Hurricane Season — Brendon Park x f!Reader
Summary: You attend the CMU/PTMC research gala without Brendon. You have a terrible time. Brendon predictably takes issue with this.
WC: 5,993
Warnings: side character harassing reader
A/N: there’s so many tropes and cliches in this I’m sorry the muse does what she wants; direct follow up to Shark Bait/a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); sorry this took forever to put out, I got a sewing machine, and the hyperfixation really fixated
Masterlist
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“Lose the boob tape. A good nip slip will liven things up.”
You fight a smile and continue to secure the neckline of your dress into place.
“Seriously, I’m sure some of those old bats haven’t seen a nipple since the nineties. You’d be doing them a favor.”
This time you laugh out loud.
You’re in the bathroom getting ready for the research gala. Your phone is propped up on the vanity, and Chelsea has been offering increasingly ridiculous commentary over the past half hour. She’s grading papers on her couch at home, working her way through the bottle of wine and the bar of chocolate next to her.
“I think I should probably graduate before flashing the faculty,” you grin.
“Nonsense, flashing them will probably help you graduate. You look hot, babe.”
“You think?”
Doing your hair and makeup is a rare occurrence for you, and you’ve been fighting your eyeliner for what feels like forever. You’re only thirty percent sure your hair is going to hold all night, and you’ve already given up on lipstick in favor of some clear lip balm.
“Smash, next question.”
You know she’s obligated under the laws of friendship to hype you up, but it still makes you feel better. You smile. She’s an associate professor in gender and women’s studies at Chatham, and you listen happily to her chatter about her students while you finish getting ready. When you finally step back and show her the completed look, she lets out a low whistle.
“Damn, babes. You sure you don’t want a date to this? I’m happy to volunteer, since the stick in the mud isn’t coming.”
You don’t even have a chance to answer before Brendon calls from the bedroom-
“I can hear you, you fucking harpy.”
Far from looking embarrassed at being caught, Chelsea looks delighted.
“Oh, hey dipstick.”
He doesn’t respond, and you smile fondly.
“Be nice,” you tell Chelsea.
“But he’s so fun to annoy.”
You kind of agree. But you can’t tell her that, or she’ll double down on the antics, and then Brendon really might commit murder. So you give her your best stern face, which predictably does nothing, and resign yourself to a lifetime of playing referee.
“Alright,” you say. “I have to get going, but I’ll tell you about it later?”
“What do you mean later. Text me during. I want the running commentary.”
You agree with a laugh and hang up. You double-check that the Uber is going to get here in ten minutes, then put your phone in your clutch. You’re not planning on drinking much tonight, but you’re a lightweight, so better safe than sorry. Ready, you take one last glance in the mirror.
You’re wearing a jade and gold fit-and-flare gown with a square neckline and delicate straps. The fabric is close to a brocade and reminds you of your grandma’s ancient floral couch — you’d seen it in the store and loved it immediately. Your jewelry is simple, just a delicate gold bracelet and some small gold hoops, and your clutch isn’t an exact match, but close enough.
Brendon is sitting in the armchair by the window when you walk into the bedroom. He’s flipping through some notes on his tablet, but he looks up when you walk in. You smile hesitantly at him. He’s never seen you in anything but work clothes or casual wear, and you’re admittedly nervous for his opinion.
He looks you over slowly, starting from the tendrils of hair framing your face, down the length of your body. The same anxiety you felt while waiting to hear if you passed your qualifying exams takes root in your belly.
“Y/n,” he says quietly.
“Mm hmm?”
He puts the tablet aside and stands before slowly walking over to you. He pauses just out of reach.
“You’re beautiful.”
Oh.
It’s not that no one has called you beautiful before. Your parents do, and there was the one time your younger brother said it, even if you were pretty sure he was being sarcastic. Chelsea does on occasion, though she’s more likely to say you look hot or ten-out-of-ten-would-fuck. But there’s something about it coming from Brendon that makes you feel like you’ve never heard the word before.
He says it like a truth, like a promise. He says it with the same certainty he says reduction is still sitting four millimeters short or I’m seeing twelve degrees of posterior angulation on the lateral. Like it’s an immutable fact and not an opinion.
So of course you clam up and give him an awkward smile in response.
“Um, thank you?”
His lips quirk, and he closes the rest of the distance between you two. His arms slide around your waist, and he drops a light kiss on your cheek, careful of your makeup.
“We’ll work on it. You’ll learn to like compliments eventually.”
“Why? You like them enough for the both of us.”
His lips curl further at your jab.
“That’s my girl.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The gala is exactly the same as it was last year and the year before that.
The hospital and university rent the same ballroom in the same hotel, and the same faculty give the same speeches. Dr. Nayar is a fan of tradition, and you don’t think things have changed in the two decades he’s been in charge of the program. You are giving a presentation this year, but the fifteen minute lightning talk is only a blip in the otherwise monotonous evening.
It’s not that you’re having a bad time. You’re the only computer engineering student, but Fritz and Harris from biomed are here, along with a few people you know from clinical psych. You’ve had plenty of people to talk to, dinner was actually pretty good, and your talk had gone exceptionally well. It’s just…you miss Brendon. You miss his stupid smirk and his stupid glare and his stupid life-altering comments said in his stupid matter-of-fact voice.
You haven’t been able to stop thinking about his not-a-marriage-proposal since yesterday. There’s no law against dropping lines like that on a random Saturday with absolutely no follow up, but there should be. Diabolical is what Chelsea had called it. So now you’re trapped in a conversation with Dr. Polt about the merits of factor versus principal components analysis while your mind is stuck in an old house in Squirrel Hill.
“-why you wouldn’t want the latent constructs.”
Dr. Polt pauses, and you realize he’s expecting you to say something.
“I completely agree.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but thankfully it seems like the correct answer. Polt nods vigorously and launches off on a tangent about structural equation modeling. It’s at least ten minutes later before you’re able to extract yourself with the excuse of talking to your advisor. Dr. Kavis isn’t even here. Polt is a little too inebriated to either notice or care, and he waves you off before setting upon another poor, unsuspecting student.
You’re walking back to your table, wondering if it’s too early to leave, when it happens. First, you spot Everett Edwards. You saw him earlier in the night but had promptly bolted in the other direction. You plan on doing the same now, but when you turn, you catch sight of Jeremy Hayes. For a brief second, you consider faking a heart attack. Then you remember that you’re in a room filled with medical doctors and nix the idea. Your acting isn’t that good.
Both of them have caught sight of you by now, and you feel like you’re facing down death by drowning or burning at the stake. A desperate glance around tells you that no, Brendon has not magically appeared in the last five seconds to ward off unwanted suitors with his death glare, and you panic-choose the lesser of two evils.
“Hey, doc,” Everett grins when you turn to face him.
He might be a persistent charmer, but at least he’s always been respectful. Jeremy gives you the ick. He’s a bit too forward, a bit too comfortable entering your personal space. Since the time he brought you coffee when Brendon was in your office, he’s visited PTMC twice more to see you and has sought you out at every departmental function. He’s clearly trying to do the same now, but he pauses when he sees you with Edwards.
“Hi Dr. Edwards,” you say, hoping your smile looks genuine and not alarmed.
He looks fantastic, you’ll give him that. He’s wearing a classic black tuxedo, tailored perfectly for his athletic frame. His hair is slicked back except for one raven curl on his forehead — Chelsea would call it slutty, you call it artful — and a simple but elegant watch sits on his wrist. He looks like the heir to some old money fortune.
“Looking beautiful as always,” he says. “I saw your talk earlier, it was excellent. I’d be interested to discuss the applications for emergent vascular operations in trauma cases.”
You spot Jeremy out of the corner of your eye, still making his way over.
“I would love to,” you blurt. “Is now a good time? Can we drop by the bar first? I need some water.”
He looks bemused if not a little taken aback, but he covers it up quickly and offers you his arm. You only hesitate for a second before taking it, and you let him lead you across the ballroom.
The official part of the night is over, but the room is still packed. There’s few things academics like more than getting drunk with other academics. In fact, you’re pretty sure that’s the clinical psych chair doing shots with her grad students in the corner, and Dr. Nayar and his fourth glass of wine are holding court at one of huge round banquet tables.
“Is that Nayar?” Everett asks, following your gaze.
“You know him?”
“Of course. He’s been director for twenty yea- just how old do you think I am?”
You blanch and take a sudden, pointed interest in the ugly blue and gold carpeting. Brendon is a good bit older than you and has been an attending for only a few years. You just figured if Everett was head of a sub department, he must be older than that. He also went to CMU for undergrad not grad school, so he would have been there even earlier. But maybe not? Maybe you just deeply offended one of Brendon’s coworkers. A coworker you can’t escape, because he’s your escape from Hayes.
“Um, not very old? You, uh, you look great?”
A brief pause before you chance a peek over at him, and you wilt in relief when you see the smirk on his face.
“Well, I’ll take the compliments where I can get them.”
You nearly choke on air.
“Are you serious? You want me to believe that you are short on compliments?”
He answers with a rakish grin that could make a nun faint.
The two of you reach the bar, which is packed. You catch sight of a few people you know also waiting for drinks, and you wave hello at them while ignoring the way they stare at whose arm you’re on. To be fair, it’s not just them. Everyone is staring at Everett. It makes for an awkward wait, and you’re relieved when you finally get your drinks and head to a quieter part of the room.
“So,” he says as you walk. “Do you think we’ve lost him yet?”
“What?”
“The guy you’re using me to avoid.”
You do choke this time and spend the next thirty seconds coughing yourself to death. Several people turn to look at you, only some of them with concern, and you flush harder from the scrutiny than from the lack of oxygen to your brain. That and the fact that Everett is looking at you with wry amusement written all over his face. You can’t even deny it. You lost all plausibility along with your dignity when you started hacking up a lung.
“I-“
You cough some more and briefly hope that you just die from hypoxia on the spot.
“I wasn’t-, he-“
“Relax, doc. No offense taken.”
You cast him a disbelieving look since you still can’t talk properly, and his lips twitch.
“Okay, maybe some offense taken.”
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt when you regain your voice. “I wasn’t-, I’m sorry.”
“I’m guessing we don’t like him?”
“No-, not really? He’s a post-doc, and he’s weird. Not that being a post-doc is weird, just that he is and happens to be weird-, I’m really sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about the model, because I do. I really do like you and I don’t want you to think I was just using you even though I maybe was a little I’m really really sorry.”
You say all of that without taking a breath. He doesn’t answer right away, and you force yourself to down a giant gulp of water, so you can’t word-vomit anymore. Everett watches it all with a quirked brow and the expression of someone who knows they have the upper hand and is trying to decide how benevolent to be with it.
“Is he a problem?”
The same words Brendon asked so many months ago.
“I don’t think so? Um, he just follows me places sometimes? Wait, that sounds creepy, he just uh…is bad at leaving me alone.”
He looks unimpressed, but he nods.
“Well I guess I’m okay with being used to escape weird stalkers.”
“Stalker is a strong word,” you say weakly.
A pause then, and you’ve never had to work so hard not to fidget or start saying random things to fill the silence in your life. To make matters worse, you’ve moved far enough away from the main crowd that there’s not even enough people around to be adequately distracting. It’s just you, Everett, and the most uncomfortable stare down you’ve ever experienced.
“Well,” he says, just before you start vibrating out of your skin. “I guess that answers my question.”
“Huh?”
“I was going to ask you out, but I’m guessing I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Oh! I, um…”
That was not at all the direction you thought things were heading — the evening is quickly getting away from you. You scramble for something to say, but all you can hear is Brendon in your ear saying tell him to fuck off. You flush.
“I-, no thank you?”
Another pause, and then he laughs. Full-bellied, head thrown back, genuine laughter.
“This is the weirdest and most polite way I’ve been turned down in my life.”
“I’m s-“
“Please god do not apologize to me.”
“Sorry.”
He shakes his head and laughs again.
“I’ll take that as my cue to bow out with my remaining dignity. You going to be okay with your stalker running around?”
You nod.
“Yes. Thank you. And sor-“
He makes a distressed noise.
“Seriously, please stop apologizing.”
“I-, okay. Does this mean we…”
You trail off, unsure of how to ask, but he thankfully seems to understand anyways.
“I’m a big boy, doc, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Relieved, you agree and then watch as he turns and walks away. You stare after him for a while, trying to process whatever it is that just happened, before heading in the opposite direction.
The two of you had wandered to the far side of the ballroom while you talked, and the bar is clear on the other side of the room. There’s basically no one over here, which is actually kind of nice, especially when you slip down the hall to the bathroom and find it empty. Your people-meter has been filled for at least the next two business days.
Once inside the bathroom, you stand at the sink to run your wrists under cold water and look at your reflection in the gilded mirror. Your hair has held up surprisingly well, but your makeup is slightly smudged from you forgetting you’re wearing it and touching your face. A quick blot with a paper towel fixes the worst of it, but you’re eager to wash it off completely.
You check your phone as you leave the bathroom, ordering an Uber. The event is scheduled for another hour and will likely continue for another hour beyond that, but you want to go home. Your talk is done, you schmoozed an appropriate amount with donors, and you spoke to all the important faculty members. No one is going to be upset if you leave.
Somewhere over the last few weeks, home became wherever Brendon is, and you text him that you’ll be back soon. Three dots appear almost immediately to signal that he’s responding, and you’re so busy looking at your screen as you step into the hallway, that you don’t see who’s waiting for you until it’s too late.
“Is that your new boyfriend?”
You jump and nearly fumble your phone. Jeremy is standing in the otherwise-empty corridor. He’s dressed sharply in a dove-grey suit, though he’s loosened his tie, and his sandy hair looks like he’s run his hand through it a few times. He’s holding a generous glass of whiskey in his left hand, and he takes a slow sip while he looks at you.
“Oh, Jeremy, hi. Um, is who what?”
“Found yourself another doctor — the last one wasn’t enough?”
He must be referring to Everett, but it takes a second for you to realize he’s also talking about Brendon. The two of them met once, months ago, and even calling it a meeting was generous. Brendon had never introduced himself; he’d just silently glared Jeremy into submission. But Jeremy clearly remembers it, and he doesn’t look happy. In fact, he looks kind of angry and kind of drunk, and you shift uncomfortably.
“Dr. Edwards isn’t my boyfriend,” you tell him.
“Just your meal ticket then?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Weslier Fellowship.”
Well now you’re confused on top of being uncomfortable. The Weslier fellowship is awarded to one graduating doctoral student and one post-doc at CMU every year — it provides funds for the first year of independent research as well as a pretty generous living stipend. You’d applied months ago, but you haven’t heard anything yet. Honestly, you’re not expecting to. There are hundreds if not thousands of applicants across the entire university, and you only really applied because Dr. Kavis told you to.
“I heard Nayar talking the other day— apparently some people at PTMC are pushing for you to get the Weslier. Seems like you’ve got some fans there.”
You shake your head.
“I don’t know anything about that. And I definitely haven’t asked anyone at PTMC to put in a word for me.”
He sneers, and it’s so malicious looking that you take a physical step back. This is not the Jeremy you’re used to. He’s usually incredibly friendly, edging into flirty, and he’s all about smiling and being overly-helpful. Right now though, he’s glaring at you with a mixture of resentment and agitation.
“So you just happen to be fucking two attending surgeons for no reason, right?”
Your jaw drops.
“Who-, what are you-, excuse me?”
There’s nothing going on with Edwards, and there’s no chance he actually knows anything about you and Brendon. Besides, he technically ranks above you in the departmental hierarchy, and there’s no way he should be talking to you like this. The alcohol is probably to blame, but still.
“That’s completely inappropriate, Jeremy.”
“You know what’s inappropriate? Leading me on for months and then changing your mind once you realized you could sleep your way to the top.”
You open and close your mouth several times like a landed fish. You’re not the most self-aware person out there, but you’re five thousand percent sure you haven’t been leading him on. It’s also never crossed your mind to sleep your way into the fellowship. In fact, you and Brendon have made it a point to actively prevent your relationship from affecting your career.
“That’s a serious and unfounded accusation.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Then stand somewhere else! This is ridiculous. I’m going to-“
He takes a sudden step towards you, and you back up instinctually. You regret the move immediately when his lip curls, and he presses forward again until your back is hitting the wall behind you.
“You need to stop,” you say, pleased when your voice doesn’t shake.
You’re deeply aware of the fact that you’re the only two people in this hallway. Sure, someone would hear if you screamed, but no one is actively paying attention to the two of you. And while Jeremy isn’t anywhere near as physically intimidating as Brendon, he’s still a good bit bigger and taller than you.
“Listen,” he says, close enough now you can smell the expensive whiskey he’s been drinking on his breath. “I won’t tell Nayar what you’ve been doing, but that means you owe me.”
“What-, you can’t-, I haven’t done anything.”
Which, okay, isn’t technically true, because he’s technically right that you’re sleeping with an attending surgeon. But not in the way he’s implying.
“It’s an easy choice, Y/n. Risk the ethics committee, or owe me a tiny favor. I don’t-“
“Is there a problem here?”
Both of you turn at the same time, and you nearly faint in relief at the sight of Everett standing at the end of the hall. He’s just as sharp and beautiful as he was ten minutes ago, but gone are the charming smile and laughing eyes. Now his golden gaze is sharp, and that perfect cupid’s bow is curled in disdain. He looks more like a Bond villain than a socialite.
“Fuck off,” Jeremy spits.
If he looked angry before, he looks furious now. Whether it’s from being interrupted or being interrupted by this specific person, you don’t know.
“Y/n, come here,” Everett says, ignoring him completely.
You’ve never jumped to obey a man who has no authority over you so quickly. But before you can take more than a step, Jeremy grabs your arm and yanks you to a stop. You startle so bad you drop your phone.
“We’re not done,” he bites out.
Fear hits you for the first time all evening. As a woman in a heavily male industry, you’re more than used to men trying to intimidate you. You’ve been talked down to, ignored, shouted at, and everything in between. It barely phases you anymore. But this is the first time anyone has physically put their hands on you, and your heart starts racing in your chest.
“Let go of me, Jeremy.”
You yank on your arm to no avail. All it does is make him tighten his grip until you wince.
“Jeremy.”
“I said we’re not done. Tell your boyfriend to-“
“Let’s make things very clear.”
Everett takes several steps towards the two of you, voice pleasant and expression deadly.
“You are a post-doc with a history of harassment, who is currently drunk and physically assaulting a student. I am an attending surgeon and head of vascular surgery at one of the best trauma hospitals on the east coast. If you don’t let go of her, I will be the one you deal with. And trust me, you don’t have the credibility, the status, or the money to win against me.”
Jeremy’s face goes apoplectic, and his grip tightens until you’re pretty sure he’s cutting off your circulation. Then he and Everett have a silent, very testosterone-y staring contest, during which you do your best not to move or breathe too loud. It lasts forever. You’re starting to lose feeling in your hand when Jeremy finally scoffs and releases you. He shoves you away hard enough you stumble.
“We’ll talk about this later, Y/n.”
“No, I-“
He throws his drink at you.
He empties his very full glass of whiskey all over the front of your dress, spits an expletive at you, and storms away. You stand there staring after him like an idiot.
“Well that was unpleasant.”
Everett speaks from right behind you, and you jump about a foot into the air. Your heart rate, which is still sky high from Jeremy, kicks up even further, and you feel like you’re well on your way to heart attack you considered faking earlier in the night.
“Whoa, easy doc.”
You turn to see him holding his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry,” you manage.
“No need to apologize. Are you alright?”
Your immediate instinct is to say yes. To smooth everything over and act like that didn’t shake you as badly as it did. That would be a complete lie though, and you settle on something slightly more truthful.
“I’ll be okay,” you say with a hopefully convincing smile.
You even kind of believe it, too. Right up until you look down and see your phone lying on the ground with a shattered screen.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. Phones break all the time. But right now, with whiskey dripping down your neck and chest, with the ghost of Jeremy’s grip lingering on your wrist, it feels like the end of the world. You have to fight to keep your lower lip steady while you bend down pick it up, and you nearly lose the fight when you slice your finger on a shard of glass.
“Shit, let me see that.”
Everett reaches for your hand, and you flinch. You don’t mean to, and you feel terrible when you see the stricken look on his face.
“I’m sor-“
“If you apologize, I’m going to feel worse.”
Your mouth snaps shut. The two of you just look at each other for a minute — you trying not to cry, and him clearly trying not to make you cry.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he eventually asks.
“I took an Uber.”
Which reminds you of the ride you definitely just missed, and which you can’t rebook now courtesy of your shattered phone screen. He must arrive at the same conclusion, because he says-
“Can I drive you home then?”
You hesitate.
You have a few of options. First, you could ask to borrow his phone and either call Chelsea — who lives clear across town — or another Uber. You could also accept his offer, but you don’t know if you want to get in a car with someone you don’t actually know that well. Sure, he rescued you from Jeremy, but you’re not feeling particularly generous towards the male species right now. What you really want is for Brendon to come get you, but you know that’s not possible. That leaves the last option.
“Um, could I borrow your phone? I’m just going to call B-, my boyfriend.”
Your apartment is within the hospital’s twenty-minute on call radius; you’ll call Brendon and tell him to meet you there after you get back. It’s roundabout, but there’s no way you’re going to ask Everett to drop you off at Brendon’s house. The last thing you need right now is for someone to have proof the two of you are together. Also, this way someone knows you’re getting into Everett’s car in case he turns out to be crazy.
The plan is foolproof. There’s also no possible way this evening can get any worse. You are incorrect on both fronts.
Everett hands over his phone no problem. He hovers close, clearly wanting to help in some other way, but mindful not to touch you again. You don’t mind too much as you focus on dialing Brendon. That is, you don’t mind the closeness right up until his phone recognizes the number, and a big fat “Calling Brendon Park (PTMC)”pops up on the screen.
You take a hurried step back, but a glance at Everett tells you it’s too late. He definitely saw who you were calling, and his eyebrows just about hit his hairline. Your soul leaves your body. Why does he have Bren’s personal number? Brendon certainly doesn’t have his. How did he even get it? How-
“Park.”
You don’t know if the sound of Brendon’s voice coming from the speaker makes things better or worse. You do your best to pretend Everett doesn’t exist and raise the phone to your ear at the same time you back even further away.
“So funny story,” you start.
You can hear the tension enter his body. He’s probably in his office, going over case notes, and you can imagine the way he just straightened and shoved his files aside.
“Y/n?”
“Don’t be mad-“
“Too late, where’s your phone?”
Wincing, you go through an abbreviated version of the nights events, starting with running into Everett and ending with how you just accidentally outed your relationship to the same man. Brendon listens silently while you talk. He makes no noise, doesn’t even change his breathing, but you just know he’s glaring at the wall like he can set it on fire.
“What do you need?” he asks when you finish.
The question catches you off guard. Maybe it’s just hearing his voice, maybe it’s him knowing that you needed him to be gentle even if you didn’t say so. Whatever it is, you make an embarrassing sound and bite your lip hard to keep from crying.
“I d-don’t know,” you whisper. “I just want to come home.”
Another silence, this one weighted. You hear him inhale sharply and then nothing for what feels like forever.
“Bren?”
“Give the phone to Edwards.”
“What?”
“It’ll be okay, imp. Just give him the phone.”
His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it hurts.
“Okay.”
You turn to face Everett, who has been studiously examining the ceiling, and hold out the phone. He takes it like it’s a bomb and raises it slowly to his ear.
“Edwards.”
You can hear the low murmur of Brendon’s voice, but you can’t make out anything he’s saying. You just stand there awkwardly while Everett also stands awkwardly and listens to Brendon. It doesn’t last long though, and it’s only a minute or so later when Everett hands the phone back.
“Bren?”
“Edwards will bring you home.”
“But what about-“
“He already knows, and it makes things simpler. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”
He says it with such certainty that you have to laugh. It’s strained and slightly hysterical, but it’s still a laugh.
“Did you threaten him?”
“Not much.”
Another laugh, this one a little more real. You feel slightly better as you hang up and give Everett his phone back.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “For everything.”
He smiles, and you think it might be the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.
“You’re welcome, doc. Now let’s get you home before your very-platonic-absolutely-not-your-boyfriend friend kills me.”
The two of you find a side exit, and your shoulders crumple in relief. The thought of walking back through the ballroom and having people stare at you makes your skin crawl. Leaving through this door means you have to walk a bit further to get back to the parking lot, but you don’t mind. It’s a relief to breathe fresh air and feel the breeze. You follow dutifully as Everett leads you to a sleek, black Mercedes, but hesitate when he opens the door for you.
“I don’t want to ruin your seats,” you tell him, gesturing at your whiskey-soaked dress.
“They’ve been through worse, trust me.”
You have no idea what he could mean and decide you don’t want to know before getting in.
The ride to Brendon’s is quiet. Your normal need to fill silences has been squished by exhaustion, and he seems content to leave you be. Brendon must have given him the address. It’s maybe fifteen minutes later when you turn onto a familiar tree-lined street, and then you’re pulling into the driveway.
The garage is open, and Brendon is standing there waiting. His arms are crossed, his jaw is set, and his eyes are burning a hole through the windshield. He looks ten kinds of pissed off and half a step from murder.
You’re out of the car before it’s fully in park.
All the adrenaline and fear and discomfort from the last hour breaks open at the sight of him, and you throw yourself into his arms hard enough that he grunts at the impact. Neither of you care about your dress. His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he drops his chin to rest on top of your head. He’s warm and solid, his heart beats strong and steady under your ear, and he smells like home. You finally start crying.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
You give a watery laugh.
“You’re being nice.”
“I’ll call you an idiot tomorrow to make up for it.”
There’s no heat in the words, and you relax even further into him. Vaguely, you’re aware of Everett getting out of the car and coming up behind you, but you don’t have the energy or the dignity to move. As far as you’re concerned, you’re going to stay here forever. Especially when one of Brendon’s hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and you basically start purring.
“Edwards.”
“Park.”
You don’t need to see to know they’re having some sort of masculine staring contest. You mumble be nice into Brendon’s chest, and he heaves an annoyed sigh.
“Fine. Thank you.”
“Not like you gave me much of a choice,” Everett replies, but he sounds amused.
You turn your head just enough to be heard and say-
“Thank you, again.”
“For my favorite doctor? Anytime.”
His voice is teasing, not flirty, but Brendon still makes a disgusted noise.
“Thank you rescinded. Now fuck off.”
You sigh and fight a smile, and Everett chuckles under his breath behind you.
“Right, fucking off. See you guys tomorrow.”
You should probably do a better job of expressing your gratitude for everything he’s done tonight, especially since Brendon’s clearly not going to do it, but you’re too tired. You’ll just bring him coffee tomorrow or something. Right now, the only thing you care about is getting out of this dress, getting clean, and then curling up in Brendon’s arms for the rest of the night.
“Come on,” he says once Everett pulls out of the drive way.
He slips an arm around your shoulders and guides you into the house. You feel yourself fully relax for the first time all night. Your sweater is hanging in the mudroom, you can see your laptop on the coffee table along with his tablet in the den, and the familiar sound of classical floats through the air. Home.
Brendon’s words from yesterday run through your head — I’m all in — and a wave of emotion hits you. They overwhelmed you yesterday, made you worry and overthink. But right now, with your wrist starting to bruise and your hair falling apart and tears drying on your cheeks, they settle differently. They feel right.
“Bren?”
“Yeah?”
He’s bent down to help you with your heels, and he undoes the delicate straps with the same focused precision he uses in the operating room. Your heart squeezes. This giant, grumpy, sharp-tongued surgeon is on his knees without prompting, shirt front damp with whiskey from your dress and brows furrowed in concentration while he removes your shoes.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Your not-a-proposal-yet.”
He looks up then, and you feel like you could drown in the blue of his eyes. You’ve never meant anything more in your life.
“Yes.”
