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Summary: Eight months in, June and Dennis have finally found something soft, steady, and almost easy. But when June starts feeling off during a shift, one quiet answer changes the shape of everything she thought she was ready for.
Warnings: anxiety/spiraling, fear of ruining a relationship, brief emotional distress/crying, hospital/workplace stress, mentions of medical procedures/surgery, lots of softness and Dennis Whitaker being painfully sweet. Long Af
June Bug Masterlist (1-14)
Main Masterlist <--- check out my other stories
Eight whole months. That is how long Dennis and you have been dating. Eight whole months. But you couldn’t say they were uneventful. There have certainly been ups and downs. Mostly on your end and giving Dennis a heart attack every single time.
But being through what you’ve been through, it’s really easy to feel like you’re undeserving of love. Dennis however, has proven that love isn’t conditional. He’s been slowly picking up each piece of your broken heart that you thought was unmendable.
He loves you in a way that never feels like a bargain. He loves you even when you're sharp from exhaustion, when you're buried in work, and panicking in silence. You don't have to shrink down to be kept with Dennis.
He makes you breakfast, remembers your coffee, holds you through the ugly feelings, and looks at you like every complicated piece of you is still worth choosing. For the first time, love doesn’t feel like something that can be taken away when you become inconvenient. It feels steady. Patient. Safe. Unconditional.
Which is why him practically living in your apartment doesn’t terrify you. He doesn’t officially live with you. His name is still on the lease with Trinity. Half his clothes still live in his bedroom at their place, his mail still goes there, and his toothbrush is still tucked in the cup beside Trinity’s like evidence of an actual roommate situation.
But unofficially, his favorite hoodie is draped over the chair in the corner of your bedroom. His boots are by your front door for when he goes and helps Amy. Who is slowly becoming a regular person in your life, rather than some competition for Dennis’ love.
His razor is in your shower. There’s extra clothes tucked away in your closet. His scrubs folded neatly in the laundry basket with yours. Avocados in your fridge, even though you do not like them. But he does, plus it keeps him from eating all of Trinity’s. His book on the nightstand. He sleeps next to the window because he knows you like the wall.
e bed. And somehow, somewhere between eight months of sleepovers and shared groceries and him learning which blanket you like when you come home from a bad shift, Dennis Whitaker has become part of your apartment in the same quiet, steady way he became part of your life.
You should be terrified by that. Eight months ago you would’ve been.
Sometimes you are.
Mostly, though, you are happy.
Happy in a way that still feels new enough that makes you suspicious if you think about it too long. Happy in a way that sneaks up on you during ordinary moments.
Dennis barefoot in your kitchen.
Dennis brushing his teeth beside you before work.
Dennis asleep with one arm thrown over your waist, breathing warm against the back of your neck.
Dennis treating your family like it was his own. Penny and Tanner are attached to him the minute he walks through the door. Frank pretending he doesn’t like him that much. Abby politely conversing with him about his hometown.
You are happy.
Safe and happy.
Today when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the lack of Dennis next to you. You hear him in the kitchen making breakfast like this is part of the normal routine now.
The second thing you notice is the feeling like your stomach is trying to crawl out of your body. At first, you blame the smell. Which is unfair because Dennis is making eggs, and Dennis makes good eggs. Soft scrambled, because he once watched you overcook them while post-call and has never emotionally recovered.
But today, the second the scent reaches your bedroom, your stomach rolls.
Hard.
You press a hand over your mouth and sit up too fast. The room tilts. “Oh, absolutely not,” you mutter. From the kitchen, Dennis calls, “You awake?”
You close your eyes and breathe through your nose.
Bad choice.
Eggs.
You gag. “June?” Dennis calls again, closer this time. “I’m fine!” you yell, which is both unconvincing and deeply suspicious. You scramble out of bed and make it to the bathroom just in time to kneel in front of the toilet.
Nothing comes up. Which is the most awful feeling. You are crouching in front of the toilet, one hand on the edge of the skin. The other pressed to your abdomen like that will somehow calm down your GI system. News flash, it does not.
Dennis knocks lightly on the half opened bathroom door. “Can I come in?” “No,” you said immediately, voice hoarse. He pauses, one hand on the door. “Okay,” A beat. “Are you throwing up?” “No.”
A short terrible silence follows. Then you add, ‘Not successfully.” You can see his shadow shift underneath the door. “Do you want water?” You rest your forehead against your arm. “Yes, please.”
He leaves, and you use the precious seconds alone to splash cold water on your face and try to pull yourself together.
You look terrible. Not objectively. Probably not. But your face feels wrong. Too pale under the bathroom light, eyes too tired, mouth too dry.
Your scrub pants are folded on the bathroom counter because you had planned to be efficient last night.
Cute.
Optimistic.
Stupid.
You reach for them, and that is when your fingers brush against the box tucked behind the hand towels.
Pregnancy tests.
Your entire body goes still. You forgot they were there.
No, that is not true. You did not forget. You shoved them there three days ago after Dana stared at you over the charge desk while you turned away from someone’s microwaved salmon and said, flatly, “Little Langdon, when was your last period?” You told her to stop practicing witchcraft.
Dana told you to pee on a stick before she made you pee on one between consults. You bought the tests on the way home and immediately decided that you weren’t mentally ready to see what the test actually said. Now the test sit behind the hand towels in the bathroom closet, mocking you.
Your stomach flips again, but this time out of fear and anticipation. Not from the eggs cooking in the other room. Dennis knocks once and pushes the door open slightly, just enough to pass in a glass of water without looking in.
Because that is the thing about Dennis. He listens. He respects closed doors and boundaries. He is the type of man to make things worse by being too good. “Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the glass.
“You sure you’re okay?” You stare at the test box. “Yeah,” you lie. “Just give me a minute.” “Okay.” His voice softens. “Breakfast is almost done.” Your stomach lurches. “Great,” you say weakly. His footsteps retreat.
You stand there for another thirty seconds. Then another, then you finally grab the box. You tell yourself it is only to prove Dana wrong.
That is all. A practical step. A clinical ruling out. A basic diagnostic measure.
You are a doctor. You like data. Data is neutral. Data is calm. Data does not rearrange your entire life before seven in the morning while your boyfriend makes eggs in your kitchen.
You take the test because you are brave.
No.
You take the test because you are terrified and need not know to stop.
The three-minute wait feels violent.
You sit on the edge of the bathtub in your scrub pants and bra, one sock on, one sock off, with the test face-down on the counter because you cannot look at it yet. You can hear Dennis humming faintly in the kitchen.
The coffee maker beeps. A cabinet closes. But you barely hear them, as you focus on the test in front of you. A thousand thoughts run through your mind as you silently panic.
Your phone buzzes on the sink.
Yoyo, My Lover: Tell me why Park texted me to be quiet today.
Yoyo, My Lover: I haven’t even drank my coffee yet.
You do not answer.
Your timer goes off. You stare at the phone in your hands, then at the test. Your hand reaches for it before the rest of you is ready. You turn it over. And low and behold, two pink lines stare back at you.
For a second, you do not understand what you are seeing.
Which is ridiculous.
You are a physician.
You have seen pregnancy tests before. You know how they work. One line negative. Two lines are positive. False positives are rare. You know the next steps. Repeat test. Confirm with serum or urine hCG. Estimate gestational age from LMP. Prenatal vitamins. OB appointment. Avoid alcohol. Watch meds and blood pressure. Adjust caffeine. Think about everything.
Everything.
Everything.
Your vision narrows around the two pink lines.
Pregnant.
You are pregnant.
Your breath comes in shallow. You stare until the lines blur. Then, suddenly, all the options hit at once. You could tell Dennis right now. He is in your kitchen making breakfast. He is probably cutting fruit because he is annoying like that. He would turn around when you walked in. He would know immediately something was wrong because Dennis notices when your left eyebrow moves half a millimeter.
You could show him the test. You could say the words. I’m pregnant.
Your chest tightens so sharply you almost gasp. Because you can see him. Not leaving. Never leaving. That is not what scares you. Dennis Whitaker would not leave you. Not like that. Not for this.
He is too loyal. Too steady. Too good in the way that scares you because it does not come with obvious escape routes. Dennis would stay even if he did not want to. He would sit beside you at every appointment. He would hold your hand. He would buy the prenatal vitamins and read every pamphlet and ask Dana too many questions and probably start tracking your protein intake like a man possessed.
He would stay. Even if this was not what he wanted. Even if he looked at you one day and realized his life had narrowed around something he did not choose. Even if he never said it. Even if the resentment came quiet. He would stay and you would ruin his life plans and goals but one stupid test.
Your hand shakes around the test. You love him.
God, you love him.
You are happy with him. Normal with him. For the first time in your adult life, your relationship is not something you are surviving, managing, or bracing against. Dennis is not a storm. He is not a test. He is not another person asking you to be less so he can feel like more. He is just present, always showing you how much he loves you.
He is breakfast before work. He is warm hands at your waist. He is your favorite coffee appearing beside your elbow on bad days. He is asleep in your bed with one arm thrown over his face and his mouth slightly open while you pretend not to think he looks adorable.
He is yours.
But now there are two pink lines on your bathroom counter that may potentially ruin everything. But instead of being unhappy, you’re not. Which is surprising, scared yes, but not unhappy. You do not feel unhappy. That may be the worst part.
Under the fear, under the panic, under the spiral of every catastrophic possibility your brain can produce before seven in the morning, there is something else. Something tiny. Something bright. Something that looks suspiciously like joy.
You press a hand over your mouth.
Dennis calls from the kitchen, “You almost ready?” Your heart jumps so hard it hurts. You look at the test. Then the door. Then the test. You do the only reasonable thing. You tuck the pregnancy test into your scrub pocket like it is contraband and pull your top on over your head. “I’m coming!” you yell, voice too high.
You brush your teeth twice because your mouth tastes like panic and mint and secrets.
When you finally step into the kitchen, Dennis is standing at the stove in his navy scrubs, hair still damp from the shower, one hip against the counter. There are eggs on two plates, toast, fruit, and your coffee in your travel cup.
He turns when he sees you. His face softens. Then immediately sharpens.
“You okay?” “Yep.” Dennis stares at you. You grab your coffee. “June.” “What?” “You look pale.” “I’m always pale. I’m Irish through Dad’s genetics.”
He does not smile.
Annoying.
You lift the coffee to your mouth and take one sip. Your stomach revolts instantly. You lower the cup down.
Dennis sees that too. “You sure you should work?” “I am not calling out because I dry heaved once.” “You said you didn’t throw up.”
“I said not successfully.” “That is worse.” You grab your bag from the chair. “We’re going to be late and then Park will kill me.”
He looks like he wants to say more. He does not. Instead, he turns off the stove, packs the toast into a paper towel, and hands it to you.
“Take this.” You stare at it. Your stomach turns again. “Thank you.” “Eat it when you can.” You nod.
You do not eat it.
The drive to work is quiet. Not silent. Dennis asks about your OR schedule. You answer. You ask about his patients from yesterday. He tells you. The radio plays low. The morning traffic is normal.
Everything is normal. Except there is a positive pregnancy test in your scrub pocket. You can feel the plastic edge against your thigh like a brand.
Dennis drives because he always does in the morning even when you pick him up from your own apartment, which makes no sense and makes perfect sense at the same time. His hand rests on the gear shift. Your hand stays in your lap.
He notices that too. You know he does. But he still does not push.
By the time you walk into the ED, you have convinced yourself you are fine. You are a highly trained orthopedic surgeon. You can compartmentalize. People do it all the time. There are worse things going on in this hospital than the positive pregnancy test in your pocket.
Frank is at the physician station when you arrive, looking down at a chart while Mel talks beside him. He spots you immediately.
Then Dennis.
Then your face.
His brows pull together. “What’s wrong with you?” You blink. “Good morning to you too.” Frank points his pen at you. “You look weird.” “I’m choosing to believe that’s a compliment.” “It wasn’t.” Dennis shifts beside you.
You feel his worry like heat. “I’m fine,” you say. Frank’s gaze narrows in the exact same way it has since childhood when he caught you lying about stealing his Halloween candy.
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?” “The lying face.” “I have never lied in my life.”
Frank barks a laugh. Mel looks between you and Dennis. “Should I leave?” “No,” Frank says.
You reach across the desk and steal his coffee. “Hey.” You take one sip and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. The coffee tastes wrong. Not bad, just wrong.
Too bitter. Too warm. Too much.
Your stomach rolls. You set it down fast. Frank notices. Dennis notices. Dana, twenty feet away at the charge desk, notices without even looking up because she is a witch.
You swallow hard. “That’s disgusting.” Frank looks offended. “That is my coffee.” “My condolences.” “You drink iced sugar milk. Your opinion means nothing.”
Dennis touches your elbow lightly. “Water?” You step away too quickly. “I have to go review cases with Park.” Dennis’s hand drops.
You see it. You hate yourself a little. “I’ll see you later,” you say, softer. His face smooths into something calm for you. “Okay.” But his eyes are worried.
Frank waits until you walk past before he turns to Dennis. You do not hear what he says. You do not want to.
Upstairs, Park is already in front of the board, arms crossed, radiating disapproval at the entire orthopedic census. “You’re late,” he says. “I am thirty seconds early.” “You’re late objectively.” You stop beside him. “What does that mean?”
He looks at you. His eyes narrow.
No.
Absolutely not. You are not going to be mentally evaluated by Park this early in the morning.
You turn to the board. “Cases.” Park does not move. “Langdon.” “Cases,” you repeat.
Yolanda appears at your other side with an iced coffee in hand, cheerful and loud and exactly the wrong person to be around when you are keeping a life-altering secret.
“Good morning, bone gremlins.” Park says, “You’re loud.” “Thank you.” She turns to you. “You didn’t answer my text.” “My phone was in my bag.” “It was about Park calling me loud before arrival. Historic event.” Congratulations.” Yolanda’s smile dims slightly.
She studies you. “Oh no.” You do not look at her. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were thinking loudly.” “You taught me.” Park looks between you both. “Why is everyone being annoying before seven?” “Because you inspire us,” Yolanda says.
The morning board is not terrible, which feels like the universe is mocking you.
A tibial plateau fracture from a scooter accident. A distal radius that failed closed reduction overnight and needs operative fixation. One hip hemiarthroplasty. Two post-op checks. A possible septic knee consult waiting for aspiration depending on labs.
Normal things. Bones. Blood. Metal. Plans. You latch onto them like a lifeline.
Park makes you present each case, and you do it well enough that no one would know your entire internal world has split into before and after. But Park knows something is wrong. Of course he does.
He watches you the way he watches fracture reductions: silent, suspicious, looking for the hidden displacement. During the first case, the distal radius, you are fine. Mostly.
You scrub. You breathe through the smell of chlorhexidine because apparently your body has decided even familiar hospital smells are now personal attacks. You focus on the incision, the exposure, protecting tendons and neurovascular structures, reducing the fracture, plate positioning under fluoroscopy, screw length, restoring volar tilt and radial height.
Park corrects you twice. Normal. Yolanda hums under her breath until he threatens to remove her vocal cords. Also normal. But when the scrub tech opens a packet of something with a sharp plastic-chemical smell, your stomach flips so violently you have to turn your head.
Park sees it. “Orca.” “I’m fine.” “Stop saying that.” “Stop making it sound untrue.”
Yolanda’s eyes flick to you over her mask.
You focus harder.
By ten, Dennis has texted you twice.
Dennis💕 : Are you doing okay?
You stare at it in the OR lounge between cases.
You type: yes
Delete it.
Type: long morning
Send.
A second later:
Dennis 💕: Did I do something?
Your heart drops. You close your eyes. Oh, Dennis.
Sweet, anxious, ridiculous Dennis, who has been loved badly enough to assume distance is something he caused.
You type back immediately.
You: no
You: promise
You: you didn’t do anything
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dennis 💕: Okay. I love you.
Your eyes sting.
You look away from the phone because Yolanda is watching. “Are you crying over a text?” she asks. “No.” “Is it a Dennis text?” “No.” “So yes.”
You shove the phone into your pocket. The pregnancy test hits your fingers. You freeze.
Yolanda notices that too.
You pull your hand away too fast and stand. “Coffee?” She blinks. “That was a transition.” “I need coffee.” “You look like coffee might kill you.” “Then avenge me.” She follows you anyway.
The walk to the coffee cart is usually sacred.
It is your ritual. Yours and Yolanda’s. A small pocket of gossip and caffeine and orthopedic complaining between ORs. You usually spend it mocking Park, discussing hospital drama, or arguing about whether Dennis looks more like a golden retriever or a man who would apologize to a chair after bumping into it.
Today, you walk quietly.
Yolanda lets it last exactly one minute. “Okay,” she says. “Who died?” “No one.” “Who annoyed you?” “Everyone.” “That’s baseline.” You keep walking.
She steps in front of you near the elevators, forcing you to stop. “June.” You sigh. “Yolanda.” “You’re quiet.”
“I can be quiet.” “You once talked for fifteen minutes about why orthopedic screws should not be allowed to strip at three in the morning.”
“They shouldn’t.” “You called one a little bitch.” “It was.” She studies you, face gentler now. “Is it Dennis?” “No,” you say immediately.
Too immediate. Her eyebrows lift.
“No,” you repeat, softer. “Dennis is good. He’s…he’s Dennis.” “Okay.” You cross your arms, then uncross them because the test in your pocket presses against your hip. “I’m just having a day.”
“Do you want me to ask again later?” “No.” “Will I ask again later?”
“Yes.” “Good. We understand each other.”
By noon, Trinity knows something is wrong. Of course she does, because the ED is a gossip ecosystem with vital signs. You come downstairs for a consult on a shoulder dislocation that reduced itself during x-ray, and Trinity appears beside you at the workstation.
“Are you mad at Dennis?” You look up. “Hello to you too.” “I don’t do small talk when Huckleberry is spiraling.” Your stomach sinks. “He’s spiraling?”
“He asked me if he’s been too clingy.” You close your eyes. “Oh no.” “Then he asked if you secretly hate that he’s basically moved into your apartment.”
“Oh, Dennis.” “Then he reorganized the supply drawer.” You blink. “In the ED?” “Yes.” “That’s not his job.” “He was stress organizing.” You glance across the department.
Dennis is with Robby near Trauma Two, listening, but his eyes flick to you before you can look away. You give him a small smile. He smiles back.
It does not reach his eyes. Your chest aches. Trinity watches the entire exchange. “So,” she says slowly. “Not mad at him.” “No.” “Good, because he is one minor inconvenience away from asking if he should move his toothbrush back to our apartment.”
Something about that makes your throat close. “No,” you say, too sharp. “No. He shouldn’t.” Trinity’s expression softens. She leans a hip against the desk.
“June.” “I’m fine.” “God, you and Dennis both do that. It’s like watching two raccoons pretend not to be in a trash can.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
Trinity lowers her voice. “Whatever it is, you should tell him before he convinces himself he broke something.” You look down at the chart. “I know.”
You do know.
That is the problem.
Frank notices during rounds. You are checking on the infected hip hemi when he steps into the room behind you, pretending to look for a patient sticker.
You glance over. “Can I help you?” “No.” “Then leave.” “No.” The patient, an eighty-three-year-old woman named Marlene who already told Park he has “angry eyebrows,” looks between you and Frank with open delight.
“Sibling fight?” she asks. Frank points at you. “She started it in 1999.” “I was a baby.” “You were a menace.” Marlene smiles. “My sister once hit me with a canned ham.”
You pause. “I’m sorry, a what?” Frank looks at you. “Don’t get ideas.” You finish checking Marlene’s dressing, distal pulses, motor and sensation, then step into the hall.
Frank follows. You stop. “What?” He looks at you, not teasing now.
“What’s going on?” “Nothing.” “June.” “Frank.”
He exhales through his nose. “You’ve been quiet all day.” “Maybe I’ve matured.” “You told Park his personality needed a revision arthroplasty yesterday.”
“He did.” “You didn’t steal my coffee this morning after one sip.”
“It was disgusting.” “My coffee is always disgusting. That has never stopped you.”
You look away. Frank’s face changes. “Are you sick?” “No.” “Are you sure?” You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank steps closer. “Bug.”
Your eyes burn.
Not here.
Not with Frank, because Frank will know too much too fast. Frank will go full older brother, and then Abby will know, and then your dad will somehow know despite living nowhere near the hospital, and then Penny will draw a picture of you with a baby in your stomach before Dennis even gets a chance to process being a father.
“I’m just tired,” you say.
Frank does not believe you. But unlike Dennis, Frank pushes.
“That’s not what I asked.” You look at him sharply. “I said I’m fine.” He leans back like you slapped him. Immediately, guilt twists through your stomach.
“Frank,” you say softer. He studies your face, then nods once. “Okay.”
That is worse.
You almost tell him. The words climb up your throat.
I’m pregnant.
But you swallow them down. Not yet.
You need one thing today that still belongs only to you. Even if that one thing is terrifying.
At 1430, Dana catches you near the med room after you nearly gag when someone opens a container of leftover garlic pasta at the nurses’ station.
She does not say anything at first. Dana never wastes words when a look can do the work. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and avoid her eyes. “Don’t.”
Dana crosses her arms. You look at the ceiling. “Please do not look at me like that.” “Did you take one?” Your throat tightens.
The hallway is too loud.
Too bright.
Too full.
You glance around.
Dana’s face changes immediately. “Come here.” She pulls you into the small staff room near the charge desk and shuts the door.
For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Dana says, much gentler than usual, “Positive?”
Your eyes fill so fast you barely have time to look away. “Yeah.” Dana exhales softly. “Oh, honey.”
That does it. A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily. “I’m not sad.”
“I know.” “I’m not.” “I believe you.” “I just…” You press both hands to your face. “I don’t know what I am.”
Dana waits.
You drop your hands.
“I love him,” you whisper. Her eyes soften. “I know.” “And things are good. They’re so good, Dana. Like disgustingly healthy. He practically lives with me now. He makes breakfast and he remembers how I like my coffee and he folds towels wrong but in a way that’s somehow charming. He looks at me like I’m not hard to love.”
Dana’s expression gentles further.
You shake your head. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“A baby doesn’t mess up love,” Dana says quietly. “It changes the shape of things. That’s different.” Your lips tremble. “He’d stay.” “Dennis?” You laugh once, wet and shaky. “Obviously. He’s too loyal not to. He’d stay even if he was terrified. Even if he didn’t want this. Even if he resented me later.”
Dana’s face turns firm. “Now you’re borrowing trouble.” “I’m being realistic.”
“No, you’re being scared.” You look away. Dana steps closer. “June, that boy looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
Dana smiles faintly. “Is he going to be scared? Probably. He’s a first-year resident dating an orthopedic surgical resident who can emotionally eviscerate people before lunch. He’s not stupid.” “Rude.”
“But Dennis loves you,” she says. “And he deserves to know before your fear turns this into something it doesn’t have to be.” You press a hand over your scrub pocket. The test is still there.
Dana sees.
Her voice softens again.
“You don’t have to tell the whole department. You don’t have to decide everything today. But don’t carry it alone just because you know how.” Your eyes burn.
“I wanted to be happy first,” you whisper. Dana tilts her head. “I saw the test and I was happy,” you admit. “For like one second. And then I ruined it by thinking.” “That sounds like you.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. Dana squeezes your shoulder. “Take the happiness seriously too,” she says.
The rest of the shift becomes impossible. Not because the work is hard. The work is fine.
Rounds. Post-op checks. A septic knee that turns out to be gout. One consult for a metacarpal fracture that absolutely could have not involve you but did because the ED believes ortho exists in a closet and can be summoned by vibes, even for fractures they know we won’t fix.
Dennis passes you twice.
The first time, near CT, he opens his mouth like he wants to ask if you are okay. You get paged before he can. The second time, at the physician station, he hands you a cup of ice water without a word.
You take it. Your fingers brush. The contact almost breaks you. He looks exhausted by worry. You hate that you are doing this to him. But you still cannot say it.
Not there. Not in the ED. Not with Dana and Frank and Trinity and Yolanda all watching like emotionally invested hawks. Not with Park walking around the department as if he can smell secrets.
Which, apparently, he can.
You are reviewing post-reduction films on a teenager with a distal radius fracture when Park appears behind you. He says nothing for long enough that you finally snap, “Can you stop lurking?” “No.”
You sigh and zoom in on the image. “Alignment looks acceptable.” “Your read is acceptable. Your personality is not.” “Wow, fun twist.”
Park crosses his arms. You wait. He waits.
You turn slowly. “What?” “Where has my resident gone?” Your stomach drops.
“I am literally standing here.” “No.” His eyes move over your face. “The loud one. The annoying one. The one who tells me when my plans are old man medicine.”
You try to smile. It fails.
Park’s gaze sharpens. “Ah.” You look away. “Don’t.” He lowers his voice, which from Park is the equivalent of a blanket.
“On-call room. Now.” “I’m not having a breakdown.” “I didn’t ask.”
“You are so bossy.” “I’m your attending.” “Barely.” “Room.”
You go, because arguing with Park when he has decided to care about you is pointless and irritatingly comforting. The on-call room is empty. Park shuts the door behind you and leans against it like a man guarding an exit, which is ironic considering he is the one who made you come in here.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Then stand. Then sit again.
Park watches. “You’re making me dizzy,” he says. “You’re making me homicidal.” “There she is.” You glare. He folds his arms. “What happened?”
You swallow.
For some reason, saying it to Park feels both impossible and easy.
Maybe because Park is not soft in a way that demands softness back. Maybe because he loves you like a grumpy sea creature with a favorite fish. Maybe because he has never once asked you to perform your feelings in a way that makes them prettier.
You reach into your scrub pocket.
The test is wrapped in a paper towel now because you are not completely feral.
You hold it out. Park looks at it. Then at you. Then back at it. His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Oh.” You bark out a laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
He takes the paper towel-wrapped test with the clinical detachment of a man who has held stranger things in hospitals and unwraps it enough to see the lines.
Then he wraps it back up and hands it to you. “Well,” he says.
“Well?” “You’re pregnant.”
“I am aware.” “Good. We’ve established diagnosis.” You stare at him. “Park.”
He looks at you. For once, he does not look annoyed.
Not really. Just steady.
Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“I’m scared.” Park nods once.
Not surprised.
Not dismissive.
Just accepting the information.
“That’s reasonable.” You press the heel of your hand to one eye. “That’s it?” “What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know. Something wise.” “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.” “Fair.”
He sighs and sits in the chair across from you, which is how you know this is serious because Park does not sit unless he is charting, eating, or emotionally preparing to be inconvenienced.
“You want it?” You look up quickly.
There is no judgment in his voice. None. Just the question.
Your hand moves to your abdomen before you realize it. “I think so,” you whisper.
Park watches the movement.Your eyes fill.
“I mean, yes. I think yes. I just…” You breathe shakily. “I don’t know what Dennis wants.” “Ask him.” You laugh wetly. “Wow, revolutionary.” “You’re spiraling around a conversation you haven’t had.” “I’m trying to prepare.” “No. You’re trying to control the damage before knowing if there is any.”
You look down.
Park leans forward, elbows on his knees. It is so unlike him that you look up again.
“Whitaker loves you,” he says. Your throat tightens. “He’s scared of disappointing you on a normal Tuesday,” Park continues. “You think he doesn’t already know you’ve been off all day? You think he isn’t down there rearranging his entire life because you wouldn’t drink coffee?”
Your lips part.
“He asked Trinity if he should move his toothbrush.” Park’s face goes flat. “Idiot.” You laugh. Then cry a little.
Park lets you. Which, from him, is practically a lullaby.
After a moment, he says, “Tell the ER resident before it eats them both alive.” You wipe your face. “Them?” “You and him.”
“Oh.” “He thinks he did something wrong. You think he’ll stay for the wrong reasons. Both of you are exhausting.” You sniffle.
Park stands.
“And for the record,” he says, hand on the doorknob, “I do not think Whitaker has enough imagination to fake wanting a life with you.” You blink.
“That was almost sweet and rude at the same time.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.” “You secretly love me.” “I tolerate you because Garcia would be difficult if you died.” “That’s love.” “That’s paperwork avoidance.”
He opens the door. Then pauses.
“Also,” he says without looking back, “start prenatal vitamins if you haven’t. Confirm with OB. Watch your caffeine. And stop smelling surgical prep like it’s a personal challenge.” “You are such a dad.” Park points at you. “Do not.”
You salute weakly.
At the end of the shift, you are so tired your bones feel full of sand. Dennis waits by the lockers. He is trying to look normal, but he is failing horribly.
His hair is a mess from running his hands through it. His scrub top is wrinkled. His eyes follow you the second you appear.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey.”
A pause.
A bad one. He swallows. “Do you want me to come over tonight?” Your heart squeezes. “Yes,” you say too quickly. “Yes. I just…I have to run some errands first.”
His face flickers. “Errands?”
“Yeah.” “Okay.”
You can see him trying not to ask. Trying not to cling. Trying to be good for you even though you have spent all day making him wonder where the floor went. You step closer and take his hand. His fingers close around yours immediately.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say. Dennis looks at you. “I promise.” He nods, but his eyes are still uncertain. “I’ll come over after?” he asks. “Give me like an hour.” “Okay.”
You kiss him quickly, because if you kiss him longer, you will tell him beside the lockers with Trinity pretending not to listen from three feet away.
Actually, Trinity is not pretending. She is staring.
“Goodnight, Trin,” you say. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t like it.”
Dennis closes his eyes. “Trinity.” “What? It’s weird. You’re both being weird. The vibes are rancid.” You point at her. “Stop reading vibes.” “No.”
You leave before she can ask anything else. Your errands take forty-seven minutes.
Not that you count.
You go to Target. Because apparently that is where life-changing emotional preparation happens. You stand in the baby aisle for ten full minutes staring at onesies so small they make your lungs stop working.
They are ridiculous.
Tiny.
Unreasonable.
You touch one with little yellow ducks on it and almost cry in public. “Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “We are not doing this under fluorescent lighting.” You buy the duck onesie anyway. And a pair of impossibly small white baby socks. And a little woven basket from the home section because you need something to put it all in, because handing Dennis a used pregnancy test wrapped in a paper towel feels psychologically aggressive.
You also buy two more pregnancy tests because one test feels too fragile to build a life on, even though you know how tests work.
At home, you take both.
Positive.
Positive.
You sit on the bathroom floor for a long time staring at all three tests lined up on the counter. There is no arguing with three. You shower. Brush your teeth. Put on leggings and Dennis’s sweatshirt because you need armor and apparently your armor is cotton drenched in Husker red.
Then you sit on your bed with the basket in front of you. The duck onesie folded carefully. The baby socks tucked beside it. The three positive tests lined along the bottom like evidence in a trial.
You almost take one out. Then put it back. Then almost hide the whole basket in the closet. Then your phone buzzes.
Dennis 💕: Heading up. Is that okay?
You stare at the message.Your hand moves to your stomach again.
Still flat, still yours, but yet not only yours.
You breathe in and then out.
You: yeah
You: door’s unlocked
The next three minutes are the longest of your life. You hear his key anyway, because Dennis hates unlocked doors even when you tell him you are literally home.
The front door opens. “June?” His voice is cautious. You close your eyes. “In the bedroom.” His footsteps pause and then slowly move closer, like he’s afraid he will step on a bomb.
You can picture him walking through your apartment. Taking in the lights. The dishes in the sink from breakfast. Your work bag was abandoned by the chair. His sweatshirt is missing from the couch because you are wearing it.
He appears in the doorway. He stops.
His eyes go to you first, like they always do. Then they slowly drift to the basket and back to you.
“Hey,” he says slowly. “Hey.” He steps into the room, still careful, like you are something easily startled. “What’s going on?”
You look at the basket. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out
Dennis’s eyes drop again. He moves closer.
Close enough to see, the duck onesie.The socks. The tests.
You watch his face change. Confusion first, that turns to recognition of what's in the basket, to finally shock.
His entire body stills. His mouth parts slightly.
He looks at the basket like he is trying to make sense of it and already has and cannot quite trust the answer. Then he looks at you.
“June,” he whispers. The sound breaks you.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. His eyes widened.
“I’m sorry. I know this is a lot. I know we didn’t plan this. I know eight months isn’t that long, and you’re still in residency, and I’m still in fellowship, and we’re both always working, and you don’t even technically live here but you kind of do, and I don’t want you to feel trapped or like you have to be okay with it because you love me, and I know you’d stay even if you didn’t want to because you’re you and you’re good and loyal and—”
Dennis crosses the room in three strides. He drops to his knees in front of you. You stop talking. His hands come up to your face. “Breathe,” he says. You inhale shakily. “Again.” You do.
His thumbs brush your cheeks. You did not realize you were crying until he wipes the tears away. “I’m pregnant,” you whisper. Dennis’s eyes fill. You can see it.
The exact second the words hit him. Not the basket. Not the tests. The words.
I’m pregnant.
His breath catches. You start crying harder.
“I didn’t tell you this morning because I panicked,” you say. “I found out before work, and you were making breakfast, and I just looked at it and I couldn’t make my brain stop being awful. And then you asked if I was ready, and I just shoved it in my pocket because I had to work, which is objectively insane, and Dana knew, of course Dana knew, and Park knew because apparently he knows when I’m off, and I wanted to tell you, I did, but I was scared.”
Dennis’s expression crumples with tenderness.
“June.” “I don’t think you’d leave,” you say quickly. “That’s not what this is. I know you wouldn’t leave. That’s the problem. You’d stay even if you didn’t want this.” Something flashes across his face.
Hurt. Not at you. For you. For the fact that your fear knows exactly how to make love look dangerous. He lowers his hands from your face and wraps his arms around you. Not carefully this time. Completely.
He scoops you off the edge of the bed and into him, crushing you against his chest as he kneels there on your bedroom floor. You make a broken sound and cling to him. Dennis holds you like he has been waiting all day to finally be allowed.
“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” “I’m sorry.” “Stop apologizing.” “I’m trying.” “I know.” His voice is thick. “But you don’t have to apologize for this.”
You pull back enough to see him. His eyes are wet. He’s crying. Your heart twists. “Are you upset?” you ask. Dennis lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he says honestly. “I’m scared. I’m definitely going to have several medically embarrassing questions for Dana, even though I’m a doctor.” A laugh breaks out of you.
He smiles through the shine in his eyes. “But upset?” He shakes his head. “No.” You search his face like you are looking for the catch.
Dennis sees that too. He always does. “If this is what you want,” he says carefully, “then I’m excited.” Your breath catches. “And if you needed something different, I would be here for that too. But if you’re asking me if I want this with you…” His hand moves down, hesitant, stopping just shy of your abdomen until you nod.
You nod. His palm settles gently against your stomach.
There is nothing to feel. Not yet. But both of you look down anyway.
Dennis’s face does something you will remember for the rest of your life.
Soft awe.
Terrified joy.
Wonder so naked it makes your chest ache.
“I want this with you,” he whispers. Your face crumples again. He looks up quickly. “I do,” he says. “June, I do. I love you.”
“I love you too.” “I love you,” he repeats, like he needs the words to build a floor under you. “And I’m not staying because I’m loyal. I mean, I am loyal. Obviously. But that’s not why.”
You sniffle. “Then why?” He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Because it’s you.”
The sob that comes out of you is embarrassing. Dennis pulls you back in. You cry into his shoulder, and he holds you through it, one hand in your hair, the other still spread over your lower back.
Eventually, you both end up on the bed.
Shoes off.
Basket between you.
The duck onesie unfolded across Dennis’s lap. He holds it with both hands like it is something sacred and mildly dangerous.
“This is so small,” he says. “I know.” “Babies are small.” “That is generally how they start.” He looks genuinely alarmed. “How small?”
You laugh, wiping your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You work in an ED.” “Not the same.” “You’ve seen babies.” “Other people’s babies.”
You look at him. His eyes lift to yours. The room goes quiet.
Other people’s babies.
This one is not that.
This one is yours.
His.
Both.
Dennis swallows. “We’re having a baby,” he says, like he is testing the words. Your stomach flips. This time, not from nausea.
“I think so.” “You think so?” “I took three tests.” His eyes flick to the basket. “That seems statistically persuasive.”
You smile weakly.
“We’ll confirm,” you say. “I’ll make an OB appointment. Figure out timing. My last period was…” You trail off, doing the math in your head, then immediately regret doing math. “Oh God.” Dennis’s face changes. “What?”
“I might be like six weeks. Maybe seven? I don’t know. My cycles are weird sometimes with stress.” “Okay.”
“Okay?” “Yeah.” He nods, looking terrified but determined. “We’ll find out.”
We.
You press your lips together.
Dennis catches it. “What?” “You said we.” His expression softens. “Yeah.” You look down at the onesie in his lap. “I’m scared,” you admit. “Me too.” “You are?”
“June, I am an R1 who still asks Robby if I’m doing life correctly at least twice a shift. Yes, I’m scared.” A laugh bursts out of you. Dennis smiles. “But I’m also…” He looks down at the little socks in the basket and touches one with the tip of his finger. “I’m happy.”
You stare at him. “Really?” He nods, slow and certain. “Really.”
You fold into his side. He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The apartment is quiet around you. The same apartment it was this morning. Same bed. Same dresser. Same laundry basket in the corner with Dennis’s scrubs mixed in with yours.
But everything feels different now.
Bigger.
Tender in a way that aches.
Eventually Dennis says, “Do we tell people?” “Not yet,” you say quickly. “Okay.” “I mean, soon. Eventually. I just…” You lift your head. “I want it to be ours for a little bit.”
Dennis’s hand moves slowly along your arm. “Then it’s ours.” “Frank is going to lose his mind.” “Yes.” “Abby will cry.” “Probably.”
“Dana already knows.” Dennis blinks. “Dana knows?” “She guessed.” “Of course she did.” “Park knows too.” Dennis sits up slightly. “Park knows before me?” You wince. “Technically, yes.”
Dennis stares at you. “I was having a small spiral.” “A spiral?”
“He cornered me in an on-call room.” Dennis exhales. “That sounds right.” “He told me to tell the ER resident before it ate us both alive.”
Dennis looks down, smiling faintly. “What?” “He called me the ER resident?” “Yes.” “That’s basically affection from him.” “He also said you don’t have enough imagination to fake wanting a life with me.”
Dennis is quiet for a second.
Then he says, “He’s not wrong.” You lean your head against his shoulder. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t either.”
Dennis turns his face and kisses your forehead, then your temple, a then your cheek. Soft, slow, reverent kisses that make your eyes close.
“I’m sorry I scared you today,” you say. “You were scared too.” “I still should’ve texted more than ‘long morning.’” He laughs lightly. “It was a very you spiraling response.” “You thought you did something wrong.” “Briefly.” “Dennis.”
“Moderately.” “Dennis.” He sighs. “Yes.” You sit up enough to face him. “You didn’t.” “I know that now.” “I love you,” you say. “I was scared because I love you. Because this matters. Because you matter.”
His eyes soften. “I know.” “And because I’m insane.” “That too.” You gasp. “Wow.” He smiles. “Sorry. Emotionally honest moment.”
“I am vulnerable and pregnant. Be nicer.” The second the word leaves your mouth, both of you freeze. You said it like it is real. Dennis’s smile changes. You look at each other. Then you laugh.
Both of you.
Soft at first, then harder, until you are leaning into him and he is pressing his face into your hair, laughing like the fear has finally cracked open enough to let the joy breathe.
When the laughter settles, Dennis shifts down the bed and lies on his side facing you. You mirror him. The basket sits between your knees. He reaches over it and takes your hand.
“We should probably talk about practical things,” he says.
“We should.” “Money.” “Schedules.” “Childcare.” “My lease.” “Trinity.” He winces. “Trinity.” “She’s going to scream.” “She might make me move out on principle.” “She loves you too much.” “She loves having her own bathroom too.”
You smile.
Dennis’s thumb moves over your knuckles. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he says. You let out a slow breath. That is hard for you. Not figuring it all out. Not making a plan immediately.
Not building a spreadsheet in your head with due dates, appointments, rotations, call schedules, leave time, and which family member will be least likely to post an announcement on Facebook without permission.
Dennis sees the war on your face. “June.” “I’m trying not to make a list.”
“I know.” “I love lists.” “I know.” “They’re soothing.” “We can make one tomorrow.” You brighten. He laughs. “One.” “Three.” “One.” “Two and a half.” “How do you make half a list?” “Subcategories.” He looks at you with such affection that your chest hurts. “God, I love you.” You smile, smaller this time. “I love you too.”
He reaches across the basket and rests his hand lightly on your stomach again. “Hi,” he says quietly. Your breath catches. You stare at him. Dennis goes pink. “I know it’s early,” he says quickly. “I know there’s not really— I mean, there is, obviously, but not like— medically, I know—”
You place your hand over his. He stops. Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears are different. “Hi,” you whisper too. Dennis looks at you like you have given him the whole world and asked him to keep it safe.
He will. You know he will. Not because he is loyal enough to stay where he is unwanted. But because he wants this. Because he wants you. Because the life you were so afraid of messing up has already started changing shape around the two of you, and somehow, impossibly, it still feels like yours.
Later, you fall asleep curled against him, the basket on the nightstand, the duck onesie folded beside three positive tests. Dennis stays awake a little longer. His hand moves once, barely there, over your stomach.
Careful.
Wondering.
Terrified.
Happy.
When he whispers, “I’ve got you both,” he probably thinks you are asleep.
You do not tell him otherwise. You only move closer. And for the first time all day, the two pink lines do not feel like the end of normal. They feel like the beginning of something else.
Something terrifying.
Something tender.
Something loved.
It can’t be a June and Dennis story without something coming along to make June question everything… except her love for Dennis. Thank you all so much for waiting so long for this update. I’m sorry it took a minute, but I hope this one was worth the wait. June and Dennis are having a baby!!!
Sorry if this is too long! Trying to get all my thoughts out so the story feels like it has a proper ending. I always knew that I wasn't going to let June and Dennis have a normal conventional relationship. That would be boring and not allow their characters to grow together.
One more part to go! Can you believe it?
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 a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
words: 1.9k
warnings: 18+. MINORS DNI. fem!reader, canon-typical trauma. angst and references to reader's imminent death which may or may not be happening in a couple chapter's time. so much angst.
synopsis: time has run out as you and abby finally reach the fireflies, and she must face the fact that maybe she has already lost you.
an: i just wanted to say thank you so so much if you are here to read this after sooooo long of waiting. i forgot how much i loved this story but i have remembered and i'd really like to get to the finish line with it. that said, this chapter might be pants because 1. we are in a heatwave and i am dying and 2. it's been so long that i had to remind myself of a lot of things and maybe forgot some stuff too! this is probably anti-climactic, but reader is gonna meet doctor roe next chapter! promise! and also there will be lev!
Abby isn’t sure she can do it. Her fists are clenched around the steering wheel, grip growing painfully tighter with every mile the two of you get closer to the Firefly base, until her sweaty palms are practically melded to the worn leather.
And yet she keeps going, your words whirling in her brain over and over. I was dead when you met me.
You have accepted your fate. Why can’t she?
It isn’t that harrowing statement that stops her from taking you away — and she has considered it a million times over now. Taking a different road, one out of California, never looking back. You’d kick and scream and fight, you’d hate her, but you’d be alive. It disgusts her to imagine abandoning Lev, abandoning her father’s mission, leaving behind the last flicker of hope that got her here, and yet she replays it on loop in her mind because it's the only place she can keep you alive.
No, it’s the disdain you’d shown for her when you realised that she was trying to talk you out of it back at the beach. Your face had contorted into something unrecognisable, your eyes - the warmest she’d ever known - suddenly so cold she’d shivered. In trying to keep you, she has lost you already.
Worst of all is that you were right. It was supposed to be your decision. Not a few days ago, she’d made it a point to enforce that, only to twist your autonomy in a desperate effort to convince you to stay. She’d been a lot of things before, but never fickle, never manipulative.
Perhaps she has lost herself, too.
As the mainland Firefly base comes into view, a cluster of salt-bleached buildings on Dana Point’s coastline where the boats are watched over from the tower, it’s almost impossible for Abby to keep her foot on the gas.
She gulps, gaze flickering over to you, imagining that, in the stifling silence you’d both been wrapped in, you might have changed your mind.
Instead, your back stiffens with determination, eyes blank, empty. It confirms what she already knows: there will be no more talking you down.
Abby bites her lip to keep from begging, tears welling so quickly that the dusty road blurs. She slows to a stop before the steel gates, where the Firefly emblem has been painted onto the rusting steel, the black dribbling down to the concrete. In seconds, they’re clanging open, revealing the docks, illuminated by the glaring spotlights of a watchtower. They seem to stare at her accusingly, like they know, and she shields her eyes on her way inside.
Winding down her window, she dips her head to the Fireflies that greet her in acknowledgement, stomach churning so roughly she isn’t sure she’ll survive the boat ride without hurling. Some of the guards cast you curious glances that make her hackles rise. All Roe told them was that you’re a transfer from Fort Worth, someone whose skills would be put to better use here. The doctor had made it clear that nobody outside of her circle can know about the cure lest it doesn’t work out. Not even the Fireflies can survive another failed attempt at hope.
“Are you sure?” Abby whispers right before she reaches the docks, because she has to. She convinces herself that if she sees even a waver of uncertainty, she’ll turn around now, find a way to get Lev under the cover of darkness tonight, and take you both far, far away from all of this.
But there is no waver. There’s nothing at all. For the first time since she met you, all she sees is the husk everybody else believes you to be, battered on the outside and empty on the inside.
She worries that those devastating words you said at the beach will be the last memory she has of your voice when all this is done, and then reminds herself that Roe has no intention of snatching you away so quickly. She has research planned. Abby could have weeks with you, yet. More if she tells Roe about your connection to the infected.
Only, you might not give them to her. You may never want to see her again. You might die tomorrow, or in a week, or in a month, without so much as a goodbye. She’d deserve it, too, especially if she makes more choices for you.
This is her last chance to change things.
“I won’t tell Roe.” It comes out thick and cracked, mouth filled with bitter-tasting cotton. “About the infected. About how you…”
In her periphery, she sees you recoil, like you can’t bear to even think of that night the infected stopped when you screamed for them to.
“Okay,” you say.
That’s it. The car pulls to a stop, and she knows there isn’t a single thing she can do to get you back now. The clouds hang heavy on the horizon ahead as she parks by the watchtower, driving her teeth into the inside of her cheek to keep all of her anguish, all of her pleas, all of her grief, from spilling out.
When you step out of the car, slamming the door without a single glance, Abby yanks the keys from the ignition and hunches over, lungs burning, stomach cramping, bones shuddering. In the back of the truck, Austen whines like he knows he's about to lose something, too.
Your time together has been unspooling since the moment she laid eyes on you, and she can feel the end of the thread slipping through her fingers — second by second, metre by metre.
And all she can ever do is watch.
She gets out as soon as her legs feel capable of bearing weight again, helping Austen out of the truck bed. The boatman, Eddie, waits with a rifle under his arm, raising a wary brow at the mongrel at Abby’s feet.
“Good to see you back, Abby,” he states, though he doesn’t look the least bit like he means it, upper lip curling as Austen pees on the side of the truck tyre. “You brought back a friend.”
“Austen,” you supply. “He’s a good dog. Just a little malnourished.”
“He’s, uh…” His eyes widen when he looks at you. Abby recognises fear in them, made more pronounced when he lingers on the bite poking out of your sleeve. She clenches her teeth, silently daring him to stare. She hasn’t been so quick to anger in a while, but she’s itching for a reason to lash out.
But then his attention tears back to her, jaw squaring. “You know we can’t take him to base. Not if you don’t know where he came from.”
She had known. Strays were a liability, usually more work than they were worth with the kennel’s limited resources. They only had a few, and they were bigger and fiercer than Austen ever would be.
But like hell is she going to leave him here. She couldn’t do that to you. Not now.
“I think you can make an exception.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
“I don’t think—”
“She’s about to donate her body, her life, to Roe’s science. If she wants the dog, she gets the damn dog."
She feels you watching her and longs to know what expression you must wear: gratitude, or more of that disgust?
Either way, Eddie’s shoulders sag in resignation. “All right, fine. Just hope he's not seasick. You both ready to go?”
“Absolutely,” you say without even an ounce of hesitation.
It fractures her all over again, to watch you turn your back to her. Watch you walk toward the boat, Austen trailing behind. So eager to let go, so eager to reach the end like she’d never meant anything at all.
As she follows, she finds herself wondering if she imagined all of it: the heavy magnets thrusting the two of you together, the spine-tingling want, the kissing, the sex, the fear of losing you, the desperation to make you stay. She left these docks ten days ago detached and eager to get this over with, believing herself too broken to ever even consider falling for someone again. She’s returned changed. Everything she believed — about herself, about her dad, even about his killer — has crumbled.
Because the cure, the Fireflies, were never the light she was searching for, and it’s like you’ve burnt off her protective layers, left her raw and exposed. She’d been wrong before. She hadn’t been broken, then. This was broken.
The worst part: she can’t bring herself to regret any of it.
Soon, the three of you are sailing from the watchtower, choppy waves doing nothing to ease the roiling inside of Abby. Eddie continues to glance at you, over and over, whenever his attention isn’t needed on the ever-looming island ahead. You’re leaning over the railing, drinking in every lap of the ocean against the boat like it might be the last time you can.
Because it is the last time you can.
Abby can’t watch you become a memory anymore, not when Austen licks your cheek and draws out a smile that cracks through her like lightning, so she joins Eddie by the control system, shivering against the harsh, icy spray whipping through her clothes.
“We were worried, for a minute, that you wouldn’t make it back,” Eddie says, shouting to be heard over the wind. “Well, I was. Roe didn’t doubt you for a second.”
“We ran into a little car trouble.” It’s the most explanation she ever plans to give. She wants the last few days to remain yours and hers, even the worst parts.
He nods, glancing over his shoulder at you again.
Abby grinds her teeth. “You plan to stop ogling her anytime soon?”
“I’m not ogling.” His flush betrays his lie, and he snaps his head back to the tiller. “What, I’m not allowed to be a little fascinated by the girl who might just save humanity?”
“She’s a person, not a fucking spectacle.”
“She’s as close as we’re ever gonna get to a saviour.”
Electricity skitters across the back of her neck, those words reminding her of Cal and his sickening devotion to you. For the first time, she wonders if the Fireflies aren’t so different than him and his twisted little cult. They believe, like he did, that one woman’s martyrdom might wipe away the infection.
Her bitten fingernails bite down into her palms, and she turns, using the railing as support — only to pause when she realises you’re watching. You heard the whole thing, and it’s left you wan.
Is this really what you want? she wants to ask. Is this really who you want them to make you?
Oblivious, Eddie keeps going. “What’s it matter to you, anyway? You should be grinning from ear to ear right about now. When everyone finds out you’re the one who brought the cure here, you’re gonna be a fucking hero, just like your dad.”
But her dad probably didn’t feel like his insides were disintegrating when he tried to save the world. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was just braver, stronger, because he went ahead with it anyway.
Or maybe, like everyone else who surrounds Abby, he was too blinded by hope to acknowledge the pound of flesh needed to buy it. The blood it would leave on his hands.
She had never, ever questioned him like this before. He was a hero, her hero, and he was murdered in cold blood.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he was only murdered before he could murder? Because he intended to murder? What if Joel Miller’s blood hadn’t been cold at all? What if he’d just wanted to keep the person he loved alive, the way Abby…
She grips the railing tighter, swallowing back the acid in her throat. It burns too painfully for her to tell Eddie the truth: that she has never been a hero.
If this is what heroism looks like, she never wants to be.
Summary: For once, June and Dennis are good. Healthy, steady, almost suspiciously happy. But when June’s ex unexpectedly walks into the ED during an ortho consult, old wounds resurface fast and Dennis proves, in the softest and loudest way possible, that June never has to shrink herself to be loved
Warnings: past toxic relationship, cheating ex, emotional manipulation, workplace confrontation, police/custody mention, ankle fracture/dislocation, medical setting, brief panic/trauma response, protective sibling behavior, soft hurt/comfort, love confession.
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For a few weeks, nothing bad happens. Since you started dating Dennis it feels like something has happened. That alone is a suspicious feeling, bubbling in your gut.
But somehow, life is good. Actually good,
Good in a way that still starters you some mornings, like you wake up and expect the universe to correct itself. Like there is no way you, June Langdon, can be this happy without someone somewhere filing an official complaint.
But Dennis Whitaker keeps proving you wrong. The Nebraska farm boy turned Pittsburgh MD, is proving that relationships can be healthy.
You two are actually doing well. Not fake-well. Not “we are both pretending we are normal because we are afraid to scare the other person off” well. Not “one of us is one bad day away from locking ourselves in an on-call room” well.
More often than not he stays over your apartment now.
Not in the accidental way from the first time, when you were too tired and too raw and too embarrassed to admit you did not want him to leave. Now he stays because you ask him to.
Sometimes directly.
Sometimes by stealing his shirt and climbing into bed without saying anything while he stands in your doorway, smiling like he knows exactly what you are doing.
“You want me to stay?” he asked one night, toothbrush in hand, hair tousled and wet from the shower. You peak out from under your comforter, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. “I don’t know,” you say with a yawn. “I’m pretty busy.”
Dennis looks around your bedroom. “In bed?” “It’s a very demanding schedule,” you say while plugging in your phone. “Of sleeping?” “mmh, very important.”
He gives you one of those stupid smirks that make your heart pound, while leaning against the doorframe. “Want company?” You glance up at him. “You’re already here.” “That isn’t an answer darling.”
You roll your eyes, but if you were standing it would make your knees weak with the soft and endearing way he calls you “darling.” “Yes, Denny. Stay.”
He tries to not look too pleased but Dennis is not subtle when it comes to you.
Other nights, you stay at his and Trinity’s apartment, which means you have somehow become part of Trinity Santos’s natural habitat. The girl who used to make upsetting comments about your brother. But now you coexist.
That is dangerous. Mostly because Trinity has decided your relationship with Dennis is the best live entertainment she has had in years.
The first time she walks into the kitchen at six in the morning and finds you in Dennis’s old T-shirt, barefoot, making coffee while Dennis stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, she stops dead in the doorway.
“Oh,” she says. “Absolutely not.” Dennis lifts his head. “Good morning to you too.”
“No.” Trinity points at both of you with a protein bar. “This is my kitchen. I pay rent here. I should not have to see Huckleberry in his boxers fondling the Ortho barbie before sunrise.”
You raise your mug. “Morning, Trin.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re too comfortable here.”
“I do know where the mugs are now.” “Disgusting.” Dennis kisses your shoulder, soft and sleepy. Trinity makes a strangled noise and backs out of the kitchen. “I am filing a hostile roommate complaint.”
“You do that,” Dennis says. You laugh into your coffee. She turns about points at you.
“Put on some pants.” Yes, mother.” You say while standing on your tiptoes to kiss Dennis’ nose and walking off to his room to get dressed.
That has become your life lately.
Dennis’s apartment. Your apartment. Coffee cups traded like love letters. Sleepovers that are not always sleeping and mornings where you both pretend you are not late because leaving bed has become increasingly impossible.
He stays at your place after long shifts, his body warm behind yours, his arm heavy over your waist. You stay at his, curled under his sheets while Trinity bangs on the bathroom door and yells that if you two used all the hot water, she is putting both of you in a case report.
Dennis gets used to your life in a way that should scare you more than it does.
He joins family dinners at Frank’s and sits at the table like he has always belonged there, helping Abby carry plates, letting Tanner explain dinosaur extinction with great confidence and very little scientific accuracy, and allowing Penny to decorate his forearm with princess stickers.
“You know you can tell them no,” you say one night as Penny attempts to braid the hair at the nape of his neck despite there not being nearly enough of it.
Dennis is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Tanner climbing over his back with a plastic firefighter helmet on. “I can?” he asks. “No,” Penny says immediately. Dennis looks at you, helpless. “You heard her.”
Frank watches from the couch with the haunted expression of a man witnessing his sister’s boyfriend become beloved by his children in real time.
“I don’t like how easily he integrated,” Frank says. Abby pats his knee. “That’s because he’s nice.” “I’m nice.” You snort. Frank points at you. “Watch it.”
“You once told me Santa wasn’t real because I ate your Pop-Tart.” “You needed resilience.” “I was seven.” “And look at you now. Resilient.”
Dennis laughs, and Frank’s eyes cut to him. “You think that’s funny, Nebraska?” Dennis schools his face with incredible effort. “No, sir.”
You gasp. “Do not sir him. He’ll get powerful.” Frank looks mildly pleased. Abby rolls her eyes so hard you worry she might injure herself.
It is good.
Work is still work, obviously. Park is still Park. Bones are still rude. The OR still smells like cautery, betadine, and mild existential dread. Yolanda returns from PTO looking suspiciously rested and immediately declares that self-care is a scam unless it involves expensive candles and ignoring men.
“You left me with him,” you say, pointing at Park during morning sign-out. Park does not look up from the x-ray. “I was also left with you.” Yolanda gasps. “Were you two mean to each other without me?”
“Constantly,” you say. “I’m hurt.” “You were doing self-care.” “I was drinking margaritas in a robe.”
“That is not self-care,” Park says. Yolanda points at him. “That is exactly why you look like you sleep standing up.” Park turns to you. “Control your friend.”
You look behind you. “What friend?” Yolanda places a hand over her heart. “Betrayal.” Park mutters, “My strongest headaches are reunited.” You grin. “He missed us.” “I did not.”
Park pinches the bridge of his nose.
You and Yolanda exchange a look. Then both of you say, “Parkie.” “No,” he says immediately.
“Parkie the Sharkie,” Yolanda sings. “I will transfer both of you to podiatry.” “You say that like feet scare me,” you say. Yolanda points at you. “Feet should scare you.” “They do,” you admit. “But I’m brave.” Park stares at the OR board like it might save him. It does not.
For once, nothing is falling apart.
You still work too much. Dennis still worries too quietly. Frank still acts like your relationship is personally aging him. Trinity still threatens to spray you with saline when you kiss Dennis in her apartment. Yolanda still narrates every development like she is the host of a deeply invasive dating show.
But nothing is bad. No breakdowns. No locked doors. No old wounds split open.
Until today…
The day starts with a text from your brother. Dennis had stayed over at your place the night before, and Frank, unaware of this deeply relevant information, texted you at 05:58.
Frankie🧸 : I’m outside. Hurry up.
You: why are you outside
Frankie🧸: Because your car is getting serviced and I am a kind loving brother
You: that sounds fake but okay
You open the door wearing scrubs and one of Dennis’s hoodies. Frank’s eyes narrow immediately.
“Why are you wearing a Nebraska hoodie, are you cheating on Pittsburgh?” Dennis appears behind you with wet hair, brushing his teeth. Frank goes very still.
You say, “Good morning.” Frank points at Dennis with the hand holding his travel mug. “Why is he here?” Dennis freezes with the toothbrush in his mouth. You lean against the doorframe. “Because he spent the night.” Frank closes his eyes. “I hate everyone.”
“You’re the one who showed up unannounced," Frank signs, walking away, “You have five minutes or I’m leaving.” As you get into the car Frank announces, “I want to go back to when you were twelve and hated boys.”
“I didn’t hate boys. I hated your friends.” “My friends were boys.” “Exactly.” Dennis makes the mistake of laughing. Frank’s eyes snap to him. “Do not enjoy this.” “I’m sorry.” “No, you’re not.”
The rest of the car ride is good, almost peaceful. You lay your head against the window with your eyes closed, while you hold Dennis' hand that he stretched back from the passenger's seat.
Before you know it, you’ve pulled into the parking garage and the day needs to begin. Dennis holds your hand as you walk through the ambulance bay, arguing with you brother over one time when he locked you in the basement because you at his pop-tart.
Once you make it through the doors, you kiss Dennis’ cheek goodbye. You rush to the elevators offering Dana and Robby a “Good Morning!” on your way.
The day starts the same as every other day. Reviewing films, early morning floor consults for the overnight admits, and rounds before the day of using power tools on the human body begins. Scrubbing in and trying to prove to Park that you are actually worth keeping around.
You’re taking a break around 1300, in between surgeries when a consult comes over your pager.
ED consult: ankle injury. Adult male in police custody. Fall from the fence. Deformity.
.You glance at the message, then the time. “Suspect tried to run from police,” you read aloud. “Climbed over a fence, fell from the top, ankle deformity. Neurovascularly intact per ED note.”
Park does not look up from the x-ray on the monitor. “Gravity remains undefeated.” “Poetic.” “Go reduce it if it needs reducing.” “You’re not coming?”
“For an ankle?” “You’re going to miss me.” “I’ll survive.” “You say that now, but who will bring charm to your day?”
“Garcia is back.” “Rude.” Yolanda, sitting at the workstation nearby, lifts her head. “Did somebody say my name?”
Park points at the door. “Both of you. Out. And try not to flirt with Whitaker for forty minutes.” “No promises!” You call out, before heading down stairs.
Ankle fracture-dislocation, probably. Maybe bimalleolar. Maybe trimalleolar. Fence fall could mean axial load, rotational injury, maybe talar dome injury if he landed badly. In custody means you will have police in the room, which always makes everything more annoying.
You check the board as you hit the ED.
Curtain Four. Adult male. Thirty-two. Tried to flee police, climbed a chain-link fence, and fell from top. Obvious ankle deformity. Pulses present. X-ray pending.
Dennis is across the department with Mel, both bent over a chart. He looks up like he always does when you enter a room now, that quiet awareness that still makes your stupid heart do stupid things.
You lift two fingers in a tiny wave. He smiles. You are still smiling when you pull back the curtain. Then the world stops. Not because of the patient.
The patient is lying on the stretcher in handcuffs, one wrist cuffed to the rail, face sweaty and jaw clenched, right ankle visibly deformed with swelling already pushing against his sock. The foot is externally rotated in a way that makes you wince internally.
That is not what stops you. It is the cop standing by the foot of the bed. Dark hair. Same jaw. Same arrogant tilt to his mouth that used to make you feel chosen until it started making you feel small.
Jake.
For one wild second, you think your brain has invented him. Because Jake is not supposed to be here. Jake is supposed to be back in the old life. The one you buried under medical school and residency and Frank’s overprotective hovering and Park’s grumbling mentorship and Dennis’s soft hands on your waist in the morning.
You knew he was a cop. You knew that.
You had heard through the grapevine, through some girl from college who still follows everyone on Instagram, that he went into law enforcement. You knew he had moved around. You knew he had married and divorced or almost married and cheated again depending on which version of the gossip was true.
But you did not know he transferred to Pittsburgh. You did not know he would walk into your hospital. You did not know you would be standing in front of him in scrubs with your badge clipped to your pocket and your heart suddenly trying to crawl out through your throat.
Jake turns when the curtain moves. His eyes land on you. Recognition hits him slowly. Then he smiles. Not warmly. Like he has found something that used to belong to him.
“Well,” he says. “June Langdon.” Your fingers tighten around the tablet.
The patient groans. “Can somebody fix my ankle, or are we doing reunions?” The other officer beside Jake, older and broader, gives the patient a warning look. “Quiet.”
You force your face into something professional. It feels like trying to suture with numb hands.
“I’m Dr. Langdon with Ortho,” you say, looking at the patient and not Jake. “I’m going to examine your ankle.” Jake lets out a low laugh. “Dr. Langdon. Look at that.”
Your jaw tightens. You ignore him.
The patient is sweaty, irritated, and in pain. His ankle is swollen, deformed, skin tenting slightly over the medial side but not open. You crouch beside the bed, careful not to touch until you have warned him.
“What’s your name?” The patient glares. “Mason.” “Okay, Mason. I’m going to check blood flow and nerve function in your foot before we do anything else.” “It hurts like hell.” “I know. I’ll be quick
You check dorsalis pedis and posterior tibial pulses. Present, thankfully. Cap refill brisk. Foot warm. Sensation intact in the superficial peroneal, deep peroneal, tibial, sural, and saphenous distributions as best as he can tolerate. He can wiggle toes, though he curses the whole time.
“Neurovascularly intact,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Jake shifts at the foot of the bed. “Still talking to yourself when you work.” Your stomach turns. You keep writing.
“How’d this happen?” The older officer answers. “He ran from a traffic stop. Climbed the fence behind an auto shop, got one leg over, slipped, landed wrong.” Mason snaps, “Allegedly.”
You look at him. “Your ankle is very allegedly broken.” Despite himself, Mason huffs. Jake laughs like you made the joke for him.
You did not.
You look at Jesse. “Can we get pain control on board if not already? IV fentanyl or morphine per ED, and I need post-reduction films after we reduce. Has x-ray been done?” “Just came back,” Jesse says.
You pull up the images on the workstation outside the curtain. Your breath catches for a reason that has nothing to do with Jake this time.
Bimalleolar fracture-dislocation, maybe posterior malleolus involvement too. Talus shifted. Needs reduction now. Not a sit-and-wait ankle.
Frank appears beside you before you call him. Of course he does. He must have seen the consult pop up on the board.
“What do you have?” he asks. His voice is normal. Then he sees Jake through the gap in the curtain.
Frank goes completely still. It is subtle. Anyone else might miss it. You do not. Your older brother’s shoulders square. His jaw flexes once. His eyes go colder than you have seen them in months.
Jake sees him too. His smile widens. “Frank,” Jake says. “Long time.” Frank stares at him.
For one terrifying second, you think your brother might actually forget he is at work and launch himself across Curtain Four. Then Frank inhales slowly. “Officer,” he says.
Not Jake. Officer.
The single most professional insult he can manage. You step closer to Frank, lowering your voice. “Don’t.” “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?” “The felony face.” Frank’s eyes do not leave Jake. “I have many faces.
“Frank.” Finally, he looks at you. His expression changes immediately.
Protective. Worried. Big brother.
“Are you okay?”
You hate that question. You hate that the answer is no. You hate that Jake is here, standing in your ED like a ghost from your past with a badge, smiling like he has any right to say your name.
“I’m working,” you say. Frank’s mouth tightens. That is not an answer, and both of you know it.
He lowers his voice. “Park can take the consult.” “No.” “June.” “No,” you say again. “I can do my job.”
Frank studies you for a second longer.
Then he nods, even though every cell in him clearly hates it.
“I’ll stay nearby.” “That’s worse.” “Too bad.” You roll your eyes, but it steadies you.
A little.
You return to the room. Jake is still watching you. You focus on the patient.
“Mason, your ankle is fractured and dislocated,” you explain. “That means the joint is not lined up correctly. Right now you have blood flow and nerve function to the foot, which is good, but we need to reduce it, meaning put it back in better alignment, to protect the skin, blood flow, and nerves. This will also help with pain.”
Mason swallows. “Surgery?”
“Very likely, but not this second unless something changes. First we reduce, splint, get repeat x-rays, and admit you for operative fixation when appropriate.”
He looks at the cuffs. “Can these come off?” The older officer says, “One wrist stays secured.”
You glance at him. “For reduction, I need access and positioning. He is in custody, but he is also my patient. We can work with one arm secured if needed, but I need enough mobility to safely sedate and reduce him.”
Jake says, “He ran once.” You look at him for the first time directly. It is a mistake. His eyes are exactly the same.
Your body remembers before your brain can stop it. Dorm rooms. Fights in parking lots. The smell of his cologne on someone else’s sweatshirt. Him telling you that you were never around anyway. Him making his cheating sound like a scheduling issue.
Your voice stays level. “He has a fractured-dislocated ankle. He is not running anywhere.” Jake smirks. “You’d be surprised what desperate people do.”
The words land wrong. Too familiar. You turn away before he can see it hit.
Robby handles sedation because, mercifully, the ED is busy but not too busy for this. Dennis appears at the edge of the room with supplies, and the moment his eyes land on you, his expression shifts.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just alert. He notices Frank hovering. He notices Jake.
He notices that your shoulders are too tight and your voice is too clipped and you have not once looked toward him even though normally, by now, you would have made some joke just to see him smile.
Dennis says nothing. He just comes to the bedside. “You ready?” he asks you quietly. You nod. “Yeah.” “June.” You glance at him despite yourself. His eyes are gentle and grounding.
You inhale. “Yeah,” you say again, softer. “I’m ready.”
The reduction takes focus, and you are grateful for it.
Sedation on board. Patient monitored. Airway equipment ready. Time-out done. Pre-reduction neurovascular exam documented. You and Frank work together without needing much conversation because that is what years of being siblings and doctors around each other gives you.
You flex the knee to relax the gastrocnemius, apply longitudinal traction through the foot, correct the deformity, guide the talus back beneath the tibia. There is a palpable shift as the joint reduces.
Mason groans under sedation.
You hold alignment while Frank and the tech place the splint. Short leg with stirrup support. Molded carefully. Not too tight. Leave toes visible. Repeat neurovascular check.
Pulses still intact. Cap refill good. Toes are warm to the touch. You order post reduction films.
Work helps. Work is clean. Work has steps. Work has a sequence. Assess, reduce, splint, image, admit, operate.
Jake does not get to exist inside that sequence. Not until the reduction is done. Not until Mason is settled and the nurse is updating vitals and Frank steps out to check the films.
Not until Jake follows you into the hallway.
“June.” You keep walking. “June Bug.” You stop so fast your sneakers squeak against the floor.
Your whole body goes cold. That name does not belong in his mouth.
It belongs to Frank when he is worried.
It belongs to Abby and Yolanada when they’re teasing you.
It belongs to your parents, sometimes, in old voicemails you do not delete.
It belongs to Dennis when he applies soft sleepy kisses against your neck in the morning.
It does not belong to Jake.
You turn slowly. “Do not call me that.” Jake lifts both hands like you are being dramatic. “Relax. It’s just a name.” “No,” you say. “It isn’t.”
He looks you up and down, and you hate him for it. Hate that he does it like he still has the right to take inventory. “You look good,” he says.
You fold your arms. “You need to go back to your suspect.” “My partner’s with him.” “Then go help your partner.”
Jake takes a step closer. You do not step back. You refuse.
“So this is where you ended up,” he says. “Pittsburgh. Ortho. Still chasing a big respectable career.” Your throat tightens. “Knock it off,” you say quietly.
His brows lift. “What?” “You heard me. Knock it off and let me do my job.” He laughs under his breath. “It was always work with you.”
There it is. That old blade. Rusty now, maybe. But still sharp enough to find the scar. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
Jake tilts his head. “I bet you haven’t found someone to stay with you after all these years. Not if you haven’t changed.”
For a second, you cannot breathe.The hallway noise blurs. Your body knows how to take a hit from him even years later. That is the humiliating part. That some old, pathetic part of you still flinches when he reaches for the exact place he used to press until you apologized for bleeding.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Then warmth appears behind you.
Not sudden. Not forceful. Just there.
Dennis.
One arm slides around your waist, careful but certain. His palm settles against your stomach, anchoring you against him. His chest meets your back. His other hand brushes your hip before resting there.
Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek.
Soft. Public. Deliberate.
Your heart stutters
Dennis Whitaker, a man who blushes when you touch his hand near the nurses’ station, who treats workplace PDA like it is a sterile field violation, has just wrapped himself around you in the middle of the ED hallway.
His voice is calm when he speaks.
Warm, even.
“How’s the ankle consult going, baby?”
You can feel Jake go still. You can also feel Dennis’s heart beating steadily against your back. For one dangerous, glorious second, you nearly laugh. Because Dennis knows exactly what he is doing. And he hates that he is doing it.
You can tell from the way his thumb moves once against your scrub top. A tiny apology. A tiny question. Is this okay?
You place your hand over his. Yes. Then you look at Jake. His face has changed.
Only a little. But enough.
Good.
You lean back into Dennis just slightly, not because you need to prove anything, but because you can. “Post-reduction films pending,” you say, voice steadier now. “Likely bimalleolar fracture-dislocation, possible posterior malleolus involvement. He’ll need admission and operative fixation.”
Dennis hums like this is normal. Like he regularly wanders up behind you to ask about fracture patterns while kissing your cheek. “Neurovascularly intact?” “Before and after reduction.”
“Good.” His lips brush near your temple, and this time his voice dips just for you. “You okay?” That almost breaks you. Not because you are fragile. Because he asks like the answer matters more than the performance.
You squeeze his hand once. “Getting there.”
Jake’s jaw tightens. “Oh,” he says. “So you did find someone.”
Dennis smiles politely. It is not a friendly smile. It is midwestern nice sharpened into something that could be cut.
Dennis does not offer his hand because one of them is still resting at your waist. Iconic, honestly.
Frank appears at the end of the hall, and the second he sees Dennis wrapped around you, his eyebrows shoot up.
Then he sees Jake’s face. Frank’s expression shifts into something deeply satisfied. “Oh,” Frank says. “Good.” You point at him. “No.”
He lifts both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” “You said good.”
“I support healthy relationships.” “You threatened to drive into a river three weeks ago because Dennis slept over.” Dennis mutters, “Still recovering from that, actually.”
Frank ignores him and looks at Jake. “Officer, your suspect is asking for you.” Jake does not move. Frank’s voice hardens. “Now.”
It is still professional. Barely.
Jake looks between the three of you, and you can see him trying to find a weak spot. Something to smirk at. Something to use.
He finds nothing. Not because you are untouchable. You are not.
Your hands are still cold. Your throat still hurts. Your skin still remembers. But you are not alone in the hallway with him anymore.
Maybe that is the thing Jake never understood. You were never hard to love. He was just bad at it.
Jake gives you one last look. “Good seeing you, June.” You hold his stare. “Can’t say the same.”
Frank makes a tiny choking sound that might be pride. Dennis’s hand tightens at your waist.
Jake walks away.
For a moment, nobody speaks.
Then Frank looks at Dennis. “Baby?” Dennis closes his eyes. You immediately start laughing. Not because it is funny. Because the adrenaline needs somewhere to go, and apparently it chooses hysterics.
Dennis’s face turns pink. “I panicked.” “You panicked and called me baby in front of my ex?” “I was aiming for casual.” “That was your casual?” “I don’t do this often.”
Frank crosses his arms. “No, no. I loved it. Horrifying. But effective.” Dennis looks pained. “Please don’t.” Frank grins. “How’s the ankle consult going, baby?” “Frank,” you gasp.
Dennis drops his forehead briefly to your shoulder. “I deserve this.” You reach up and pat his cheek. “You kind of do.”
He lifts his head, eyes softening when he sees your smile. “Was it okay?” he asks quietly. “Touching you like that?”
Your laughter fades into something warmer.
The hallway is still busy around you. Nurses passing. Monitors beeping. A transport bed rattling by. Somewhere, someone is calling for respiratory.
But Dennis is looking at you like the whole world can wait. “Yeah,” you say. “It was okay.” Frank pretends to study the tablet in his hands, but you know he is listening. Dennis nods.
Then, because he is Dennis, he starts to pull his hands away now that the moment has passed. You catch his wrist. He pauses.
You do not look at Frank. You do not look down the hall where Jake disappeared. You do not look anywhere except at Dennis.
“Stay for a second.” His face changes. “Okay,” he says. So he does.
Frank clears his throat roughly. “I’m going to check the films,” he says. “And not commit assault on a police officer.” “Personal growth,” you say.
He points at you without turning around. “Do not make me regret it.”
Dennis tugs you into the nearest stairwell, away from all the eyes pretending not to stare.
He lets the door fall shut, then stands two steps below you so you are almost eye level. “June,” he says softly. You laugh once, but there is no humor in it.
“Well. That was humiliating.” His face tightens. “No.” “I love a workplace confrontation with my cheating ex-boyfriend in front of my brother, my boyfriend, my boyfriend’s best friend, multiple residents, nurses, and possibly a psych patient who thinks his socks were stolen.”
Dennis’s mouth twitches despite himself. “They were stolen,” he says. You stare at him. He shrugs. “He kept throwing them at people, so we took them.”
A sound escapes you. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
Dennis hears both. His expression softens.
“Can I come closer?” he asks. That nearly breaks you more than anything Jake said. You nod.
Dennis steps up carefully and wraps his arms around you. You fold immediately. Face in his chest. Hands gripping his scrub top. The hallway is cold against your back and Dennis is warm everywhere else.
His arms tighten. “I know that too.” You close your eyes. “I hate that you heard that.” Dennis is quiet for a second. Then he says, “I hate that he hurt you.”
Something inside you cracks. Not in a bad way. In a tired way. In a final way.
“He said it was because I was never there,” you say, voice muffled. “Because I was always working. Always studying. Always trying to get somewhere. He made it sound like I abandoned him by not giving up parts of myself.”
Dennis’s hand moves slowly over your back. “You didn’t.” “I know that.” “Do you?” You breathe in. Then out. “I’m trying to.”
Dennis pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are steady. Sad, but steady.
“I love how hard you work,” he says. Your throat tightens. “I love that you care too much and stay too late and fight with Park because you think the plan could be better. I love that you bring stickers for kids and coffee for people who don’t ask. I love that you are ambitious. I love that you are impossible to move when you know you’re right.”
You blink fast. “Dennis.” “I’m not done.”
You press your lips together.
He cups your face gently. “You don’t have to shrink with me,” he says. “Not your career. Not your anger. Not your weird orthopedic shark thing with Park. Not any of it.”
A tear slips down your cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb. “And for the record,” he says, voice softer, “I am very happy to stay.”
You hate him. You love him. You are absolutely going to marry him someday if he keeps saying things like that, which is horrifying and not something you are prepared to examine in a hospital stairwell.
So you say, “You kissed me in front of my ex.” Dennis winces. “Yeah.” “And my brother.” “Also yeah.” “And Dana.”
“I am aware.” “And Trinity. Dennis sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You look up at him. “Don’t be.” His eyes open.
“I’m not property,” you say. “No.” “And I didn’t need you to save me.” “I know.”
“But…” You swallow. “It helped. Having you there.” His face softens. “You looked like you couldn’t breathe,” he says. “And he looked like he liked that.”
The words land hard because they are true. Dennis’s jaw flexes.
“I didn’t do it because I thought you belonged to me,” he says. “I did it because he needed to know you are loved now. Loudly. Even if it was wildly unprofessional.” You let out a watery laugh. “Wildly.”
“Robby’s going to say something.” “Dana will say something first.” “Frank might kill me.”
“No.” You lean your forehead against his chest again. “Frank is probably deciding whether to adopt you or murder you.” “Comforting.”
The stairwell door opens again. Frank sticks his head in. “Neither,” he says.
You lift your head. “Were you listening?” Frank steps in fully. “No.” Dennis gives him a look. Frank sighs. “A little.” “Frank.” “What? You’re my sister. Also, these stairwells echo like hell.”
You wipe your face. “I’m fine.” Frank’s expression says he does not believe you but is choosing not to fight in front of Dennis. Progress.
He looks at Dennis. Dennis looks back. For one long second, neither says anything. Then Frank says, “That was stupid.” Dennis nods. “Yeah.”
“And unprofessional.” “I know.” “And unfortunately kind of perfect.”
Your mouth falls open. Frank points at him. “Do not make me regret saying that.” “I won’t.” “I mean it. I still know where you sleep.” “Frank,” you snap.
He looks at you. “What? He sleeps at your apartment half the time. Unfortunately, I have keys.” Dennis chokes. You cover your face. “I’m going to transfer hospitals.”
“No, you’re not,” Frank says. Then his face changes, softening in that older-brother way that makes you feel small and safe and furious all at once. “Bug.”
You look at him through your fingers. “I’m proud of you,” he says. Your eyes sting again. “Don’t.” “You stood up to him.” “I really didn’t.” “You did,” Frank said, “You showed him you are doing fine without him.”
You laugh. Frank steps closer and pulls you out of Dennis’s arms and into his own. Dennis lets you go immediately. Your brother hugs you hard.
“I hated him,” Frank says into your hair. “I hated him then. I hate him now. But I’m really glad you know it wasn’t your fault.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yeah,” you whisper.
Frank kisses the top of your head in a way he has done since you were little. Then he lets go and clears his throat like he did not just experience an emotion.
“Okay,” he says. “Great. Horrible. We are done. Back to work before Park senses weakness.” The door opens again. Park appears. All three of you stare.
Park looks unimpressed and his eyes move to you. “Orca,” he says. You groan. “Not now.” He ignores that. “You good?”
“I’m fine.” His eyes narrow. “I’m not fine,” you amend. “But I’m functional.”
“Better.” Park looks at Dennis. Then Frank. Then back to you. “Callahan?”
You freeze. Of course he knows. Frank probably texted him. Or Yolanda did. Or Park simply absorbed the information from the walls like he was hunting for it like a shark looking for its next meal.
“My ex,” you say. “The stupid one?” Dennis makes a strangled sound. Frank says, “Yes.” You look at Park. “You knew about Jake?” Park shrugs. “Garcia talks.” “I’m going to kill her.” “She included diagrams.” “Oh my God.” Park folds his arms. “Do I need to make sure he falls down some stairs?”
For a second, nobody speaks. Then you laugh. You laugh so hard you have to lean into Dennis again. Park looks pleased with himself in the smallest possible way.
Frank points at him. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said.” “It wasn’t nice.” “It was an attempted homicide as emotional support. For you, that’s nice.”
Park considers this. “Fine.” Dennis’s hand finds yours. You let him take it. Park looks at your joined hands, then at the stairwell ceiling like he is asking for patience. “Disgusting,” he says. “Get back to work.”
“Yes, Parkie.” His eyes sharpen. “Do not.” You smile for real this time.
When you return to the ED, Jake is at the far end of the hall with his partner, no longer leaning like he owns the place. The suspect’s post-reduction films are up. The ankle alignment looks better. Still operative, likely unstable bimalleolar or trimalleolar pattern depending on final reads, but no longer threatening the skin.
You review the images with Frank and document the plan.
Admission if custody allows and OR timing permits. Elevation. Ice. Strict neurovascular checks. Non-weight bearing. Pain control. NPO after midnight if going to the OR the next day. If discharged to custody before surgery, clear return precautions for increasing pain, numbness, discoloration, swelling, or splint issues, but honestly you hate the idea and say so.
Jake does not interrupt you again.
Not once. When you finish, you turn to the two officers.
“His ankle is reduced and splinted. He will need operative fixation. ED will coordinate disposition with custody and ortho. He needs elevation and monitoring. If he has increased pain, numbness, tingling, cool toes, blue discoloration, or the splint feels too tight, he needs immediate reassessment.”
Jake’s partner nods. “Got it.” Jake looks like he wants to say something. You raise an eyebrow.
He does not. Good boy.
Yolanda appears beside you as you walk away. “I give Dennis eight out of ten for execution,” she says. You sigh. “Please don’t.” “Points deducted because Robby saw and now there may be a professionalism conversation.” “Yolanda.”
“Points added back because Jake looked like someone unplugged his ego.” You bite the inside of your cheek. She links her arm through yours. “And for what it’s worth,” she says more quietly, “you looked hot not giving into him to fuel his tiny man complex.”
You snort. “That’s your emotional support?” “Yes. And later we can slash his tires.” “No.” “Fine. Spiritually slash his tires.” “Acceptable.”
At the end of your shift, Dennis waits for you by the ambulance bay.
He has your bag over one shoulder. You stop in front of him. “I can carry my own bag.” “I know.” “You don’t have to wait for me.”
“I know.” “You’re very annoying when you’re being sweet.” “I know.”
For a second, you just stand there.
The ED moves around you. Staff leaving. Staff arriving. Ambulance doors opening. Someone was laughing too loudly near the bay. The automatic doors sliding apart and closing again.
Life continues. Even after Jake. Even after the thing you once thought would crack you open.
You are still here. You are still whole.
Dennis reaches out, then hesitates. You step into him first. His arm comes around your shoulders immediately, warm and steady, and you press your cheek against his chest because you can.
Because you want to. Because for once, you do not feel like you have to earn the right to be held. “You okay to come over?” he asks quietly.
You tilt your head back. “Are you asking because you want to watch me emotionally process or because you want to make out with me?”
Dennis’s ears turn pink. You smile. “There she is,” he murmurs. You poke his stomach. “Answer the question.”
“I want to make you dinner,” he says. “And maybe sit on the couch. And if you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you don’t, we won’t.” “And the making out?” His blush deepens. “I mean, I’m not opposed.” You grin. “How brave.”
You look up at him. The softness hits you again. Less scary this time. Or maybe you are just getting used to it.
“You really want me over?” you ask, quieter.
Dennis’s expression changes. Like he hears the question underneath. Like he understands you are not asking about tonight. Not really.
He bends and kisses your forehead, public enough that Trinity wolf-whistles from somewhere near the desk.
“Yes,” he says. “I really want you over.” Your throat tightens. “Even though it always work with me?” you ask, trying for lightness and almost making it.
Dennis does not smile. He takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “Especially because it’s work with you,” he says. “That’s part of you. I’m not trying to love around it.”
The word hits you in the chest. Love.
Not said like a question. Not said like a trap. Just there. Steady and certain and terrifyingly kind.
You stare at him for a second too long. Dennis’s face softens with concern. “June?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you have thought about it before. Of course you have.
You have thought it in his apartment when he makes you toast after bad shifts. You have thought it when Penny falls asleep against his chest and Tanner insists Dennis is now part of the family because he knows how to do dinosaur voices. You have thought it when he drives your car with one hand on the wheel and one hand resting open on the console in case you want to hold it.
You have thought it in on-call rooms and stairwells and quiet mornings. You have thought it every time he lets you be sharp without flinching. Every time he stays. Every time he looks at you like your ambition is not something he has to survive, but something he gets to admire.
And maybe Jake walking into your hospital should have made you feel like the same girl he left behind. But it doesn’t. Because you are not her anymore.
You are loved now.
The realization lands all at once, not as a thought but as a feeling. It rushes through you so fast it steals the air from your lungs. Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your chest aches with it.
Loved when you are exhausted. Loved when you are difficult. Loved when you are scared enough to hide it behind sarcasm and schedules and twelve-hour shifts. Loved by a man standing in front of you with your bag on his shoulder and absolute certainty in his eyes.
Loudly. Carefully. By someone who does not ask you to be easier. Your fingers tighten around Dennis’s.
“I love you,” you say.
The words leave you in a breath, trembling and irreversible. Dennis goes completely still. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes the whole world seem to hold its breath with him.
The ED keeps moving behind you, but for one second, all you see is Dennis.
His eyes are searching yours. His mouth parted slightly. His hand still wrapped around yours like he forgot how to let go.
You can actually see the moment it reaches him.
Shock. Hope. Something so raw it makes your own heart twist.
You laugh nervously, suddenly horrified by your own timing. “That was probably a lot for the ambulance bay.” Dennis blinks. Then his face breaks open. Soft. Stunned. Beautiful.
“June,” he says, and your name sounds different in his mouth now. Like something he has been keeping safe.
“You don’t have to say it back right now,” you add quickly, because panic apparently has excellent reflexes. “I mean, obviously, say it eventually if you feel it. Or don’t. No, actually, please do eventually if you—”
“I love you too.” You stop. Everything inside you seems to seize.
Dennis steps closer, your bag sliding down his shoulder.
His eyes shine.
“I love you,” he says again, clearer this time, like he needs you to hear every word. “I’ve loved you. I just didn’t want to scare you.” For a second, you can only stare at him.
The noise of the ambulance bay fades into a distant blur.
Your skin feels too tight. Your heart feels too big. “Oh.” It is all you can manage.
Dennis smiles, and there is relief in it, affection, months of restraint finally giving way. His eyes are suspiciously bright. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Oh.”
Your vision blurs.
A laugh escapes you, shaky and breathless and dangerously close to a sob. Because he loves you. He loves you. The truth of it crashes through every old hurt, every doubt Jake left behind, every fear that you would always be too much or not enough.
Dennis loves you. You grab the front of his jacket with both hands and tug him down. Then you kiss him. Properly.
The second his mouth meets yours, something inside you settles.
His free hand comes up to your jaw. You can feel him smiling against your lips before the kiss deepens, warm and real and impossibly familiar.
Right there in the ambulance bay.
You smile into the kiss. For once, you do not care who sees.
Because Jake can transfer to Pittsburgh. He can walk into your ED. He can say your name like it still belongs to him.
But it doesn’t.
It belongs to you.
Author's note:I am so, so sorry that it has been three weeks since the last update. I really hope you can forgive me. As an apology, I somehow ended up writing an almost 7.5k word chapter because I felt awful for disappearing for a bit. Life has just been a lot lately, and I really needed a small break, but I promise I haven’t forgotten about June, Dennis, or any of you. If you’re still here, thank you. Truly. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and June finally realizing just how easy she is to love. She deserves that so much, and Dennis being the one to help her see it makes me so emotional. Thank you again for being patient with me and for understanding that I needed a little time. I love you all, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait. 🐞
Trope: Enemies to Lovers (Mostly enemies on Trinity’s side)
Warnings: workplace romance, enemies to lovers, trinity not knowing how to handle feelings, bisexual reader, denial is a river in egypt, sunshine!readerxblackcloud!Trinity, mentions of self harm, slow burn
Trinity Santos has a problem Actually, she has several problems. Chronic sleep deprivation. A caffeine addiction. An unhealthy tendency to push people away before they can leave first. And then there’s Y/N. The emergency physician assistant who somehow gets along with everyone, mostly works nights, and has become the one person Trinity can’t stop noticing. Unfortunately, Trinity’s solution to having a crush is acting like she can’t stand her. Y/N, meanwhile, is convinced Trinity genuinely hates her.
Nina’s Pitt Masterlist
💋ྀིྀི Chief Complaint
💋ྀིྀི Differential Diagnosis
💋ྀིྀི Under Observation
💋ྀིྀི Known Side Effects
💋ྀིྀི Abnormal Findings
💋ྀིྀི Complications Arise
💋ྀིྀི Critical Condition
💋ྀིྀི Treatment Plan
💋ྀིྀི Discharge Instructions
Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.
Summory: Reader is a surgery resident, specializing in orthopedics. Who just happens to be Frank Langdon's little sister who he calls June Bug. Dennis Whitaker seems to take a liking to his senior resident's little sister.
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