usually would have hated men referring to your pussy like that but fuck if didn’t turn you even more. Running one hand through his hair, your other hand gripped onto his forearm. Brendon shifted his hand to hold yours, interlocking fingers as he pushed his face closer to your heat.
Feeling your release coming embarrassingly close, you tightened your grip on his hair and hand, your core tightening, you cried out, a long elongated noise as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You rutted your pussy against his face, prolonging the pleasure that you were receiving.
Panting and trying to regain some sort of clarity, you slowly released the grip you had on his hair. The gel completely gone, you almost felt bad at how messy he looked, but all it did was turn you on.
Sitting back up, you saw your release glisten against his face, you reached for him, needing to taste him. Crashing your mouths together, you cupped his cheeks, feeling his stubble against your palms. Dragging him down to you, you unashamedly licked around his mouth, collecting your juices and melted your mouths together again.
Practically on top of you, you felt his shaft weep against your stomach, feeling drops of his precum dropping. Sliding yourself up, you wrapped your legs around him, letting his cock slide between your folds. Grunting into your mouth, Brendon followed your movements, his cock itching to be in you.
Dragging you up his bed, Brendon reached for one of his side tables, opening up, blindly feeling around for something, all the while keeping his lips on yours. Bringing out what he needed, he slammed the drawer shut, and regretfully pulled away from you.
Moving to open the foil packet, you grabbed his hand and looked at him, and against your all medical instincts, you shook your head, “Want to feel you.”
Brendon breathed through his nose and for a second you thought you made a mistake. The next moment you saw, was him throwing the condom across his room, arms caging around your head, his weight slowly being placed on top of you.
Gripping the base of his cock, he tapped the head a couple of times, your hips jolting trying to chase the feeling. He slid against your pussy again, his pre completely dripping down to your hole. Brendon groaned as he squeezed the base of cock and moved his hand up, forcing more of his precum to land on your clit.
Spreading the liquid using the tip, you threw your head back, relishing in the feeling, as the man above you gritted his teeth.
“Brendon, please,” you begged, eyes starting to tear up. You could feel yourself clench against nothing and it was aggravating to know he wasn’t in you yet. “Please, I need you.”
He stared at you, and for a moment you felt like you were prey finally being found by the big bad predator. Park kept eye contact with you as he slowly encompassed everything that you could see, everything that you could feel.
Sliding into you slowly, Park watched as you closed your eyes at his size and the stretch. A blissful sigh leaving your lips as you felt him hit home, eyes closing at the fit. When he was flushed against your hips, he let out a strangled groan of your name.
“I’m good,” you breathed out, nodding your head.
“How do you want it?”
You fluttered your eyes open and looked at the man above you, his gaze intent, “What?” You stuttered.
“How do you want me to fuck you?” He elaborated -- the way he would explain simple medical terms to the medical students, but his tone was different. It was soft.
“Slow, rough,” you gulped, a small sliver of embarrassment making a home in your chest, and you broke eye contact with him. “Hard,” you mumbled.
Squishing your cheeks together with one hand, he turned your head to lock eyes with him. “Don’t,” he breathed as he began to pull out slowly, keeping his eyes on you, watching your reaction as he plunged harder into your pussy. Hands grasping his bedsheets, you arched your back, a loud moan of his name leaving your mouth.
“That’s fucking right,” he purred against your neck, hands going to the back of your thighs, throwing them over his shoulder. Folding your legs, Brendon leaned on his forearms, as he held the rough pace. “Good fucking girl, taking my cock so well.”
He was rewarded with you clenching your pussy tighter and a strangled noise coming from your mouth.
“Feel so good,” you babbled, turning your face to kiss him.
He grinned down at you, “Yeah, is that right, baby?” He pulled out to just his tip and you whined at the loss, “Who’s making you feel this way?”
“You, just you,” you cried out, your hands reaching for the back of his body. Hanging on to him, “Brendon,” you moaned, eyes clenching tight.
Roughly sinking back into your cunt, you let out a scream as you dragged your nails down his back. He kept at that rhythm, leaning on one forearm, other hand reaching towards to engulf the right side of your cheek.
Caressing it softly, he looked down at you; sweat lining your forehead, your lips parted, cupid's bow just waiting to be kissed and Brendon didn’t want to ever forget this. Teeth latching on your jaw, not biting, just holding you there, one of your hands drifted to the hair on the base of his neck.
“Where?” He mumbled against your jaw, lips moving to your lips.
“Inside,” you panted, clenching your pussy. “Birth control.”
You heard him briefly curse under his breath, his lips mouthing against your neck. “You just let anyone cum inside of you?”
“No, just you,” you whined, your nails digging into his shoulder. “Just want your cum.”
At that, Park’s eyes lit up, his face twisting into an animalistic look, brutally thrusting deeper into you, “That’s fucking right,” he growled against your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”
Dragging his lips down from your mouth, he licked your neck, all the way down to your shoulder. “Tell me,” he mumbled and you grew confused until you felt his teeth sink into you.
Clenching around him, you felt another rush of heat through you. “Brendon,” you gasped, breath hitching, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Fuck.”
Softening his bite, he licked the mark, thumb moving down to circle your clit. “You want me to fill you up, huh?” Brendon taunted, as his lips found yours again. “Want me to breed your little pussy?”
You nodded, tears running down your face, “Please, Brendon,” you cried out.
Dragging his cock slowly, he pushed in and gave a little grind of his hips. Crying at the sensation of the tip of his cock grinding into your g-spot, and his hair catching on your little nub, you were in a euphoric state of mind.
Breath hitching, you could feel your pussy pulse around his cock, your stomach tensing. You could feel your orgasm approaching.
“Cum around me baby,” he said against your ear, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Wanna feel you.”
Shutting your eyes, you jerked your hips upwards, “Fuck!” It was all too much, his words, his touch, his cock, everything. With one last grind against your sweet spot, you let out another scream of his name as you felt your release go through you. You squeezed his shoulders, nails breaking into the skin. Panting his name, all you could do was hold onto him, as you felt your cum coat his cock.
Pulling him to you, Brendon dropped his head to your neck, licking the sweat accumulated there. Feeling the spasms of your pussy, Brendon stuttered in his thrusts.
“Best fucking pussy,” he groaned out, hand on your neck and face nuzzled into the crook of it. “Feel like you’re made for me.”
You nodded at whatever he said, head too fuzzy to register anything with the exception that his hips were snapping faster now, trying to chase his own release. “Fucking best girl, yeah? Gonna fill you up.”
With a final growl of your name, you felt him spill inside of you. Your hips jerking as you felt him continuously fill you up. “That’s my girl,” he panted against your ear, licking the apparent tears coming from your eyes, as he felt his cock twitch a couple more times.
Placing kisses from your ear to your cheek, he travelled until he met your mouth. Grasping your face softly with his hands, he looked down at you, blue eyes blown with lust but the most gentle you’ve ever seen.
“Holy shit,” you panted, blinking rapidly trying to make sure you were still alive. “Fuck, Park.”
At your reaction, he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Good to know it was good for you as well, sweetheart.”
“Good?” You asked in astonishment. “Jesus, Park. That was mind blowing.”
Grinning, he shifted his forearms, he looked down and the sight made him pause. Your slick was all over him, a white ring at the base of his cock, your wetness all over his pubic hair. Mesmerised at the sight, he leaned further back, spreading your folds, he shallowly thrust into you. Whining at the overstimulation, you grabbed his bedsheets, heart starting to race again.
“Look at you,” he said in a soft awe. He paused for a moment, to just memorise you on his bed; dishevelled, tears running down your face, his marks along your body. Fucking beautiful.
He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the same time. Slowly lowering your legs, you felt him massage your sore hips as you hissed as they hit the bed.
One hand slowly coming to caress your cheek again, Brendon couldn’t help but lean down again to kiss you. Unlike the previous times your mouths met, this time he met your lips softly. He slowly deepened the kiss, his lips working in a way that you didn’t expect from him. You felt him take his time to guide his tongue into your mouth, massaging your tongue with his.
Reluctantly parting from you, he stared at you, blue eyes locking with yours. Brushing away the strands sticking to your face, you felt your heart jump at how he was looking at you. Gulping, you reached up and traced his cheekbone, admiring how pliant he was at this moment.
“Stay,” he said softly, his tone completely different to a couple of minutes ago. Getting up he went to another room, which you presumed was the bathroom. You really tried not to admire his backside but Park truly was a god in terms of his physique alone. Watching as he walked back, you saw that even when he was soft, it was still a sight.
“Spread your legs, baby,” he asked softly, and you did so, wincing as you opened your legs for him.
You took a good look at him, as best as you could in your post sex haze. Admiring his thick thighs, you wondered what it felt like under your hands; to touch, to squeeze. Coming closer to you, you pondered on how his body would feel to just touch innocently, to have him wrapped around you.
“Thanks,” you said in appreciation, staring at the way he was so gentle around you.
Cleaning himself up, you watched as he threw the towel into his hamper. He stood by his dresser, leaning against it as he just looked at you. Running his eyes through your state.
“What?” You chuckled, and a sense of insecurity ran through you. This was after sex. After the adrenaline and horniness of it all. Wanting to wrap his bedsheets around your body, you forced yourself to just stay.
“You’re pretty,” was all he said and you were taken aback from the sincerity in his voice. Softening at his words, it was your turn to stare at him again. He stood in a way that radiated confidence, something that could never be shaken.
“Go pee,” taking you out of your thoughts, you stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a spare glass on the counter. Are you happy with tap water?”
“What?”
He rolled his eyes and crossed the room to get to you. Gently picking you up by your pits, he sat you up. “You need to pee. You should know that, being a doctor and all,” and there he was. The annoying man you’ve become accustomed to.
“I know that,” you snapped, slapping his hand away.
Ignoring the wobbliness of your legs, you stood up, and you instantly regretted it as you almost fell face first on his floor.
“Park,” you whined as you felt his hands supporting your body, you tried to wiggle out of his grip, but he wouldn’t give.
“Are you always this annoying?” You moved to slap his thigh. “Jesus, if you’re still this annoying I need to fuck you harder.”
“I’m going to pee now,” and with that you closed his bathroom door on him.
You left his bathroom, and scanned the room, trying to see if you could see your clothes. You knew what came next, and you wanted to limit the amount of awkwardness that you’d inevitably feel. Padding over to where you vaguely saw Brendon throw your shirt, you frowned as you saw nothing.
“What are you doing?” Park watched you with an impatient stare, noticing that he had put on some sweats and a shirt, you took a moment to drag your eyes down his figure.
“Uh, going home?” You scrunched your face, and began trying to find your clothes. “Where are my clothes?”
“I put them in my hamper, I’ll wash them tomorrow for you,” he jerked his head to the basket in the corner of the room.
“Why?” You asked, confused. Isn’t this the part where he kicks you out? Tell you ‘thanks but don’t ever bring this up’. “Don’t you want me to leave?”
“Did I say I want you to leave?” He got you there. But still this was the normal procedure. Rolling his eyes, he walked over to you, and dressed the extra shirt in his hand on your body.
Leading you back to his bed, he laid you down and crawled over your body, “I’m not done with you.”
-
Waking up, you turned over, hands reaching out for a warm body and opening your eyes when you didn’t find him.
You slowly walked down, clad only his shirt, you observed for a minute, just seeing Park in his natural habitat. You saw him being at ease in his kitchen, if someone told you that you would be watching Park the Shark making breakfast with only his sweats on, you would have told them that they were crazy.
Running your eyes down his back, you saw the marks that you left and pride (and a bit of embarrassment) filled you.
“Morning,” you greeted, walking right beside him.
Park ran his eyes up and down your body, “Morning. You look good.”
“Sure, Park,” you knew you looked like a mess. Hair not even brushed, his shirt on you askew, and toothpaste residue you accidentally left on said shirt.
You looked around at what he had, and you thought of what you could help with.
“Just sit,” he jerked his head to his table, as if reading your thoughts. “I’ve got it covered.”
Sitting down, you watched as Park continued to cook, you sat there in silence as you admired him. You wondered if he was like this every morning, or after every hook-up he had. Shaking your thoughts, you didn’t need to know about that.
“I don’t know what you wanted,” Park spoke as he flipped the final pancake. “I don’t do this so I just made what I would usually have,” turning the stove off, he picked up the plates.
“What? You don’t treat all your hook-ups like this?” You teased, heart lurching a bit, but you managed to ignore it.
“No,” he answered bluntly.
“Oh?” You asked, your mouth working faster than your brain.
He looked down at you. “No. If I did sleep with someone, I wouldn't take them here and I certainly wouldn't make them breakfast.”
“So what, am I special?” You teased, your heart lurching in a different way.
Brendon didn’t say anything in response, just looked at you, and an unfamiliar (but welcoming) warmth made its home in your veins.
Placing the food down, your eyes bulged and your mouth started to drool. “And I wasn’t lying,” Park said as he put your plate in front of you.
“Huh?”
“You look good.”
Silence stretched until he sat down, Park really had no reason to lie to you. He already had you last night, several times in fact, and then this morning too before both of you truly woke up.
The compliment sat on your chest and you didn’t know what to do with it. The warmth from before really hammering its presence.
“Coffee?” You asked, not seeing anything on your side.
“What do you usually have?”
“Matcha,” and at that you heard him snort, making you throw a piece of fruit at him.
“Of course, you do, princess,” Brendon rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I don’t have that,” as he made a mental note to place it on his list.
Telling him your alternative preference, he got up and walked to his machine. “I can make it,” you started, getting up from your seat.
“I got it, just eat,” and with that he turned his back to you.
Taking a couple of pancakes and a few extra bits and pieces, you began to dig in.
“Who knew that Park the Shark could cook,” you teased as you placed the pancake in your mouth. Moaning loudly, you looked to the food and to him, “Holy fucking shit, you made this?”
“My mum made sure that I could cook,” he said as he placed down your coffee. “Said that I’m not a man if I don’t know how to cook for my woman.”
Swallowing your food, you hummed, “Let me know her name and I’ll personally thank her.”
“Are you working today?” Was all he said, despite the fond smile on his face.
“No, I’m off for five starting today,” you replied, shoving another piece into your mouth.
“Good,” he looked over his coffee, eyes trained on your face. “Eat up because I’m going to fuck you all day today.”
Summary: You get why people call Brendon "Park the Shark", and he notices you more than you realize.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / “And he shows them pearly white”
Warnings: Grumpy and sunshine dynamic if you squint, bit of fluff, reader is slightly thirsty, Brendon Park (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 3 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Park the Shark.
You understood quickly why people called Brendon that. Most of the Pitt were intimidated by him. He circled the place like a predator who knew was going to get his fill when he smelled blood in the water. The surgeon had the skills to back up his confidence, too, his focus sharp and his methods rapid and efficient. You believed he’d be at home in the ocean if he was a shark in another life.
But you also liked to believe that underneath his magnificent firm body that there was a soft spot.
Seriously though, how does he look so good in scrubs?
“Morning,” you called out when he walked by.
He paused and turned his head, his eyes narrowed.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice low and even.
You laughed and you swore you caught the corner of his mouth lift, like he was trying not to smile.
And he shows them pearly white.
“You say that like I’m not always early,” you teased.
“I know you are,” he uttered, angling his body to fully face you. “And you were here late last night.”
He noticed?
You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Case needed finishing, so I stayed.”
“Good work,” he said after a moment.
“Thanks, Park,” you said softly, your heart skipping a beat.
Dana, who stood a few feet away, stared at Brendon over her glasses. He was not a man who made small talk. He wasn’t the kind of person to throw out compliments for the hell of it either.
His jaw clenched, the subtle warmth in his eyes fading. “Let me know if anyone gives you a hard time,” he ordered before he walked away.
Dana raised an eyebrow at you.
“Not a word,” you mumbled.
But you were smiling.
Another first time character for me! What do we think? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
Summary: A casual lunch accidentally reveals a secret you never mentioned. You're married to Dr. Park, leaving your coworkers completely shocked.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
Lunch breaks in the emergency department were practically non-existent. Between the hustle and bustle of trauma and patients cycling in and out, it was hard to find a moment to breathe, let alone to eat.
Today was a rare day.
Robby had practically ushered the four of you out of the ED the moment things settled down, arms crossed like a proactive dad who ensures his children eat their supper. He promised to page if a rush happened or if the med students screwed something up.
It wasn’t slow, but it was the closest thing the ED would ever see.
You sat down at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria with Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi, finally excited to eat.
The second the food hit the table, the conversation that was once flowing slowly turned into a debate.
“This is insane,” Whitaker said, staring at his receipt like it had offended him. “Why is a sandwich seven dollars? In a hospital, of all places.”
Javadi leaned over to look. “It’s literally bread and ham. That’s it.”
“Don’t forget disappointment,” Santos added, already halfway through hers like she had accepted defeat.
Whitaker huffed, leaning back in his chair. “How are residents supposed to survive on this? My salary barely covers my loans.”
“They expect you to run on spite and caffeine,” you said calmly, taking a bite of your sandwich.
Whitaker leaned back in the plastic chair. “And don’t even get me started on families. People sitting here stressed and grieving, trying to eat, and it costs this much?”
Javadi scoffed lightly. “Sorry, your father has heart failure, but would you like to buy a six-dollar coffee to cope?”
“Hospital capitalism is its own disease,” Santos muttered.
A round of tired agreement followed, chairs creaking, and wrappers crinkling as the exhaustion lingered over the table.
Santos turned to you. “Okay, but you're weirdly calm about this. Don’t you care about our wallets?”
Three pairs of eyes landed on you at once.
You blinked, then shrugged slightly. “I don’t really think about it.”
Whitaker frowned. “How do you not think about it?”
You took another bite, unbothered. “I just charged it to my husband’s account.”
There was silence.
You couldn’t tell whose jaw dropped first, Santos or Javadi's, but for two people who never stopped talking, they went completely quiet.
Whitaker looked between the two, trying to process exactly what you had just said. “Did she just–”
At the same time, Santos blurted, “You're what?”
“My husband’s account,” you repeated casually. You hadn’t paid for your lunch since you started working here.
Javadi blinked. “You have a husband?”
“Yeah,”
Whitaker slowly sat forward in his chair, as if the world had shifted slightly. “Since when?”
“A couple of years now.”
Santos was still in a state of shock. “We work with you every day.”
“I know,”
“And you never mentioned a husband?”
You tilted your head. “You guys have also never asked.”
Whitaker let out a short laugh. “You don’t even wear a ring.”
You lifted your hand briefly. “Work hazard.”
Javadi leaned in now, curiosity fully activated. “So your husband just pays for everything?”
“Well, no,” you corrected. “I just forget my card sometimes, so it’s easier. He’ll handle it.”
Santos slowly leaned back in her chair, processing. “Okay. I need context.”
You hesitated just a fraction too long, and that was enough.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “Oh, my god. Don’t tell me it’s someone here.”
“No freaking way,” Whitaker shook his head. “We would totally know if it was someone here.”
Javadi frowned slightly. “Would we though?”
Whitaker opened his mouth, then paused, glancing around the cafeteria like he was suddenly reconsidering the entire staff list. “I mean… There are tons of doctors who work here.”
“Exactly,” Javadi said. “Half of them barely come down to the ED. We wouldn’t know.”
Santos, however, didn’t look convinced.
She was staring at you now, like really staring, as if she was trying to piece something together in her mind. “Oh no”
You tried very hard to keep your expression straight, but you couldn't help but the small smirk that crept on your face.
Santos leaned forward, pointing her fork at you. “Oh, we definitely know him.”
Whitaker blinked. “What?”
“I’ve seen that face before,” she continued, gesturing vaguely at you. “That little—” she squinted, mimicking it poorly, “smirk you do when you’re hiding something.”
Javadi’s eyes widened. “She’s right.”
Santos didn't take her eyes off you. “Who is it?”
You hesitated, glancing between the three of them, already knowing exactly how this was about to go. It’s not like you haven't heard them complain about him before.
“...Promise you won’t hate me?”
Javadi leaned in. “Please don’t say, Robby.”
Santos made a face. “Oh my god, if it’s Robby, I’m transferring.”
You snorted. “It’s not Robby.”
Whitaker let out a breath. “Okay, good.”
Santos waved her fork at you. “Alright, then who is it?”
You exhaled, already bracing for impact. You looked between them.
“...Brendon Park.”
The table went silent.
Whitaker froze. “No.”
Javadi blinked. “Oh, my god.”
Santos didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “You’re married to Dr. Park.”
You nodded.
Whitaker ran a hand over his face. “The ortho surgeon who hates everyone?”
“Not everyone,” you teased.
They all stared at you.
“He’s not like that all the time. That’s just work.”
Santos blinked. “A work thing?”
You nodded. “He’s like an ortho god here. At home, he's just Brendon.”
Whitaker shook his head. “That man barely tolerates people.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well. He tolerates me.”
There was a moment where you searched for the right words, something that might help them understand. They only knew one side of him. You knew both. Normally, you didn’t feel the need to explain it, but here it felt necessary.
“‘Park the Shark’ is for here,” you said lightly. “That’s him in the OR, in the hospital, doing all that intense surgical work.”
Santos snorted. “Park the Shark is insane, by the way.”
You smiled. “Well, yeah, he got his name somehow.”
Whitaker leaned forward slightly. “And at home?”
You shrugged, but your voice softened just a little.
“He’s just Brendon,” you said, “He’s normal. He lives on coffee and reality television and steals my food even when he is not hungry. He’s there for anything that I need.”
Javadi tilted her head. “That sounds like a different person.”
“It’s not,” you said simply. “I just get the better version.”
Santos studied you for a second. “So you’re telling me Dr. ‘I intimidate half the hospital’ Park is just completely different at home.”
You shrugged again, but there was a small, fond smile you couldn’t quite hide.
Whitaker was staring at you like he was trying to rewrite everything he thought he knew.
Javadi’s brows were slightly furrowed, like she was mentally replaying every interaction she’d ever had with him.
Santos just leaned back, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”
You only smiled.
Before anyone could say anything else—
All of your pagers went off.
The moment shattered.
Whitaker groaned, already pushing his chair back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Break’s over,” Javadi muttered, grabbing her things.
The ED had settled back into its usual rhythm of controlled chaos.
Lunch break seemed far behind in your mind as you went from treatment room to treatment room.
You were at the nurses' station, finishing up a chart while Santos, Whitaker, and Javai lingered nearby, pretending to be busy while the conversation from lunch was still very much alive in the air.
Santos was mid-sentence when she suddenly stopped.
Her eyes shifted past you.
“..Oh?”
Whitaker frowned. “What?”
Javadi followed her line of sight in the elevator and immediately went quiet.
You didn't even look up; their reaction had said it all.
Brendon Park walked in like he owned the place, his cold and controlled composure completely unaffected by the noise around him.
He stepped up to the station. “Room?” he asked.
One of the nurses answered, pointing down the hall to one of the trauma rooms.
He gave a short nod and continued without another glance.
Whitaker leaned in slightly. “Yeah… she’s really married to that guy.”
Santos shook her head. “Still don’t get why.”
You just kept typing.
The hallway was less chaotic than the rest of the ED.
Still, staff were walking through, and patients were waiting on beds, but it settled enough that you could relax momentarily.
You leaned back against the wall, chart in hand, exhaling slowly.
A door opened.
Brendon stepped out, already pulling off his gloves, attention still half on the patient he’d just seen.
He was focused. Clearly thinking ahead of the upcoming surgery, he was about to perform.
He started walking, but when he noticed you, he slowed his pace until he was next to you.
You pushed off the wall, a smile already forming. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw three heads pop up.
“Hey.”
Everything about his demeanour shifted.
“Hey,” he said, lighter, just for you.
He stepped closer, close enough that your hands brushed.
“You okay?” he asked, scanning your face.
You nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t fully convince him.
“Just a long shift.”
His gaze lingered, reading you like a chart.
“Did you eat?”
You huffed. “Yes.”
He didn’t believe you.
You rolled your eyes a little, reaching up without thinking to fix the collar of his scrub top as it had folded in on itself. “I had a sandwich."
His brows lifted slightly.
“I promise,” you added.
Brendon held out his pinky.
“Are you serious?” You couldn't get over the ridiculousness of your husband wanting to pinky promise over a sandwich.
You laughed under your breath, hooking your finger with his. “My friends are watching.”
He leaned in just slightly, voice low.
“Oh, I know,” he murmured. “I can feel them staring.”
And sure enough, when you turned three heads, you immediately ducked out of sight down the hall.
40 yr old brendon park going back in the dating scene expecting the worst because his coworkers keep telling him how horrible the modern dating scene is that he was genuinely nervous with his date with you only to find out the issue was the bar was actually in hell. they get mad if you don;t buy them flowers on dates. duh? they want you to pay for everything! of course he's going to pay for everything he earns more than half a million a year. they want to put labels on the relationship! he's a grown man he'd be insulted if you don't treat this relationship seriously enough to put a name to it.
and suddenly to everyone's surprise, brendon park -- who has not dated seriously since college -- is getting married ahead all of them because he's genuinely just a great guy and a better boyfriend lmfao
summary: sammy bryant is a simp for his pregnant wife.
the low murmur of the police scanner hums beneath the clatter of nate’s half-finished rant about how “nobody knows how to take a corner anymore.” sammy’s driving, knuckles loose on the wheel, when his phone lights up with her name.
he taps the bluetooth with his thumb, speaker crackling to life.
“hey, baby,” he says easily.
there’s a pause on the other end—just long enough for sammy to know something’s up. the kind of pause she makes when she’s gearing herself up for something that feels silly to her but makes his whole chest soften.
“hi,” she says finally, voice soft, lilting. “um… are you busy?”
nate immediately cuts his eyes toward the dash. sammy doesn’t flinch.
“not too busy. nate and i just wrapped a walkthrough downtown. why?”
“you, um…” she hesitates. he hears it, that wobble. that crack that says she already talked herself out of this twice before she even dialed. “you remember that deli we used to go to near our old place in central alameda?”
sammy meets nate’s eye and says without hesitation:
“yeah. we’re close to there actually.”
nate mouths no we’re not? then gives up and just gestures out the dashboard at downtown hollywood forty minutes away from central alameda.
“i was maybe…” her voice drops to this tragic, adorable little near-whisper, “…maybe wanting that spicy italian? the one on the marble rye? with the extra pepperoncinis?”
sammy’s already flicking the blinker on to switch lanes.
“yeah, baby. got it.”
“and maybe the iced tea?” she adds quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. “no, actually, can it be both? the lemonade and the tea? like an arnold palmer? and if they have the cake of the day i kinda want that too. but it’s okay if they don’t, i swear i’ll survive, i just—”
her voice does that thing, trembles right at the edge of a tear or maybe just her hormones spiraling.
“actually never mind. this is crazy. you’re working. i’m sorry, just forget i called, i love you—be safe—”
click.
sammy sighs, but there’s a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he’s already turning onto the freeway ramp.
nate blinks once. twice. then slowly says:
“jesus. even i can’t say no to her when she asked like that.”
sammy huffs out a dry laugh.
“so you see my problem.”
“how many midnight snack runs has she sent you on?”
“none.”
nate blinks harder.
“none?”
“she hasn’t even asked me to fill her damn water bottle,” sammy mutters. “not once. not a single midnight craving. hasn’t asked for anything.”
“oh.” nate exhales slowly, understanding dawning. “so when she does—”
“exactly.”
they drive a beat in silence, traffic parting just enough to give them a smooth path toward central alameda.
“we’re really going forty minutes out of the way to a deli.”
“yeah,” sammy says simply. “yeah, we are.”
“i can’t even give you shit. you were with me when mariella made me go demand a banana split from that ice cream shop during a rain storm at 9:58 p.m. they were out of cherries. she cried. i still don’t think she’s forgiven me.”
sammy grins. nate leans forward, elbows on knees.
“since you’re already buying lunch…”
“for her, not you.”
“i’ll take a turkey pesto. your girl has good taste.”
sammy snorts and rolls his eyes.
“you’re such a simp, man.”
“yeah,” sammy smirks, already dialing the deli, “but i get to go home to her.”
nate huffs a laugh but he’s already smiling too, tapping his phone open.
“i swear to god if they’re out of marble rye, you’re telling her.”
pretty pleaseeee can you write more brendon park x pedatrician wife reader just anything!
little do you know how happy you’re making your fellow followers lol there wasn’t much inspiration for this so it fell short and I don’t like the ending lmao but enjoy ig
TWICE THE TEETH
“got a positive in the CT scan,” garcia announced as she walked in, eyes on her pager. “I’d get them admitted to orthopedics.” looking up to those in trauma, “and get peds in too.”
“I-uh, what?” an uneasy laugh escaped whitaker, who stood off to the side of the senior. his finger held up. an interruption. the need for reassurance right now, desperate. ogilvie stared through his lashes. mouth agape like a fish out of water. before his head swiveled. “did she just say—”
“yes. I did.” garcia’s head tilted in question. “is that an issue?”
whitaker about to answer when the resident held her hand up. “whether it is or not, I'm off the case so take it with your attending.” tipping to robby before walking out.
a tibial eminence fracture that needed consultation.
from peds. and ortho.
not one shark, but two.
both of the young men looked to robby— who did nothing to ease the growing nerves— as he nodded in confirmation.
“she’s right.”
“b-but the patient is a teen. and—” “teens still need physicians. especially ones who specialize in their age group of medical care.” it was said matter of factly to ogilvies excuse. a poor one. because even a med student should know that. everyone knows that. “and seeing the extent of the injury, and the type it is, ortho needs to get in on this. it’s standard procedure.” robby explains lightly. still obvious in his tone of voice. but not demeaning.
ogilvie stays quiet. a crease between his eyebrows. almost as if he's slowly dissecting what was just said. whitaker paled next to him. “oh boy.”
—
"let's just let them assess the patient and uh— unless asked directly, just" whitaker motioned with his hands "try to keep to yourself." it was said carefully. unsure if it was more for himself than ogilvie. even if being aware of med students eagerness.
and off the side, tablet in grasp, robby laughed under breath.
they were still fresh. one more than the other. easy to spot and easier to kill. figuratively speaking. and while he finds humor in it now, the attending knows what it's like to have been bit by the shark and his wife. never has he admitted to it, but its happened once or twice in his career.
both exceptional and outstanding physicians, you guys were also extremely brutal. you more so than your husband.
robby was known to be hard. he was known to be honest. but your honesty couldn’t compare. your voice never raised. it never fell. it was collected. too collected for someone who was about to chew someone else out. he’d experienced it himself. and after that, he was careful on where to dip his toes.
“dr.park.”
you’d come in first, and not long after, your husband did. your eyes briefly panning over the room before landing on familiar ones.
“doctor.”
ogilvie stilled at the address. remembering just why you referred to him as that.
“I see you’ll be joining us?”
the student glanced over to whitaker. the advice from earlier apparent. he looked back to you, then to brendon— who was staring expectantly above his lashes— as if looking to the man would help the ms in answering his wife. james couldn’t tell what was worse. your stare. or brendons.
“she’s talking to you, genius.” park says it drily. the students brain catching up as he slowly nods. “I uh, yes.” you make a face of faux approval.
“okay then. feel free to interrupt during the assessment.”
your teeth already sinking in and he hasn’t even done anything. yet. robby pursed his lips at the penetration of your words. knowing what you meant, seeing as he was there for the first time.
“why don’t you go ahead and begin the presentation.” your head motioning for him speak. and albeit the initial impression he made with you, you were being genuine, even if your words came off as a bait.
“a tibial eminence fracture?” brendons brows raised as ogilvie finished.
“that’s what I heard.” you murmured from the patients side. “rare.” sending the kid a warm smile, a subtle hand squeeze— all before turning your body around. the switch was startling. if someone saw, they didn’t say anything. and they wouldn’t want to.
“xray?” you glanced up in expectancy.
robby pulls out the screen. brendon nodding when he sees it. “clean break.”
“anesthetics?” you asked, attention still on the patient. robby listing off the meds.
yours and brendons eyes find each others. surgery. a silent agreement. his head nodding as your gloves come off. “I’ll prep the OR.”
your eyes rolling at the announcement that you were waiting to deliver to the patient before brendon did. your eyes catching wet ones as the kid looks to you for assurance. trying to lift the weight of the situation, you make a face, hand waving back to where your husband walked out.
“he never listens.” you prop up the gurney rails to get him ready. “our boys do better.” the corner of his mouth perking up from one side as he wipes his nose. his hand grasping yours. squeezing like earlier if not tighter.
“do you guys know each other?”
the question has you smiling. exposed. out in the open. even if there were others still in trauma. the innocence of it causing your front to break. you glance to where brendon left. but before you could answer—
“they’re married.”
and just like that, you were back. giving one last squeeze to the kids hand as they wheeled him out. your head turning to ogilvie who stared wide eyed.
Tags | smut, controlling behavior, unethical work romance, blatant favoritism, toxic workplace, swearing, fauxcest , park is almost paternal to reader, calls her 'kid', sugardaddy park if u squint, age gap
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
A chorus of greetings and pleasantries gets murmured in the room as he steps into the office. Ignoring the young residents under his wing – more than half of them lost causes if it had been up to him. He runs his eyes across his domain.
Brendon Park has always believed that the path of medicine could – and should – only be taken up by the cream of the crop. Life was not something you put in the hands of those who were ‘good enough’. What use does he have of overeager students who can’t differentiate a vein from an artery or the top student who buckles at the smallest hint of criticism?
Only those who are the best deserve to be doctors. And only those who beat the best deserve to become a surgeon.
“Where’s the kid?”
The newbies look at each other, confused. Clearly, not being given a heads-up of the culture and hierarchy in the Orthopedics Department.
His assistant speaks, “She is finishing up a consult in the ER. She should be here any –”
“… next time one of Frank’s idiots calls, tell them they better make sure it is compartment syndrome or I will shave off their senior resident's pretty hair.”
There she is. The crème de la crème.
She composes herself once she finally catches her attendings’ steely eyes and the suffocating tension he likes to maintain in his surroundings.
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
“Good morning, doctor. Rough shift?” He cocks his head as the two of you ignore the gawking, trembling residents who are here to observe the surgery and continue your conversation next to each other in the sink. “Robby told me to let you sit this one out.”
The reminder of Robby’s cautious text about ‘giving you a break’ as if he knew you better than him makes his blood simmer once more. He lets his senses focus on the cold water running through his palms instead.
“Fuck, no,” you groan, scrubbing your hands aggressively, still frustrated. “I’m fine. It’s just – I fucking hate newbies.”
He actually chuckles at that, letting your shoulders bump as he walks in first, hands raised.
“You’re distracted,” he lets his words hit you where it matters. Your pride. “Fix it before you get in my OR.”
He sees it. The side of you that mirrors him. The way the irritation sloughs off of you like a false skin, the intensity in your eyes that held the same focus he does, the deep breath you take as your chest expands like a well-oiled machine revving up to do its purpose.
Robby doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about.
“Yes, Dr. Park.”
Everyone knew who you were.
Shark’s favorite – his little prodigy. One he snatched from the ER Department, right under Robby’s nose, to hone into his successor.
The bias wasn’t for show.
You were brilliant, skilled, and had the most potential. You graduated top of your class, beat out your peers in your first rotation as a med student, and got offered a residency program by all departments in the PTMC.
It was almost a little too familiar with his experience when he was an upcoming resident.
And now, after thrashing the other attendings, he gets to have his own perfect protégé.
A student he considers as one of the great successes in his career.
Even now, he can’t help but marvel at you as you skillfully ride his cock.
A true overachiever, through and through.
“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well," he pats the flesh of your ass almost paternally. The small irritating voice of Jack Abbot reminds him that positive reinforcement is quite effective when done sparingly.
They say surgeons are narcissistic to a fault. That they’d fuck themselves if they could. Maybe that’s why he loved fucking you so much – his mini me.
You’re the perfect specimen. The perfect woman.
“Does it feel good, Dr. Park?”
After all, surgeons would fuck themselves if they could.
And his little me wasn’t any different.
He tried to stay away. Swore to himself that he would not derail your career in any way. Women have it hard enough to get into male-dominated fields as it is, much less if you were to become a pariah because of him.
It would be unfair and cruel to be a bump in your career – and your belly, god forbid – when he swore to himself you would be the one to soar alongside him.
Instead, he focuses on more wholesome approaches. Or as wholesome as he could manage.
If he couldn’t have you, he had to monopolize you.
Controlled your schedule, made sure any and every surgery that comes your way went through him first because no one gets to overwork his student but him.
"Cancel all her consultations this Friday. We're doing the spinal fusion."
His assistant visibly stiffens, rapidly scrolling through his schedule. "Doctor Abbot requested her assistance for --"
He glances at him in bored disapproval. "Abbot isn't her attending isn't he?"
The young man nods. Capable but expendable, and he is smart enough to know it. "No, Dr. Park."
"Good. And tell him he can find his own senior resident to torture," he swivels his chair, done with the conversation. "This one's mine."
He had you moved into a condominium near his – lied through his teeth about the hospital paying for it too. Some bullshit about wanting their star resident to focus on her work.
"It should be for move-in next week," the realtor eagerly rattles as Park signs the lease, making sure to verify that it was his other bank account in the contract lest you be smart enough to check it and figure out your nice new condo didn't come from the good graces of the hospital.
"Quite an investment, doctor. Should be worth double by next year. Are you planning to flip it?"
Park signs on the last line.
"'s for my kid."
It eventually escalated to gym sessions together, then the same tailored diet plan because he refuses to let his successor survive on questionable food, and eventually syncing your health apps so he could oversee your fitness and sleep schedule.
'Bedtime.'
You actually stare at your phone like an unruly child.
'Can't sleep. I'll just study for the case tomorrow.'
Before you could flip another page laid in front of your table a call was already blaring through your phone. The shark emoji gave no doubts as to who was calling.
To his hypocrisy, he was also in front of his study table.
"I need you on peak performance tomorrow. Bed, now."
He crosses his arms and your eyes actually drop at how his shirt constricts across his biceps. Fuck.
Whatever, you can just remove your watch so he can stop tracking your bedtime like a fucking --
"Prop your phone up on the bedside table," you press your lips together, caught. "I know your tricks, kid."
In under five minutes, you were tucked in your comforter, staring at your screen as he uses the reading glasses he refuses to let anyone else see him wear.
He doesn't look at his phone again but you knew better than to try and test him. And even though it kills you to admit it, the soft sounds of the flips of the paper was lulling you to sleep.
"Goodnight, Dr. Park."
His reply, if any, slipped past unheard. Only his gentle eyes lingered in your memory as the last thing you saw.
It satisfied the desire, for a while.
When it no longer worked, he tried for the opposite.
He put some space, gave you cases separate from his, called you ‘kid’ to remind himself that he was decades ahead of you.
This time, you saw right through him.
Smart girl, that you were. Ballsy, too.
Chasing him down to his office and demanding an explanation for his abrupt indifference after indulging you with his warped attention.
Try as she might, Gloria couldn't find anyone who would talk about what actually happened that day. All she knows is that it was not pretty. A vicious argument between two top predators of the PTMC.
One that nobody knew ended in you spread out in what was his pristine desk, a quick plan B trip to the pharmacy, and a meeting in HR where the two of you had to declare your relationship once and for all.
It was a scandal and a headache for the higher-ups. They even had half the mind to transfer you to another hospital but he had assured them that he too would quit if that ever happened – making them lose not only an esteemed student but also an irreplaceable attending. Thus, a compromise was reached and the relationship was to be hidden until you officially finished your residency.
Not that he fucking cared. He could be the picture of restraint provided they keep their filthy little paws off of what was his.
What was now finally his.
“Getting tired, kid? Hmm? Need some help? I told you, you needed more leg work in the gym,” he grins maniacally at your whine, your little claws burying into his chest in defiance.
“I can do it. I can –”
You shriek as he slapped your ass, now meeting your thrusts as he bounces you on his cock, punishing your weak efforts with brutality. Grabbing both of your wrists with one hand as he pulls you down meanly to meet his pace.
“This all my little genius can amount to, hm? Can’t even ride her attending’s cock properly?”
You whined, shaking your head. “No – Please, Dr. Park. I can do it! I swear!”
“So polite,” he smirks, settling back down and letting you gyrate weakly in his lap.
He pinches your clit cruelly, heart pounding in glee at your cry. A notification pops on his phone as well as the smartwatch he had bought for you – ten minutes till 10.
Should be enough time.
“Get on with it, kid. It’s almost bedtime for you.”
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
when pope tries to protect you from his family's crude conversations, he ends up having to answer your uncomfortable questions about sex
PAIRING pope cody x bunny reader
WARNINGS suggestive content, explicit talk about sex, obsessive behavior, innocent reader, craig being a dick, mention of crying during sex, pope has dirty thoughts about reader, possessiveness, coercive undertones, age gap, emotional dependency, crude language, if u don't like it don't read!!!!
WORD COUNT 1.9k
The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.
Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.
Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.
Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.
But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.
Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface.
Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.
He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.
Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.
So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears.
“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”
You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.
Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.
Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe.
He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.
“Why would she be crying?”
Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.
A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.
Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm.
Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”
Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears.
Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.
“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”
Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?”
Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears.
“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”
Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.
“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.”
Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.
And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.
The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.
He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.
The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.
You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him.
You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.
“What was that for?” you ask.
Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”
“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”
Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.
You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.
Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open.
“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”
You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully.
“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.
He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”
Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”
Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”
You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”
The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.
It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.
Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this.
God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?
He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.
“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”
You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth.
“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”
“Yeah,” Pope says slowly.
He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.
“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”
He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.
He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms.
It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.
He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.
“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”
“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.”
The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold.
“Oh.”
And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.
He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away.
Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.
Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works.
He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that.
Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”
Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.
“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”
Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.
Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.
His skin burns from where he touched you.
“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”
Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.
“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”
Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”
He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.
A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!
