your boyfriend happens to overhear some workplace gossip
allusions to smut, santos teases reader, break room shenanigans,
...
the beginning of a shift is equally bleary as it is chaotic. a fucked up juxtaposition full of the ill and injured. you and dennis walk in side by side, both grimacing at the abundance of people in chairs.
"well good morning." you mutter under your breath, eliciting a tired laugh from your fiancé. you stand in front of the door to reception, waving hello to ahmad.
when you reach the lockers, your head is already reeling from all the noise. you're a little exhausted today. embarrassingly so. you're addled with genuinely core-aching embarrassment at the fucking sex hangover that is plaguing you at work.
dennis seems to notice something is off. after he shrugs his jacket off and fixes his badge, and places his big hand on the small of your back. "you alright?" he says softly, drawing you closer. he pulls you into his side, kissing the top of your ear. he toys with your ponytail, his grip moving to wrap firmly around your waist.
"den, we're gonna be late getting out there." you try to shrug him off, flustered. he doesn't let go.
"it's 6:45, relax," he chuckles, kissing your head, then bending to kiss behind your ear. as much as you want to, you don't indulge him- shimmying out of his grasp, much to his dismay. dennis shoots you a cocky smirk, seeing how flustered you are.
"haven't you had your fix?" you scold, straightening out your scrubs. your eyes bare into him, and he can't help but let out a laugh.
"of you? never." he says.
"you are ballsy, this morning, whitaker." your tone is exasperated, though endearment is plastered all over your face. before your flirting can take another turn, trinity is rounding the corner, her eyes darting between the two of you. whitaker's smirk, your obvious expression- she rolls her eyes and groans.
"you two are disgusting."
...
shift change is smooth for once- and many patients just needed some antibiotics or a quick splint, some stitches and the sort. you're blessed that there's enough of a lull to sit down with your coffee a bit into the morning.
bitterness costs your tongue, unmasked by any sugar or cream. you felt like it was appropriate for your mood- and it felt more effective for caffine consumption, in a way (even though you know it's not). javadi plops down beside you, stirring her own cup.
"praying this keeps up." she smiles, taking a long breath. you agree, mirroring her. trin walks in next, dramatically sighing and grabbing her red bull from the fridge.
"so how's our sleeping beauty today?" she asks, sliding into the chair beside vic.
"who, me?" you point to yourself. trin just smiles behind her can.
"looks like you and huckleberry stayed up a little too late, huh?" there's a distinct tone in her voice, paired with a wink. your jaw hangs open and your eyes go wide.
"trinity!"
victoria laughs heartily at your reaction.
"we- how- what?!" you gawk. it's far too early for her antics.
she rolls her eyes like it's obvious- you hope it isn't. "you're all cranky, so that means you're tired, and huckleberry already got pissed on and had to take his undershirt off. are you sure you aren't like.. a vampire or something?"
"trin.i.ty."
an embarrassed laugh erupts from your body, unbridled and loud. this has got to be a social experiment, a bit for tv or something. and to think, you were so embarrassed just thinking about it at work, and now trinity's blabbing about it like it's small talk. victoria's hand is glued over to her mouth to mask her laugh, but her shoulders shake and it's just so obvious.
"trinity you're disgusting!" you sneer through your laughs, voice a sharp whisper.
"me? i'm not the one boning huckleberry." she says poignantly. the banter has started now, even at this (supposedly) tired hour. vic watches in amusement as you and trinity back and forth like kids.
"well at least he's my age" you jest, a grin spreading on your face.
"more years, more training, what can i say?" vic crinkles her nose at that comment. "it looks like you've got to pull all the sleds with huckleberry anyways." trin pulls the collar of her shirt down humorously.
"that's just for fun, trust me- farmboy fucks."
after you say that trin is covering her mouth with a mischievous glint in her eye, and vic is near tears with how much she's laughed. their gaze is on the door, where your very meek and alarmed boyfriend stands with a brown bag, pink to the tips of his ears. your own hand goes to cover your mouth, embarrassed at having been caught.
"i have your lunch. 'was gonna put it away." dennis explains, stepping into the break room. there's a tension in the air that isn't aided by the purple bruises that make themselves visible when dennis moves a certain way.
"oh! thank you denny." he's incredibly red now.
"denny? is that what you call him in bed? or do we go with dr whitaker??"
Having a thing for dilfs and NOT having a daddy kink is like the fanfiction equivalent of being gluten intolerant. Gotta read through the tags like a fucking allergen list.
summary - you've been part of the pitt family for years, so why don't they know who put that rock on your finger?
a/n - made reader a social worker because it's more realistic if she's meant to be wearing her ring around. love this, love emery, love u <3 i feel like i kinda rushed through the set up of their love story but i didn’t want to say too much in case i came back with the whole thing 👀 we’ll see we’ll see! also confirmed rabbot 🫡 if i’m ever writing for someone other than those two you can assume they’re together off screen, i fucking love that ship.
---
As a social worker at the pitt, you were desperately in demand and chronically underpaid and undersupported. Even with all the years of experience now under your belt, the praise from your coworkers and hospital administration alike, and your hard won comfort in your position, you still had lingering school debt. You still lived in a crappy small apartment. Still found yourself the only social worker on shift more often than not, being stretched thin fit to snap, constantly being pulled in a million different directions.
But you loved what you did. You loved working with people, and problem solving. Looking at the system, acknowledging its overwhelming faults, but not succumbing to the weight. You were good at finding loopholes and work-arounds to get your patients out of tight spots. Every time you succeeded in getting a child out of a bad home, a woman out of trafficking, or a family’s hospital bill covered, all your problems seemed so insignificant, worth it.
Your friends and coworkers made it more bearable, too. Kiara was your rock, Lupe was always a kind, understanding presence. It was easier to connect with your fellow non-medical workers, because they too felt the pressure of the job without adequate compensation. The nurses, too. You could bond together in the face of day to day mistreatment. You were sneered at, looked down upon, underestimated, all while keeping the whole system running and getting paid jack.
You weren’t there so you could have your names published or buy a boat, or a vacation home, or be publicly praised. You put up with being ignored and shoved aside and overworked because you were dedicated to your jobs.
Doctors were another story. And surgeons? They were the worst.
It took you a bit longer to accept the doctors into your good graces, but you learned how to weed out the respectful ones as opposed to the ones who would look down their noses at you.
Dr. Robby, however snappy and short-tempered, always made sure to thank you for your work, and treat you the same as his fellows. Sometimes that meant yelling, but hey, at least it was equal treatment across the board.
Dr. Abbot, of course, one of your favorites. He won your trust right off the bat with his slow smiles and ability to stay calm in tense situations. He praised the social workers beyond a doubt, and you could always count on him for a ride home, or a shoulder to cry on, even.
Samira? No competition. You often told her she’d have excelled as a social worker, with her once in a lifetime empathy, her heightened sense for the socioemotional aspects of her job. You’d reprimanded Robby more than once for being harsh with her.
So, you weren’t too picky. After all, you were a people person. If you were to be seeing the same people almost every day, you’d make an effort to try and get on with them. That, and, despite all the ugliness you had seen in your job and out of it, you were still a firm believer that everyone has good qualities, even if it takes a little longer to see them in some than in others.
It took you quite awhile to see the good in Emery Walsh.
You had been working on the day shift almost exclusively for your entire multi year long career at PTMC, maybe picking up someone’s shift here and there, when you got the news that one of your coworkers was leaving and needed a replacement. It was only for a few months, you were assured, but still relatively long term. Social workers, to no one’s surprise, were in short supply, and Trish had had a family emergency and an abrupt departure.
You weren’t thrilled to be leaving your usual team, who at that point viewed you like family, and you right back, but you liked Jack, and you liked Lena, and you were nothing if not open to new experiences. So, you said your goodbyes, purchased some blackout blinds, and started the aggravating process of shifting your circadian rhythm.
It wasn’t easy, and you spent the first several weeks pounding espresso and running on thin patience. So it was no mystery why the generally sharp, sassy surgeon did not make a great first impression on you.
You found her acerbic, and cocky, much too sure of herself. This assessment was of course not helped by your sleep deprivation, nor her stubborn nature. Upon walking into the room, she didn’t even glance in your direction, speaking only to Dr. Abbot. You bristled, and pushed, and she pushed back. It was the beginning of a turbulent relationship.
You’d snipe at each other like school children whenever in contact. You’d go out of your way to request any surgery consultant but her, and she’d act awful lofty when you were around, using advanced language she knew you wouldn’t understand.
But as time went on, tensions were heightened by one inescapable fact; she was one of the hottest people you’d ever laid eyes on.
It took months, and several strong drinks, for you to admit that. Turned out, she felt quite the same. And so began a secret love affair.
By the time you were meant to return to the day shift, one of your biggest annoyances had become one of your greatest sources of joy.
You were proven right in your convictions that everybody had good. It was a long and slow process to break down those walls, to reach the person behind them.
Some days, you would cry and fight, and your mission to reach her felt less steady, and more like trying to find the end of a rainbow. Was it there? Were you wasting your time?
No, decidedly, you weren’t. You came to know Emery Walsh like no one had before, in the sheets, at home, even at work. You could look at her, and where before you only saw an arrogant surgeon, annoying but typical, now you could see the dedication, and curiosity, the desire to learn, and the desire to help.
It was beautiful to see in action, and you were reluctant to leave. You remembered confessing your hesitation to Emery, a week before the new hire started. You sat on her counter in your underwear, sipping the tea she had made you.
“The night shift is horrible,” Emery insisted. “We get all the weirdos. Our sleep’s fucked up. It has no sunlight, no steadiness, no anything. It has sleep deprivation and bad coffee.”
You set down your mug and grabbed her face, pulling her in between your dangling legs.
“Yeah, it does,” you said, twirling the baby hairs at the base of her neck. “But it also has you. When am I supposed to see you if I go back to the day shift?”
She looked at you then, really looked at you, deep into your eyes, and smiled. She placed her skilled hands against your waist.
“Well, if you moved in with me,” she said, “we can see a whole lot of each other.”
It took three iterations of the same proposal for you to believe she wasn’t joking. Once you did, you jumped off the counter, clinging to her like a koala as you squealed. After six long months together, a blip, really, but a lifetime to you, you moved in together.
It was no question whose apartment it would be. Emery was a surgeon, with a surgeon’s salary, and she lived like one. Her apartment had huge windows, good plumbing, and no mold. It had plenty of space for your things. You didn’t have too many, a fact Emery was only too quick to fix.
By the time you celebrated your first anniversary, you had a small collection of designer bags in your closet, fresh nails every fortnight, and luxury perfumes lining your vanity. Your student debt dried up, your car stopped making that noise, and your fridge was stocked with the bougie yogurt you never allowed yourself.
All those years you spent worrying about money, and it turned out all you needed to do was fall in love with a surgeon.
You loved your girl, and she loved you, and you weren’t ashamed. When you first got together, it was too new to tell anyone. Then, it was fun keeping it a secret. Then you went back on opposite shifts, and there were hardly any clues to pick up on. Hardly anyone knew that you went home after a long day to a cushy apartment shared with an attending at their very hospital, played with a cat she got you, and slept in a bed that smelled like her. They never asked, and you never told.
Emery liked staying private, and you didn’t mind. With as little contact as the two of you had, during the day, it was easy.
You had to tell Kiara, of course, and Dana would have figured it out anyways. Abbot and Robby knew because they were higher ups, and it was hard to file with HR without them knowing. You went to work, you went home. Emery did the same. You didn’t talk about your out of work ventures, referred in passing to “my partner” but gave no further details. Your phone background was of Mitzy, your cat, innocuous enough. Nothing, at first glance, really tied you and Emery to each other.
At least, not for years. But now, you were looking down at your gorgeous, very large, very noticeable stone resting in place on the fourth finger of your left hand, and you realized the jig was up.
It was a pretty impulsive idea. You woke up the morning before, after a wonderful night spent celebrating your third anniversary, and the question just slipped out of your girlfriend’s mouth.
“Will you marry me?”
This time she proposed something hasty and wild, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t backtrack and take convincing. You smiled wide, and said, “yes.”
You’d never wanted a big wedding and neither did she. So, you went to the thrift store for a nice white gown with your mother that very afternoon, bought a grocery store cake with a congrats piped across the top that was surely meant for a graduate, and went to the courthouse. Your flowers came from the few vases you kept around the house. The photographer was Emery’s sister. It was chaotic, and sudden, and a little panicked, but it was perfect.
You’d said your I Dos in front of your parents, siblings, Dana, and Kiara, and had cheap cake out on the cement steps. You went to the bar you had your first date at, danced, drank, and celebrated. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.
A few days later, you took a trip to a jeweller. You picked out her ring, and she picked out yours. You’d laughed and cried, felt all the emotions, dreamed of what the future looked like for the two of you. Then reality hit.
“I don’t want to hide this,” you said, tangled up with Emery in bed, turning your hand from side to side.
“Me neither,” she said.
“So… what’s our gameplan?” you asked. “I mean, they’re gonna freak out. They don’t even know we’re dating.”
She fingered her own band, thinking. Then she grinned.
“Let them freak out,” she said. “Mine’ll be hidden, I can’t exactly have it on when I’m sticking my hands into people’s body cavities.”
“Right,” you said grumpily. “So I’m gonna get all the questions, and the badgering, and the attention, and no one’s gonna bug you at all. I have to take all of the heat?”
“I’m pretty sure it was in our vows,” she chuckled.
“Our vows said in sickness and in health,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re not sick. Unless you’ve been diagnosed with chicken-itis.”
“Ha, ha,” she drawled as you started making chicken noises in her face.
Really, it wasn’t a big deal, you tried to tell yourself as you got ready the next morning. They’d find out, they’d freak, and then they’d get over it. The question was whether or not to tell your friends exactly who your counterpart was in all this mess.
You’d only made the mistake of introducing a partner to them once. It wasn’t even serious, just a guy you’d met at the gym and brought along to drinks. After that night, they’d been insufferable. They made up nicknames, teased you about his clothes, his hair, his job. Even now, eons after your breakup, you’d still hear a jab about “how’s Walmart Bieber?" or “Is he still living with his mommy?”
So okay, yeah, he wasn’t the best choice of boyfriend, but he had helped you learn a very valuable lesson. Never introduce anyone you care about to the Pitt crew. They’d be able to drive off anyone. And sure, Emery wasn’t exactly a stranger to them, but that wouldn’t excuse her from receiving a barrage of insulting monikers and teasing about your relationship.
It wasn’t an experience you were eager to relieve.
As you walked into the ED, you got all your usual greetings. Lupe buzzed you in with a smile, Dana nodded. The only slightly unusual thing was the wink Kiara sent you as you set up in your office.
It wasn’t until you were filling out some paperwork for your first patient of the day, a single mother whose insurance wouldn’t cover a procedure for her son, that someone said something.
“I like your ring,” said Samira, handing you the pen you’d asked for. “Is it new, or…”
You saw the gears turning in her brain, trying to pull itself from work mode to friend mode. Then she gasped loudly and pointed, drawing several people’s attention. You grimaced.
“Is that an engagement ring?”
“Um…” was all you could force out. Your mind was suddenly blank.
“It is!” said Javadi, eyes wide as usual. “You’re engaged? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone!”
“Engaged?” said Whitaker, pulling up to the hub with Mel in tow. “Who’s engaged?”
Samira pointed to your ring again, and both dark blondes lit up.
“Congratulations!” said Mel, hurriedly freeing herself from her gown and gloves, and giving you a friendly hug.
“Damn, that’s a rock,” said Perlah, coming over and grabbing your hand.
“A rock?” snorted Princess. “That’s a fucking glacier.”
The two played tug of war with your hand, each trying to pull it closer for inspection, while Javadi was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Do you know when you’re gonna have the ceremony?” she asked. “I’ve always thought I’d like a spring wedding, but the rain is temperamental. I think you’d look amazing in fall colors, though, surrounded by the leaves, and everything! Of course, the color scheme has to be well thought out, too —”
“You know what you should do?” said Samira, snapping her fingers. “Get married in a library! Ugh, that’s my dream!”
“Yes, yes, the Boston Public Library is gorgeous!” piped in the new nurse, Emma. “Not insanely expensive if you keep it small, and not too far away from Pittsburgh, so like destination, but not inaccessible, you know?”
“Yeah, but why keep it small?” said Javadi. “Miss Popular over here, she’s gonna want to invite everyone and their neighbor.”
“Um —” you said again.
“Well you could still get married at the library then,” said Emma. “If you save. Or if your fiance is rich.”
“Yeah, is he?” said Princess. “What does he do?”
Quiet suddenly fell as the jabbering ceased and all eyes fell on you. You stammered a bit.
“My fiance?” you said. “My fiance… is a doctor.”
Why, why did you say that? Of all moments to tell the truth! If you thought they were all over you like before, it was nothing compared to now. Now that they knew there was a possibility they knew the person, seen them, even worked with them. It was like bees on honey, buzzing nonstop.
“Oh my god!”
“Does he work here?”
“Is it Park?”
“Ew, don’t say that!”
“What, he’s jacked!”
“It is not Park the shark!” you said, yanking your hand back.
“But it is someone at PTMC?” said Perlah.
You hesitated, just for a second, but it was a second too long.
“It is!” said Javadi with a gasp.
“This changes everything,” said Perlah, looking devilish.
Luckily, you were saved from another wave of questions by Robby.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said sharply. “I have a feeling it’s not related to your work. And unless it’s about labs, or x-rays, or differential diagnoses, gossip doesn’t save anyone’s life!”
“Fascist,” Princess muttered under her breath as she turned back to her tablet.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, chief!” she said, overly cheery, before turning and whispering something else to Perlah in Tagalog.
“This isn’t over!” said Javadi, as she skittered away.
As they all cleared out, Robby stepped up to you, a knowing glint in his eye.
“Thank you,” you said, picking up your pen and getting back to work.
“Sure,” he said. “And by the way, congratulations.”
You smiled back at him. He knew, of course, had been invited to the wedding, both he and Jack. When you called their apartment, however, it was to learn that Robby was working and Jack was attempting to sleep off a nasty cold.
“Thanks,” you said. “Sorry you couldn’t be there. But, you know, it took less than a day to put together. It was cheap, simple, easy, memorable.” You smirked at him. “Maybe one of these days you take that silver fox of yours and make it official, huh?”
He immediately turned tomato red, as he always did at any mention of feelings. He cleared his throat.
“Yeah, it’s really not appropriate to discuss these things at work,” he said, skirting away from your knowing eyes. “Don’t make me call HR!”
You just chuckled.
Later that night, you came home to a delicious smell and an open bottle of wine. Emery was swaying in the kitchen, humming along to your cooking playlist and stirring pasta on the stove. You dropped your things, kicked off your shoes, and joined her.
“How was work?” she asked as you wrapped your arms around her middle.
“Fine,” you said. “Vodka sauce?”
“The best in Pittsburgh,” she said, lifting the spoon and blowing on it. “Taste.”
You carefully grabbed the hot pasta with your teeth and hummed.
“Good.”
You wandered over to the wine. There were two glasses out but empty. You took the liberty of filling both and handing one to your wife. Your wife.
“Thanks, baby,” she said, taking a sip.
“Isn’t this kind of the equivalent of drinking at eight AM for you?” you said, nodding to the clock. “I mean, you just woke up.”
“Maybe, but I’m off today,” she said, grabbing bowls. “And I figured you could use it.”
“You would be right,” you sighed, bringing your legs up to your chest.
“They were bad, huh?”
“They were as you’d expect,” you waved away. “Actually, it made me kind of sad, more than anything.”
“How’s that?” said Emery, spooning pasta into the dishes and finishing with some basil leaves.
“Well, you should have seen how excited they got when they thought I was engaged,” you said. “They started picking out venues, and color schemes, and stuff. They really wanted to be involved.”
“What did they say when you told them you were already married?” she said, placing the hot plate in front of you.
“I didn’t have the heart to tell them,” you said. “I was thinking that maybe we could have a party? Like a big one, with outfits and dinner and a big cake, and everything.”
“Isn’t that the whole reason we got married at the court house?” said Emery. “Not dealing with all that?”
“Yeah, I guess,” you said, stabbing some rigatoni onto your fork. “It’s just — I really care about those people, you know? And I know they care about me, and I think they deserve the chance to celebrate with us. I know I’d want one if one of my friends had a secret wedding.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, rubbing your arm with her free hand. “Really. And it’s also sweet that this has nothing to do with the idea of a registry. Really selfless, babe.”
You shot her a look while she laughed.
“Why pass up the opportunity?”
It seemed your mom had been holding back her disappointment at your small, makeshift wedding to spare your feelings, because the second you mentioned the party idea to her, she was over the moon. You had to convince her not to go ahead and start booking without you and Emery.
It was certainly a lot. Even keeping it simple, in your brother’s backyard, with homemade decorations, it was complicated. You needed to decide on music, live or DJ? Food, catered or homemade? Cake flavors, dresses, itineraries, everything.
Finally, you had to put your foot down with your parents and inlaws. No caterers, no ceremony, no live band. A simple night with drinks and food, and maybe you’d allow some slideshows of embarrassing childhood photos.
You were more comfortable sharing the blow then, with a plan, the next time you walked into work. Immediately, though, you knew the news of your “engagement” had spread like wildfire. Most obviously by the hubbub around the betting board in the security office.
Spotting Robby in the mix with his wallet out, you made for him, less than thrilled. He tried to hide his cash behind his back when he saw you coming.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly. “I hope it’s not cheating.”
He glanced from the board, to Ahmad, to you. You turned to Ahmad.
“Don’t take any money from him, he already knows the answer,” you said, and Robby groaned. “Actually, don’t go anywhere near Abbot, Dana, or Kiara, either. They all know.”
While the other betters reprimanded Robby as though they wouldn’t have done the same thing, you examined the board.
There were a good few names up there, some eyebrow raisers. Devin from radiology, as if. Dr. Cruz from the nightshift; he was nice, but you thought his girlfriend might have a thing or two to say about it. Matteo, who was practically a child to you, in his early twenties. Ellis, the only woman, with just one vote from Santos. Then there was Abbot, which as you watched, gained five more bets from Ahmad’s hand.
Shocked though you were, you supposed his and Robby’s relationship wasn’t completely common knowledge.
“You said he knows,” said Princess. “Obviously he would know if he was the fiance.”
You shook your head with a smile, turning back to work.
“You people are incorrigible.”
Okay, maybe you’d wait a little longer, let them sit in it before you spread the word. Emery’s name wasn’t even mentioned. If you played your cards right, maybe you could convince Mel to cheat with you, and get a cut of the winnings. Your phone buzzed.
Tell them yet?
You smirked.
No. Let’s let them tear each other apart for a while first. We can laugh about it at the party.
Summary: By the first week of second year, living with Jack Abbot has become a routine. A deeply irritating routine. There’s shared coffee, shared walks to class, public denials of being together, academic one-upping, and the very inconvenient discovery that “separate lives” is getting harder to believe when he’s across the hall, asking for your help, and accepting the pasta you definitely did not make for him.
Warnings: academic rivals to lovers, roommates to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn, mutual denial, med school stress, light academic competitiveness, romantic tension, mild touch/proximity tension, domestic tension, food as care
Author's Note: Chapter three, my beloved!!! This one is very much about the mortifying ordeal of becoming routine with someone you swear you do not like. Jack and Reader are still very much in their “this is practical/logistical/not together/obviously” era, which means everyone around them is having a much better time than they are.
As always, thank you so much for reading, reblogging, commenting, and screaming with me about these two. I adore every single one of you. 🤍
Xoxo, Del
| Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 |
By the first week of second year, you and Jack Abbot had developed a routine.
You hated that.
It was not a friendly routine. It was not domestic. It was not sweet, comfortable, or charming in any way. It was survival. Two medical students, one bathroom, one kitchen, one coffee pot, and a shared commitment to not committing a felony before eight in the morning.
Jack showered first because he woke up earlier than any person with a soul should. You got the bathroom after, because he left it clean, the mirror wiped down, and the shower chair exactly where he needed it, which meant you had no reasonable thing to complain about.
You complained anyway.
Quietly.
To yourself.
Mostly.
By Thursday, the coffee had become communal in the least sentimental way possible. Jack made it because he was awake first. You drank it because you were not stupid. Neither of you acknowledged this as generosity. It was logistics. Survival. The roommate agreement had been very clear.
Coffee was survival.
Still, it meant that every morning, you walked into the kitchen and found enough coffee for two people.
That was irritating.
That morning, you were running exactly on time, which meant something was already wrong.
Your bag was on your shoulder, your notes were tucked under one arm, and your hair was still slightly damp because the bathroom had decided to trap steam like a personal insult. You were halfway through pulling your bedroom door shut when the door across the hall opened at the same time.
You stopped.
Jack stopped.
For one second, the two of you stood in the narrow hallway with your hands still on your doorknobs.
He had his bag slung over one shoulder, a notebook in one hand, and a travel mug in the other. His curls were still damp from the shower, darker at the ends and already falling into that unfairly boyish shape that made his face look softer than his personality had ever earned. His expression was already much too awake.
Absolutely not.
“No,” you said, your hand still wrapped around the doorknob.
Jack’s brow lifted. “No what?”
You pulled your door shut behind you. “No. I am not walking to class with you.”
Jack looked at you for a moment, then glanced toward the front door. “Fine. Stay here.”
You stared at him as he stepped past you into the hall.
“You are so irritating,” you said, following because unfortunately, class was still in the same direction.
Jack stopped at the apartment door and shifted his notebook under his arm so he could reach for the lock. “I hate to be the one to tell you this.”
“You don’t,” you said from a few feet behind him.
A small, cocky grin pulled at his mouth as he turned the deadbolt. “No. I don’t.”
You narrowed your eyes at the back of his head.
Jack pulled the door open. “But we have the same classes. At the same time. In the same building.”
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “That doesn’t mean we have to walk there together.”
“No,” Jack said, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “It means we’re both leaving now.”
You lifted your chin. “Against my will.”
Jack looked pointedly at the open front door. “Then don’t come.”
You stared at the hallway beyond him. “I have class.”
“So do I,” Jack said, annoyingly calm.
You took one step forward. “That is the problem.”
His grin appeared again, small and entirely too pleased. “I thought the problem was my company.”
You shifted your notes higher under your arm. “There can be two problems.”
Jack leaned one hand against the open door, his gaze steady on yours. “This will keep happening.”
You frowned. “What will?”
“This,” he said, gesturing once between you, the apartment, and the general direction of campus. “Us leaving at the same time.”
“I can leave earlier,” you said, stepping closer to the doorway.
Jack looked at you. “You’d have to get up earlier.”
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
You hated that he had found the flaw so quickly.
“I could,” you said, though even you could hear the lack of conviction.
Jack shifted the travel mug in his hand. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” you replied.
“You like sleep,” Jack said, his eyes flicking over your face.
You gripped your notebook tighter. “Everyone likes sleep.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “You like it more than you dislike walking to class with me.”
You stared at him, and the worst part was that he was probably right. Sleep was precious, and you were not prepared to lose it for the sake of avoiding a six-minute walk with Jack Abbot.
You had principles.
They had limits.
“You’re a jerk,” you said, because you had no better argument.
Jack’s grin sharpened. “And you’re a pain in my ass.”
You glared at him, but he only held your gaze with that infuriating calm, like the conclusion had already been reached and he was simply waiting for you to accept it.
“So,” Jack said, still holding the door open, “looks like we’re even.”
You glared harder.
Jack stepped into the hallway. “Lock the door.”
“Do not give me orders,” you said, following him out and reaching for the handle.
Jack looked at you, then the door. “You’re the last one out.”
You looked at him.
He looked back.
Again.
Right.
Constantly. Horrifically. Unnecessarily right.
You pulled the apartment door shut and locked it.
Jack waited while you dropped the key into your bag, which was worse than if he had just left.
“You don’t have to wait,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said, turning toward the stairs.
You followed him to the top step. “You could go.”
Jack nodded once. “I could.”
You adjusted the strap on your shoulder again. “And yet.”
Jack started down the stairs without looking back. “And yet.”
You followed him because there was literally no other way to leave the building.
Outside, the late-summer heat had already settled over the sidewalk, thick and bright and deeply committed to everyone’s suffering.
Jack walked beside you.
Not with you.
Beside you.
There was a difference.
You were very committed to the difference.
“You’re walking fast,” Jack said, his voice level beside you.
You kept your eyes ahead. “I’m walking normally.”
“You’re trying to get ahead of me,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag without breaking stride.
“I’m trying to get to class,” you said, stepping over a crack in the sidewalk.
Jack glanced down the street. “Class is in the same direction for both of us.”
“Unfortunately,” you said, tightening your grip on your travel mug.
He glanced at you, but you did not look at him.
The sidewalk stretched ahead, familiar now in a way you resented. Three blocks to campus. One left at the corner with the uneven curb. Past the coffee shop you could not afford to stop at every morning. Across from the building with the peeling green awning. Then the medical campus, all brick and glass and fluorescent lights waiting to ruin your day.
It should have been a normal walk.
It was a normal walk.
Except Jack was beside you, his travel mug in one hand, his bag over his shoulder, his stride easy enough that you were aware of it even while pretending not to be.
You adjusted your grip on your own mug and immediately regretted having one at all.
It was not matching.
It was similar.
Shared kitchen cabinets did not count as matching.
You walked the rest of the block in silence, which would have been better if the silence had not somehow started to feel like part of the routine too.
The thought was so irritating you walked faster.
Jack kept pace without trying.
Of course he did.
By the time you reached the lecture hall, you had almost convinced yourself the walk had been normal.
Not pleasant.
Not companionable.
Normal.
You were two people with the same class, the same start time, and the unfortunate inconvenience of the same front door.
That was all.
Jack reached the lecture hall first.
Barely.
Not enough to count as winning.
His hand closed around the metal handle, and he pulled the door open before you could reach for it yourself.
You stopped short, eyes moving from his hand to the open doorway. “I can get it.”
Jack looked at you for one second, then his expression cleared in the most irritating way possible. “Okay.”
He walked inside and let the door swing shut behind him.
You stared at the closed door.
Of course.
Of course he had done that.
You grabbed the handle and pulled it open with more force than necessary, already prepared to hate him on the other side.
The first thing you saw when you stepped inside was Jack standing just beyond the entryway, waiting.
Waiting.
Like an ass.
Your hand tightened around the door handle. “You are a child.”
Jack adjusted the strap of his bag, entirely too calm for someone who had just committed an act of technical compliance. “You said you could get it.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You moved past him toward the rows. “I hate you.”
Jack fell into step beside you. “That keeps coming up.”
You did not look at him, but you were painfully aware of him matching your pace anyway. His shoulder stayed just behind yours for half a step, then beside yours as you moved down the aisle. Your travel mug was warm in your hand.
You aimed for your usual section.
Not because Jack was walking beside you.
Because it was your section.
Obviously.
Evan looked up from his notes as you reached the row, his pen stilling halfway across the page. “Morning.”
Jack stopped beside you and gave him a nod. “Morning.”
You shifted your notes under your arm and gave Evan something that could generously be called a greeting. “Hey.”
Evan’s eyes moved from your face to Jack’s, then down to the travel mug in your hand. Then to the one in Jack’s. Then back to the space between you, which was apparently not enough space to save you. His brow furrowed.
You knew, immediately, that something terrible was about to happen.
Evan lowered his pen. “Wait. I didn’t know you two were together.”
“We’re not,” you and Jack said at the same time.
The silence that followed was immediate.
Horrifying.
A few seats over, Taylor slowly lifted her head from her notebook. You did not look at her, but you could feel her delight from across the aisle.
Evan blinked, his eyes moving between you and Jack. “Oh.”
You set your mug down harder than necessary and reached for your notebook. “We’re roommates.”
Jack slid into the seat beside yours and set his own travel mug near the edge of the desk. “Because my roommate moved out.”
“Because my sublet fell through,” you added quickly, pulling your notebook from your bag.
Jack opened his notebook with maddening calm. “It’s practical.”
You sat down and adjusted your bag beneath the desk. “It’s logistical.”
Jack glanced at you. “A rent thing.”
You looked back at him. “A lease thing.”
Evan’s eyebrows rose slightly. Taylor’s pen had stopped moving. You still did not look at her.
Evan leaned back in his seat. “Right.”
You flipped your notebook open to a blank page. “Exactly.”
Jack set his pen neatly beside his notes. “Not together.”
You nodded once, too sharply. “Correct.”
Jack’s answer came at the same time as yours. “Obviously.”
You turned your head toward him. He turned his head toward you. For one awful second, you were both looking at each other too directly.
Taylor made a small sound. Your eyes snapped to her. She had one hand pressed over her mouth and the other still curled around her pen, shoulders held very still like she was fighting for her life.
You pointed your pen at her. “Don’t.”
Taylor lowered her eyes to her notebook, but her shoulders shook once.
Evan glanced between you and Jack with the careful curiosity of someone who had stepped onto unstable ground and chosen, unfortunately, to stay there. “So… roommates?”
Jack picked up his pen. “Yes.”
You looked down at your notebook. “Unfortunately.”
Jack looked at you. You looked back at him.
“Logistically,” you added.
You stared down at the blank page in front of you and wrote the date with enough pressure to nearly tear through the paper.
Beside you, Jack was already writing. Calmly. Neatly.
Like the last thirty seconds had not happened. Like the two of you had not just denied being together in perfect unison.
Twice.
You stared at your notebook.
We’re not.
You had said it so quickly. So had he. That should have made you feel better.
It did not.
Before you could decide what to do with that, the side door opened and Dr. Harlan walked in with a stack of notes tucked under one arm.
The room shifted immediately. Chairs scraped, notebooks opened, and conversations dropped into whispers before stopping altogether as he set his papers on the podium and turned toward the board.
You faced forward so quickly your neck almost protested, and beside you, Jack did the same.
Beside you.
The thought landed half a second too late.
Your gaze dropped to the desk in front of you, where your notebook was already open and your pen was already in your hand. The date sat at the top of the page in your handwriting, written automatically while you were busy trying not to think about the fact that Jack Abbot was sitting close enough for you to see the neat slant of his handwriting on the page beside yours.
His notebook was open too, the date already written in that neat slant of his, his pen ready beside it and his travel mug set near the upper corner of the desk.
Two dates. Two pens. Two similar travel mugs. Two people sitting side by side in the first week of second year like that was a thing you had ever done before.
It wasn’t.
You and Jack did not sit together.
You sat near each other, sometimes. Across an aisle. One row apart. Close enough to hear each other answer questions, far enough that no one could call it anything but coincidence.
This was not across an aisle.
This was not one row apart.
This was beside.
Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful.
Beside you, Jack’s pen stopped moving.
Jack kept his eyes on the front of the room when he spoke, his voice low enough to stay between you. “You okay?”
You snapped your gaze to the board and tightened your fingers around your pen. “Fine.”
Jack’s attention stayed on you even though his face remained turned forward. “Convincing.”
You shifted in your seat and pointed your pen toward the front of the room. “Pay attention.”
Jack glanced at the blank board, then back to his notebook. “I am.”
You leaned a fraction closer, keeping your voice down. “To the lecture.”
Jack’s pen tapped once against the page. “There isn’t one yet.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him.
The corner of his mouth had curved, small and cocky and entirely too pleased.
You faced forward again before your expression could betray you. “I hate sitting here.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on the board as he answered. “You chose the row.”
You angled your notebook slightly away from him. “You followed me.”
Jack finally looked at you, that stupid grin still barely there. “We walked in together.”
Your head turned toward him before you could stop it.
Jack was already looking back at the board, but the grin remained.
At the front of the room, Dr. Harlan turned around and uncapped a marker. “All right. Let’s begin with cardiopulmonary integration.”
Good.
School.
You could do school.
School made sense. School had answers. School had diagrams and mechanisms and exams and measurable outcomes. School did not care about shared bathrooms or travel mugs or the fact that Jack Abbot was sitting beside you for the first time in your entire academic career.
Dr. Harlan wrote a pressure-volume loop on the board.
You straightened.
Finally.
Something normal.
Then Jack leaned slightly toward you, eyes still on the board. “Your date is wrong.”
You looked down.
It was.
Of course it was.
You had written yesterday’s date.
You turned your head slowly.
Jack did not look at you, but that faint, cocky curve was back at the corner of his mouth.
You crossed out the date with a hard line. “Don’t.”
Jack wrote another line in his notebook. “I didn’t say anything.”
You rewrote the date correctly, pressing harder than necessary. “You were about to.”
Jack’s voice stayed low as his pen moved across the page. “I was considering it.”
You kept your eyes on your notebook. “Consider less.”
Dr. Harlan tapped the marker against the board and turned toward the room. “Who can tell me what happens to stroke volume when afterload increases?”
Your hand moved before you could think.
So did Jack’s.
You both stopped with your hands halfway up.
A few seats away, Evan made a small choking sound and Taylor bent over her notebook.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
This was hell.
This was actually hell.
At the front of the room, Dr. Harlan looked between you and Jack with the resigned expression of a man who had already remembered what teaching your section was like.
He pointed toward you. “Go ahead.”
You lowered your hand and sat up straighter. “Stroke volume decreases, assuming contractility and preload remain constant.”
Beside you, Jack’s pen moved across his notebook.
You ignored it.
Dr. Harlan nodded. “And why?”
You kept your eyes on the board. “Because increased afterload means the ventricle has to generate greater pressure to eject blood, so less blood is ejected during systole.”
Dr. Harlan turned back to the pressure-volume loop. “Good. Mr. Abbot?”
Jack lowered his hand fully and leaned back slightly in his seat. “End-systolic volume increases.”
You looked at him.
Jack did not look at you.
Dr. Harlan nodded again. “Correct.”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “And if the system compensates, preload may increase on the next beat, which can partially preserve stroke volume through Frank-Starling.”
You hated that he was right.
You hated more that your brain immediately wanted to build on it.
Your pen tapped once against your notebook before you could stop yourself. “Unless contractility is impaired.”
Jack glanced at you then.
You kept your face forward.
Dr. Harlan looked back at you. “Go on.”
“If contractility is impaired,” you said, trying very hard not to notice Jack’s attention on the side of your face, “then the compensation is limited, and you see a more significant reduction in cardiac output.”
For one second, the lecture hall was quiet.
Then Dr. Harlan turned back to the board. “Exactly.”
You wrote the answer down even though you already knew it, mostly because your hand needed something to do that was not point at Jack’s face.
Beside you, Jack added a line to his notes.
His handwriting was perfectly neat.
Of course it was.
Taylor leaned slightly toward you, her eyes still on the front of the room. “That was cute.”
You did not turn your head. “I will end you.”
Taylor sat back, wisely silent, though you could still hear the smile she was trying to hide.
Jack’s pen paused beside you. You felt it. You did not look at him.
After a second, his pen moved again.
By the time Dr. Harlan dismissed the lecture, your hand ached from taking notes and your pride had sustained several small, unnecessary injuries.
The room came back to life around you in a wave of movement. Chairs scraped against the floor, notebooks snapped shut, and conversations rose all at once as people stood, stretched, and started gathering their things for the next class.
You packed your notebook into your bag with more force than the zipper deserved.
Beside you, Jack slid his pen into the spiral of his notebook and closed it with irritating precision.
Neither of you said anything.
That should have helped. It did not.
You stood at the same time.
You stepped left. Jack stepped right.
You stopped. So did he.
You looked up at him. He looked down at you.
You stepped right. Jack stepped left.
For one horrible second, the two of you stood there facing each other in the narrow space between desks, perfectly synchronized in your attempt to avoid being perfectly synchronized.
Jack’s jaw shifted once before he spoke, his voice low and flat. “Move.”
You lifted your chin and tightened your grip on your bag strap. “I am trying.”
Jack glanced toward the aisle, then back at you. “Try in a different direction.”
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “You try in a different direction.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, and before you could argue again, his hands settled gently on your shoulders.
Your entire body went still.
His touch was not rough.
Not even close.
Just firm enough to guide you one step to the side.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
Jack released you almost immediately, but the warmth of his palms stayed there beneath the fabric of your shirt, two careful points of contact your skin seemed determined to remember.
For half a second, you could not remember any words in any language.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your shoulders for the briefest moment, like he had realized at the exact same time you had that his hands had been there.
His jaw shifted again.
Then he stepped back. Too quickly to be casual. Not quickly enough for you to miss it.
“There,” Jack said, his voice maddeningly even as he stepped past you into the aisle. “Crisis averted.”
You stared at him.
Your shoulders still knew exactly where his hands had been.
A few seats away, Taylor’s eyes flicked once to your face, then away again.
Mercifully, she did not say anything.
Before you could decide whether you were grateful or suspicious, Evan leaned over from the row behind you with his notebook open and one page folded back.
“Abbot,” Evan said, holding the notebook toward Jack, “can I ask you about the preload thing?”
Jack’s eyes flicked to you for one second.
You hated that they did.
Then he looked away and reached for Evan’s notebook. “Yeah. Show me where you got stuck.”
Just like that, he was gone from the moment.
He was still three feet away, still close enough that you could hear the lower register of his voice as he leaned over Evan’s notes and started explaining the diagram from lecture, but his attention had shifted.
That was what you wanted.
Unfortunately, your shoulders seemed to have developed their own opinion.
Taylor stepped beside you, notebook hugged against her chest. “Lunch before path?”
The normal question helped more than you wanted it to.
You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder and nodded. “Yes. Please.”
Taylor smiled, small and easy. “Good. I’m starving.”
You stepped into the hallway beside her, grateful for the noise, the movement, the crush of students gathering in loose clusters before the next class.
Normal. This was normal. Lunch with Taylor was normal.
Then, for one terrible, humiliating, completely inexplicable second, your gaze flicked back through the open lecture hall door.
Jack was still there. Still talking to Evan. Still holding his pen loosely between two fingers while he pointed at something on the page.
You had the thought with the same automatic ease as reaching for your bag.
I should ask—
No.
Absolutely not.
Your hand froze on the strap.
Why would you ask him? Why would that even occur to you?
You were going to lunch with Taylor. Taylor, your friend. Taylor, who had found you the flyer that had ruined your life. Taylor, who had known you before you started sharing a bathroom with Jack Abbot and losing your mind in small, medically concerning increments.
Jack did not need to come. Jack had never come to lunch with you. Jack was not part of lunch. Jack was not part of anything except rent, rules, coffee, one bathroom, and apparently walking to lecture against your will.
Taylor had taken a few steps before she realized you were no longer beside her. She turned back, her brows lifting with quiet concern rather than accusation. “You coming?”
Your eyes snapped to hers. “Yes.”
Taylor’s gaze moved briefly over your face, then softened. She did not look back into the lecture hall. She did not make a joke. She only waited.
That was somehow worse.
You caught up to her and started down the hallway. “I’m coming.”
Taylor fell into step beside you. “Okay.”
For a few seconds, she let the noise of the hallway fill the space between you.
Then Taylor bumped her shoulder lightly against yours. “If we hurry, we can get actual food before pathology ruins our lives.”
You exhaled, grateful for the escape route she was giving you. “Pathology was going to ruin our lives either way.”
Taylor adjusted her notebook against her chest. “Sure, but I’d rather be fed when it happens.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Behind you, back inside the lecture hall, Jack’s voice faded beneath the noise of the hallway.
You did not look back again.
You were proud of that.
Mostly.
By the time you made it to the cafeteria, the lunch rush had already started. The line curved past the drink cooler, the smell of burnt coffee and grilled cheese hanging in the air beneath the sharper bite of cleaning spray. Someone near the register was arguing about meal cards. Someone else was trying to balance a tray, a textbook, and a pager all at once.
It was loud.
Blessedly loud.
You ordered a turkey sandwich, grabbed a bag of chips you did not particularly want, and followed Taylor to a small table near the windows. For a few minutes, she talked about pathology, Harlan’s handwriting, and the terrifying rumor that next week’s lab would involve partner assignments.
You listened. You answered. You laughed at the right places.
And you did not think about Jack.
Except when you reached for your drink and remembered his travel mug beside yours.
Except when Taylor mentioned the pressure-volume loop and you remembered his pen pausing.
Except when someone behind you laughed, low and warm, and your head almost turned before you realized the voice was not his.
That was unacceptable.
You took a bite of your sandwich with unnecessary determination.
Taylor watched you for a second, then looked down at her soup. “You know, I really am glad you found a place.”
The gentleness in her voice made you pause.
You swallowed and set your sandwich down. “I know.”
Taylor stirred her soup once, her spoon clinking softly against the bowl. “I was worried about you.”
You looked at her then.
She was not smiling now. Not teasing. Just sitting across from you with her hair tucked behind one ear and her notebook already open beside her tray because neither of you knew how to eat lunch without pretending to study.
Something in your chest loosened.
“I was worried too,” you admitted, quieter than you meant to.
Taylor’s expression softened. “I know.”
You looked down at your tray and picked at the edge of your napkin. “It’s not ideal.”
“No,” Taylor said carefully, “but it’s safe.”
Your fingers stilled.
Across the table, Taylor held your gaze for a second, then looked back down at her soup as if she had not just said something that landed directly under your ribs.
You thought about the apartment. The worn couch. The tiny kitchen. The bathroom shelf Jack had cleared without making a big thing of it. The coffee in the morning. The key in your bag.
Jack’s hands on your shoulders.
You looked away.
Taylor did not push.
That was why you loved her.
Instead, Taylor tapped her spoon against the bowl and looked back up at you. “Also, the rent is good.”
You let out a small laugh and reached for your sandwich again. “The rent is very good.”
Taylor smiled. “See? Practical.”
“Logistical,” you said automatically.
Taylor’s eyes brightened, but she only lifted her spoon. “Right. Logistical.”
You narrowed your eyes at her. “Don’t.”
Taylor took a bite of soup with great innocence.
It was fine.
Everything was fine.
Lunch was fine. Taylor was fine. The apartment was fine. Jack Abbot was not part of lunch, not part of the table, not part of the conversation except in all the ways he kept appearing anyway.
By the time you walked into pathology forty minutes later, you had almost convinced yourself you had recovered.
Then Jack was already there.
Of course he was.
He sat two rows up from where you usually sat, notebook open, one hand propped near his jaw as he read something in the margin. Evan was beside him now, still asking questions, still leaning over like Jack had become his personal cardiopulmonary translator.
You should have been relieved.
Jack had not saved you a seat.
You did not want him to save you a seat.
That would have been insane.
So you followed Taylor to your usual row, sat down, opened your notebook, and absolutely did not look two rows ahead.
Not once.
Not directly.
At least not until Jack glanced back.
It happened quickly.
A half-second look over his shoulder when Taylor dropped her bag and the chair squeaked. His eyes found yours before you were ready for them to, and for a tiny, suspended moment, the room narrowed to the space between his row and yours.
Then Evan said something, and Jack turned back around.
Taylor sat beside you and opened her notebook.
You stared at the blank page in front of you. Your shoulders remembered again.
You wrote the date correctly this time.
Small mercies.
Pathology should have been easier to survive than cardiopulmonary integration, if only because Jack was no longer sitting beside you.
He was two rows ahead.
That was distance. That was normal. That was survivable.
Then he shifted in his seat, and your eyes moved before your brain could stop them. You caught the back of his head first. The damp curls had fully dried now, falling into that unfair shape again, soft at the edges and deeply inconvenient to your peace. His shoulders were slightly hunched over his notes, one elbow propped on the desk, pen moving steadily across the page.
He was not looking at you.
Good.
Necessary.
You looked back at your notebook.
Dr. Singh began pathology with cellular injury.
You took notes aggressively.
For most of the lecture, you managed not to look at Jack. Not directly. Not enough to count. You watched Dr. Singh write on the board. You copied definitions. You underlined reversible injury twice and circled necrosis because the word looked dramatic and your notes needed structure.
Halfway through the lecture, Dr. Singh turned from the board and scanned the room. “What is the earliest reversible cellular change we expect to see with hypoxic injury?”
Your hand moved because that was what your hand did when you knew the answer.
Two rows ahead, Jack did not raise his.
Good.
Dr. Singh pointed toward you. “Go ahead.”
You sat up straighter and kept your eyes on the board. “Cellular swelling due to failure of ATP-dependent ion pumps.”
Dr. Singh nodded. “Good. What causes the swelling?”
You adjusted your pen between your fingers. “Sodium accumulates inside the cell, water follows, and the cell swells because the membrane can’t maintain normal gradients.”
Dr. Singh turned back to the board. “Correct.”
You lowered your hand and let yourself have exactly one second of satisfaction.
Then Jack’s voice came from two rows ahead, calm and precise. “You can also see ribosomal detachment from the rough ER, which decreases protein synthesis.”
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them.
Jack was still facing forward. Of course he was.
Dr. Singh tapped the marker against the board. “Yes. That’s another early reversible change.”
You narrowed your eyes at the back of Jack’s head.
He had not corrected you. Not exactly.
He had added to you.
Built on your answer like the two of you were still sitting side by side in Harlan’s lecture.
Which was somehow worse, because it meant he had been listening.
Jack’s shoulders shifted slightly.
Then he glanced back. Only for a second. His eyes found yours over his shoulder, and there it was: that small, cocky curve at the corner of his mouth.
Softer than usual. Still unbearable.
You looked down at your notebook immediately and wrote ribosomal detachment with enough force to nearly tear the page.
When Dr. Singh dismissed the class, you stayed seated for half a breath longer than usual, pretending to organize your notes while the room started moving around you.
Two rows ahead, Jack stood with Evan, his notebook tucked under one arm.
You did not look.
You were very busy putting one pen into your bag. Then another.
Beside you, Taylor zipped her bag and looked over. “Library?”
You slid your notebook into your bag. “No. I’m going home.”
Taylor’s brows lifted. “Already?”
You pulled the zipper shut and stood. “I need to unpack more before I organize my notes.”
Taylor glanced at the notebook you had just shoved into your bag, then back at your face. “That sounds responsible.”
“It is responsible,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.
Taylor’s expression stayed gentle enough that it was almost worse than teasing. “Okay.”
You looked toward the door before your gaze could betray you and drift two rows ahead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Taylor stepped aside to let you into the aisle. “See you tomorrow.”
You did not look back.
Not at Taylor. Not at Evan. Not at Jack.
Especially not at Jack.
You left the lecture hall before you could wait and see whether he was leaving too.
That was the important part.
You chose to leave. You chose not to check. You chose the hallway, the stairs, the bright late-afternoon air outside the building, and the walk home alone.
Very mature. Very independent. Very normal.
Your shoulders still remembered his hands. Your notebook still had his addition written in your handwriting.
And by the time you reached the apartment, you were thinking about pressure-volume loops, cellular injury, and the deeply inconvenient fact that leaving first had not felt as much like winning as it should have.
The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door.
That should have been a relief.
It was, mostly.
You stepped inside, shut the door behind you, and stood there for a second with your hand still on the knob, listening to the refrigerator hum in the kitchen and the faint traffic passing below the window.
No pen scratching at the kitchen table. No chair shifting against the floor. No dry voice telling you that you had written the date wrong.
Good. That was good. That was what you had wanted.
You dropped your bag beside the couch and looked around the living room with the grim determination of someone who had decided emotional stability could be achieved through unpacking.
There were still boxes stacked near the wall by the bookshelf. Not many, but enough to make the room feel unfinished in a way that irritated you now that you were standing alone in it. One box held notebooks from first year, another held sweaters you had not needed yet, and a third was labeled MISC, which had turned out to mean several unrelated objects your past self had apparently decided future you could suffer through.
You unpacked for exactly seventeen minutes.
That counted.
Probably.
The notebooks made it onto the shelf. The sweaters made it into a drawer. The miscellaneous box remained miscellaneous, but now it was at least miscellaneous with the lid closed, which felt like progress if you did not think about it too hard.
By the time the front door opened, you had moved to the couch with your pathology notes spread across the coffee table and your textbook open beside you.
You did not look up.
You knew it was Jack from the sound of the key, the brief pause, and the way he set his bag down with more care than most people would bother with.
That was annoying.
Knowing that was annoying.
Jack stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “You’re home.”
You kept your eyes on your notes. “Brilliant deduction.”
His bag shifted against the kitchen chair. “Observation.”
You underlined cellular swelling for the second time. “Even worse.”
Jack did not answer, but you heard the faint huff of breath that might have been amusement before he moved into the kitchen.
You stayed in the living room.
He stayed in the kitchen.
That was survivable.
For a while, the apartment settled into separate quiet. You sat on the couch with your notebook balanced across your lap and your textbook open beside your knee. Jack sat at the kitchen table, far enough away that you could pretend you were not aware of him, close enough that you could hear the scratch of his pen and the occasional turn of a page.
Separate spaces. Separate notes. Separate studying.
Separate lives, except for the lease, the bathroom, the kitchen, the coffee pot, the shared walk to campus, and the fact that half your class now knew you slept on opposite sides of the same hallway.
You were halfway through rereading the same paragraph for the third time when Jack’s pen stopped moving.
You kept your eyes on your page.
A second passed.
Then another.
From the kitchen, Jack shifted in his chair. “Can you come over here?”
Your eyes lifted from your textbook before you could stop them.
He was still looking down at his notes, one hand braced near the bottom of the page, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was the same look he got in lecture when something did not sit right with him, focused and sharp and deeply annoying because it usually meant he was about to be right.
Except this time, he was asking you.
You did not move from the couch. “Why?”
Jack tapped his pen once against the page. “I need your eyes.”
That should not have sounded the way it did.
It was practical. Clinical, even.
Still, something in your chest caught on it.
You looked back down at your notes like they had suddenly become fascinating. “Only if you say please.”
Silence.
Beautiful silence.
You let yourself enjoy it.
Then Jack exhaled through his nose, low and controlled. “Please.”
You set your textbook aside and stood from the couch. “Was that painful?”
Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours. “Extremely.”
You crossed from the living room into the kitchen. “Good.”
Jack turned his notebook slightly toward you. “It’s Harlan’s compensatory preload example.”
You stopped behind his chair and set one hand on the back of it, leaning over his shoulder to look at the page. “The one from the pressure-volume loop?”
Jack tapped the diagram with his pen. “That’s the one.”
You bent closer, following the line he had drawn. “What’s the problem?”
Jack angled the notebook toward the kitchen light. “If afterload increases here, then the end-systolic volume should increase here.”
You reached past his shoulder and pointed at the diagram. “It should.”
Your finger hovered over the page, close enough to his pen that the two of you were nearly touching.
Jack went very still.
You did not notice right away.
At first, you were looking at the diagram. At the arrow. At the loop. At the place where his notes were almost right but not quite.
Then you became aware of your hand on the back of his chair.
Of your arm near his shoulder.
Of the fact that you were leaning over him, close enough that if he turned his head too quickly, his cheek would almost brush your sleeve.
Close enough to smell the soap from his shower, clean and warm and unfairly familiar.
Your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, noticed the shape of him beneath the old T-shirt. The line of his shoulders. The reddish-brown curls at the back of his head, darker in the low kitchen light. The way his hand had gone still around the pen.
Jack noticed too.
You knew he did because his shoulders rose once with a quiet breath he did not quite finish.
Neither of you moved.
The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead. Somewhere beneath the window, the radiator clicked once and went quiet again.
Your finger was still above the page.
His pen was still beneath it.
The apartment felt suddenly too small, the air between you too warm, your hand on the back of his chair too intentional for something you had done without thinking.
Jack turned his head slightly.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop them.
Horrifying. Disastrous. Medically concerning.
You straightened so quickly your hand slipped from the chair. “You’re looking at the wrong beat.”
Jack’s gaze stayed forward for half a second, but his eyes cut toward you from the corner, and his voice came out lower than before. “Am I?”
You stepped to the side because standing behind him suddenly felt like a crime. “Yes.”
You reached for his pen without thinking, then stopped before your fingers could brush his. “Can I?”
Jack looked at the pen, then at you.
The pause was small.
Long enough.
Then he held it out. “Yeah.”
You took it carefully, avoiding his fingers this time, which somehow made the whole thing worse.
You leaned over the table instead of him, putting blessed, necessary distance between your body and the back of his chair. “This is the same beat. That’s where you’re getting tangled.”
Jack leaned slightly closer to see where you were pointing. “So the preload increase is after compensation.”
You drew a small arrow beside his diagram. “Next beat. Not the same contraction.”
Jack studied the correction for a long second.
You waited. The waiting was worse than it should have been.
Then Jack nodded once. “You’re right.”
You looked at him before you could stop yourself.
There was no sarcasm in his voice. No edge. No smug little grin waiting to ruin it. Just acknowledgment. You hated that it felt better than winning.
You set the pen down beside his notebook and stepped back. “Obviously.”
That got the grin. Small. Quick. Enough to make your stomach do something humiliating.
Jack picked up the pen again, his fingers closing around the place yours had just been. “Don’t get used to hearing it.”
You folded your arms. “I’ll try to survive the deprivation.”
His eyes flicked up to yours.
For one second, it was almost normal again.
Almost.
Then the silence returned, and with it, the memory of your hand on his chair, your arm near his shoulder, his breath stopping when you leaned too close.
Jack looked back down at the page first. “Thanks.”
You nodded once, already retreating toward the living room. “You’re welcome.”
You made it back to the couch, picked up your textbook, and stared very hard at the page.
The words did not make sense.
That was inconvenient, considering you were a medical student and literacy was a fairly important part of the job.
In the kitchen, Jack’s pen moved again.
Then stopped.
A chair scraped softly against the floor.
You did not look up, but you tracked every movement anyway: the closing of his textbook, the quiet stack of paper, the click of his pen cap, the soft sound of his notebook being gathered from the table.
Jack stopped at the edge of the living room, just close enough that you could see him in your peripheral vision.
“I’m going to study in my room,” Jack said, his voice careful.
You kept your eyes on your textbook. “Okay.”
Neither of you moved.
Maybe you were simply too aware of the fact that he was still standing there, his books tucked under one arm, the space between you full of every normal thing neither of you could seem to say.
You lifted your eyes before you could stop yourself.
Jack was watching you.
Not smug. Not teasing.
Just watching, in that controlled, unreadable way that somehow felt less safe than all the banter.
You swallowed and looked back down first. “Good luck, Abbot.”
For a second, Jack said nothing.
Then his fingers shifted around the spine of his textbook. “With what?”
You kept your eyes on your page. “Surviving without my help.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “I’ve done it before.”
You turned a page you had not finished reading. “Barely.”
His mouth curved for half a second. “Still counts.”
Then he turned toward the hallway.
His bedroom door closed softly behind him.
Not slammed. Not abrupt. Just closed.
You stared at your textbook for exactly nine seconds before accepting that you had not read a single word.
The couch suddenly felt too open. Too exposed. Too aware of the kitchen table he had just left and the hallway he had disappeared down.
So you gathered your own notes.
It was not retreating.
It was relocating.
There was a difference.
Probably.
You carried your textbook, notebook, and pen into your room, nudged the door mostly shut with your foot, and sat cross-legged on your bed with your notes spread around you.
Your room was still half-unpacked, but at least it was yours. Your bed. Your books. Your boxes. Your little pile of sweaters on the chair because you had run out of organization twenty minutes after claiming you were going to unpack.
The quiet should have helped.
It did not.
From across the hall, you could hear almost nothing from Jack’s room. Occasionally, a page turned. Once, his chair shifted. Then silence again.
Separate rooms. Separate notes. Separate lives.
You stared at the page in front of you and realized, with a slow, sinking kind of horror, that separate was starting to feel less simple than it used to.
Your stomach growled.
Loudly.
You looked down at yourself.
Apparently, emotional distress had limits.
You closed your textbook, set your notes aside, and stood from the bed with the grim resignation of a person whose body had decided to continue needing things despite your best efforts.
The hallway was quiet when you stepped out.
Jack’s door was closed.
You looked at it for one second too long, then forced yourself toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was dim except for the weak light above the stove. The table was empty now, cleared of his notebook, his textbook, and the pen he had capped before disappearing down the hall.
Jack had taken everything with him.
Of course he had.
He was exactly the kind of person who could retreat from a room and leave no evidence behind.
Unfortunately, you still remembered the diagram.
You opened the cabinet and found pasta and a jar of sauce. Pasta was easy. Pasta was neutral. Pasta did not require feelings.
By the time the water boiled, the apartment had settled into a softer quiet. You could hear the faint sound of Jack moving in his room once, then nothing. You stirred the noodles and told yourself you were making too much because measuring pasta correctly was impossible.
That was all.
It had nothing to do with him.
Still, when you drained the pasta and stirred in the sauce, you paused.
There was too much.
Not an obscene amount. Not a tragic amount. Just enough that ignoring it would be ridiculous, and eating all of it would be medically inadvisable.
You stood at the stove with the spoon in your hand and stared down at the pot.
One bowl would have been normal.
Two felt like a statement.
You hated that there was a difference.
You served yourself, left the rest in the pot, and turned the burner off.
Then you stood there for another second.
The refrigerator hummed. The radiator clicked.
Jack’s door remained closed down the hall.
You shut your eyes for half a second, then opened them again with a quiet exhale.
This was not a gesture.
This was basic roommate decency.
Probably.
You walked down the hall before you could talk yourself out of it and knocked once on Jack’s door.
A second passed.
Then Jack’s voice came from the other side, low and muffled. “Yeah?”
You kept one hand curled loosely at your side. “I made dinner.”
Silence.
You immediately wished you had phrased that differently.
You looked toward the kitchen, then back at his closed door. “There’s pasta left if you want some.”
Another second passed.
The quiet stretched just long enough to make your face warm.
Then Jack’s voice came again, closer this time. “You made extra?”
You stared at the door.
No would have been easier.
“I made too much.”
The door opened.
Jack stood on the other side in the same old T-shirt, one hand still on the knob, his curls a little more disordered than before. His gaze moved over your face first, then toward the kitchen.
You added, because the silence was doing something dangerous, “I’m bad at measuring pasta.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “That’s believable.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you want it or not?”
Jack’s gaze came back to yours. For once, he did not answer immediately.
Then Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”
You shifted back half a step. “It’s on the stove.”
Jack’s hand stayed on the doorknob. “Thank you.”
The words were simple. Quiet. No teasing. No edge.
You nodded, even though there was nothing to nod at, then turned back toward the living room before either of you could make it stranger.
Behind you, Jack’s door stayed open for one more second.
You felt it.
Then you heard him step into the hall.
You did not look back.
You went to the couch, picked up your bowl, and sat down with your notes still open on the coffee table.
A moment later, Jack moved through the kitchen.
Cabinet opening. A fork pulled from the drawer. The quiet scrape of a bowl being set on the counter.
You stared very hard at your own dinner.
It was only pasta.
Too much pasta, made because measuring correctly was apparently beyond you.
That was all.
Still, when Jack’s footsteps passed behind the couch and moved back toward the hall, something in your chest went soft in a way you did not appreciate.
You kept your eyes on your bowl.
He stopped at his bedroom door.
You felt that too.
For one second, neither of you said anything.
Then Jack’s voice came from the hallway, low and careful. “Goodnight.”
Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.
You did not look back. You looked down at your bowl instead, at the pasta you had made too much of, at the sauce clinging to the fork, at your notes open and unread in front of you.
Then you swallowed around the strange tightness in your throat. “Night, Abbot.”
Jack did not answer again.
His door closed softly behind him. Not slammed. Not abrupt. Just closed.
The apartment settled around you.
Your notes were still open. His were behind his door. Your dinner was in your lap. His was down the hall.
Separate.
Not separate enough.
You picked up your fork and looked back at the page in front of you.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
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