the first time you fall asleep on brendon park, it’s… a surprise. mostly just to brendon.
and maybe it shouldn’t have been. because the relationship was going well—well enough that you were both able to fully acknowledge it as a relationship.
there weren’t any weird feelings. anything that needed to be discussed at this point had already been brought up in some form.
he didn’t have any reason to question your feelings about him; especially when curl against him so easily while watching a show together. his heavy arm slings across your shoulders and you explain little nuisances that come with having already watched twelve seasons.
the next thing he knows, your weight is dead against him, your head against his chest like a sleeping kitten. it takes him several heartbeats until brendon cranes his neck to see that, yes, you seem to be soundly asleep.
it shouldn’t have surprised him. shouldn’t have made the space in his chest cavity feel so much. and yet.
he’s not stupid, he knows his reputation among the emergency department of his work. a shark. brutal, and cold, and blood-thirsty. and he doesn’t mind it—because he knows that what they can’t call him is unfocused. unsuccessful. unskilled.
he knows that the nickname doesn’t - shouldn’t - carry weight outside of those four walls.
still, when he looks down for a second time, sees the soft flutter of lashes against your face and the squish of your cheek against him—he wonders. has it been so long since he’s touched something soft? since he’s existed outside of sutures and setting bone?
he doesn’t move, other than to absently rub the muscles of your upper back. nothing else for forty-five minutes, until the end music of your show finally stirs you first.
