i am deep in the trenches of the pitt and ive had this song stuck in my head and i feel like all three of them could be any part of it and many more could fit in but naturally i chose the easy way in...
thus i present my humbled story presented by a song
SOLDIER, POET, KING
There will come a soldier—Jack Abbot—
who walks like something already broken survived him.
He carries no sword you can see,
just the weight of one—
dragged in the way he favors his leg,
in the way his shoulders never quite come down,
in the way loud rooms make him quieter instead.
He has learned what it means
to come home without ever arriving.
And still—
he will stand when the ceiling starts to groan,
when the beams splinter and the lights flicker—
when the whole damn roof threatens to cave.
He will not run.
He will plant himself beneath it,
bones remembering things his mind won’t name,
hands steady in the chaos like they were built for it.
There will come a soldier
who carries a mighty sword—
not in his hands,
but in everything he refuses to drop.
Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord—
he will tear your city down.
Not with rage.
Not with fire.
But with survival—
raw, unrelenting,
the kind that breaks structures just by outlasting them.
Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord—
he will tear the roof down.
There will come a poet—Dennis Whitaker—
who looks like he doesn’t belong in war at all.
Soft edges. Careful voice.
The kind of man who chooses his words
like they matter.
Because to him—
they do.
He was taught that language builds worlds,
that names have weight,
that meaning is something sacred you don’t mishandle.
Theology lingers in him—
not loud, not preachy,
but threaded through the way he listens,
the way he pauses before speaking,
the way he tries—desperately—to understand.
But when he speaks—
really speaks—
it lands sharper than anything Abbot carries.
Because Whitaker doesn’t just say things.
He sees them.
And once he names something—
fear, grief, guilt—
it has nowhere left to hide.
There will come a poet
whose weapon is his word—
and he will undo you
with the truth you were hoping no one noticed.
Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord—
he will slay you with his tongue.
Not cruelly.
But precisely.
Like a confession pulled from your chest
before you even realize you’re bleeding.
There will come a ruler—Dr. Michael Robinavitch—
though he never asked for a crown.
It was pressed onto him
in the moments no one else stepped forward.
In the silence after loss.
In the space Adamson left behind
like a wound that never sealed right.
Gloria still lingers in him, too—
in the choices he makes, in the way he carries people like they are something fragile
and breakable
and already halfway gone.
His crown isn’t gold.
It’s thorns.
Responsibility.
Guilt. The quiet understanding that leadership
means being the one who stays
when everyone else gets to fall apart.
They look to him anyway.
They always do.
And he lets them.
Because someone has to.
There will come a ruler
smeared with oil like David’s boy—
not chosen because he wanted it,
but because he was the only one who could hold it.
Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord—
he will not break.
Even when everything in him wants to.
And when it all comes together—
when the soldier stands beneath the failing roof,
when the poet names the fear no one will say out loud,
when the ruler holds them there, steady,
keeping the world from slipping completely loose—
that’s when it happens.
Not all at once.
But inevitable.
The city doesn’t fall to one of them.
It falls to all of them.
To the soldier who refuses to move.
To the poet who refuses to lie.
To the ruler who refuses to let go.
Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord—
they will tear your city down.
And the roof—
cracking, splintering, collapsing under its own weight—
finally gives.
Oh lei… oh lai… oh—
Lord.
n e ways here some whitsantos angst and comfort because i love these two and i am so santos coded like please
general notice/triggers: this piece of work contains reference to self harm and Selbstmord (sewer cide letter) so please read at caution// i don’t go crazy i want that comfort for trin !
also please reach out to spaces or people when you feel like this. it may feel like sisyphus at first, but it does get better.
a letter lost and unfortunately found
whitsantos angst & comfort
Trinity had been carrying it for months now—the kind of weight that doesn’t sit on your shoulders so much as seep into your bones. Ever since she told Robby about Langdon, nothing had felt steady. Not her sleep, not her thoughts, not even the way she moved through the world. Everything had a second layer now, like she was watching her own life through glass.
It hadn’t felt good to say it out loud. It still didn’t. But silence had felt worse. Silence was how men like Langdon stayed untouched, how they kept moving through life like nothing stuck to them. She couldn’t let that happen again. Not this time. Not to her.
Robby hadn’t said much when she told him. That was the part that stuck with her the most. No shouting, no big promises—just that quiet, tightened look in his jaw, like something had already clicked into place. She didn’t ask what he was going to do. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe knowing would make her responsible for whatever came next.
All she knew was that Langdon would be gone for a while.
Not gone forever—she didn’t believe that, couldn’t picture it. Langdon wasn’t the kind of person who could disappear completely. He lingered, even when he wasn’t there. In half-finished sentences, in the way her phone felt heavier in her hand, in the empty space across from her locker in the hall.
Still, the waiting gnawed at her.
Because underneath all of it—the anger, the fear, the dull ache of uncertainty—was something sharper. A quiet, stubborn refusal. She wasn’t going to be that girl again. The one who swallowed it down, who let powerful men rewrite what happened, who convinced herself it wasn’t worth the trouble.
No. Not anymore.
She hadn’t meant to hear it. That was the thing about hospitals—nothing ever stayed contained. Conversations slipped under doors, rode the hum of fluorescent lights, hid in the clatter of carts in the hallway.
“Langdon’s in rehab,” someone had said, low but not low enough. “Some program Robby lined up. If he finishes, they’ll let him come back.”
Come back.
The words had followed Trinity for the rest of her shift, looping in her head until they didn’t even sound real anymore. Come back. As if he’d just taken a leave of absence. As if he hadn’t stolen medication, hadn’t tampered with it, hadn’t been spiraling right in front of all of them.
As if she hadn’t been the one to say something.
She kept her face neutral, kept moving, kept doing everything the way she was supposed to. But underneath it, something sharp and disbelieving kept pressing outward.
He’s got an addiction, she thought. He could’ve hurt patients, but didn’t. It’s part of the reason why she didn’t want to report him. She had no means to. But he was an asshole to her on her first day. Treated her as if she didn’t put in eight years and a shit ton of debt.
And still—he gets a path back.
That night, the apartment felt too quiet. Not peaceful. Just… empty in a way that made her thoughts louder. Garcia was already in bed when Trinity came in, half-asleep, one arm thrown over their eyes.
“You good?” Garcia mumbled.
Trinity hesitated. She should’ve just said yes. She knew that. Let it pass. Let one night be quiet.
Instead, she exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. “I heard something today.”
Garcia groaned immediately, rolling onto their back and dragging a hand down their face. “Trin…”
“I know, I know,” she said quickly, already regretting it. “I just— I don’t get it. They’re really gonna let him come back? Like nothing happened?”
Garcia pushed themself up against the headboard, blinking sleep away. “It’s not like nothing happened. It’s rehab.”
“He stole meds,” Trinity shot back, her voice tighter than she meant it to be. “He tampered with them. That’s not just—burnout or something. That’s—” She stopped, shaking her head. “And now he just… repents? Finishes a program and everything’s fine?”
Garcia didn’t answer right away. That was almost worse.
Trinity let out a small, frustrated laugh and pressed her hands into her knees. “I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I’m the only one who thinks this is insane.”
“You’re not crazy,” Garcia said quietly. “But it’s complicated.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.” She looked up, eyes sharper now. “Complicated for who?”
Garcia sighed, long and tired. “For all of them, Trin. For him, for the hospital, for Robby. You have to understand he’s been a huge part of this hospital. It’s gonna take people a while to adapt to the loss of his presence. You know I miss him.”
She flinched a little at that.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Trinity muttered, standing up abruptly. “Forget it.”
“Hey, seriously i get it. You're the one who pieced it all together and he degraded you,” Garcia said, softer now, but she was already pacing. Because that was the part she couldn’t say out loud—not fully.
It felt like she had set something off she couldn’t control. Like she’d knocked over the first domino and watched it take Robby with it, watched Langdon disappear, watched the ER shift into something quieter, more careful. Less chaotic, sure—but also… like everyone was pretending not to notice the gap.
Robby’s golden boy.
That’s what it felt like she’d taken down. The ER’s version of perfect—brilliant, reckless, untouchable. Ken with a stethoscope and a god complex.
And now everyone was just… adjusting. Like that was normal. Like she was supposed to adjust too.
She tried not to bring it up with Garcia again. She really did. Garcia had a way of looking at her that made everything feel too clear, too exposed. But every once in a while, Trinity would overhear something—a joke, a passing comment, someone wondering when Langdon might be back—and it would slip out before she could stop it.
A question. A sharp remark. A “does that not bother anyone else?”
And every time, she’d feel it after. That same twist in her chest.
Helpless.
Like she’d done the right thing… and somehow still lost control of what came after.
Dennis caught her in the supply room, of all places. Like he’d been waiting for a moment when she couldn’t just walk past him with a tight smile and a muttered “busy.”
“Hey,” he said carefully, leaning against the counter. “Can I—talk to you for a second?”
Trinity didn’t look up right away. She kept counting syringes, double-checking labels that didn’t need double-checking. “You already are.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I heard what you said earlier. About Langdon.”
Of course he did. Of course everyone did.
She set the tray down a little harder than necessary and finally looked at him. “Yeah? Got an opinion to add to the pile?”
“I’m not trying to pile on,” Whitaker said quickly. “I just… I think you might be looking at it one way.”
She let out a short laugh, already shaking her head. “Oh, here we go.”
“Trin, listen,” he said, stepping forward just a little. “What you did—it’s a good thing. Seriously. He needed help. If he’s an addict, this might be the only way he actually gets it.”
Her expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.
“So that makes it okay?” she shot back. “He steals meds, messes with them, puts patients at risk—but it’s fine because now he gets help?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
Whitaker frowned, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m saying two things can be true. He did something really bad—and he also needs treatment. He’s got a wife, kids—”
Trinity’s head snapped to the side, disbelief written all over her face. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, it’s supposed to make you understand the stakes,” he said, a little sharper now. “This isn’t just about punishing him. It’s about fixing something before it destroys everything around him.”
“It already is,” she said immediately. “He’s not just ruining his own life, Whitaker. He’s messing with patients, with coworkers—with all of us. That doesn’t just get erased because he checks into rehab. He gaslit me and made me question my skills over and over.”
“I’m not saying it gets erased.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Whitaker paused, jaw tightening like he was choosing his words carefully. “I’m saying you don’t have to treat him like he’s beyond saving.”
Something in Trinity’s face flickered—anger, yes, but something deeper under it.
“I’m not,” she said, quieter now but no less intense. “I just don’t think ‘saving him’ should mean pretending what he did wasn’t that bad.”
Whitaker sighed, running a hand through his hair. “My uncle was a drunk,” he said. “Like—bad. It wrecked everything. His marriage, his kids, all of it. And you know what? Nobody stepped in early enough. Everyone just let it keep going until there was nothing left to fix.”
Trinity crossed her arms, but she didn’t interrupt.
“So yeah,” he continued, “when I hear that someone actually got forced to deal with it? Before it got even worse? That doesn’t sound like a free pass to me. That sounds like… maybe a chance.”
She stared at him for a long second, then shook her head slowly.
“You keep talking like this is just about him,” she said. “Like the worst thing here is what happens to his life if he doesn’t get help.”
Whitaker opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
“What about everyone else’s lives he messed with while he was spiraling?” she pressed. “What about the people who trusted him? The patients? Us?”
“I’m not ignoring that—”
“It feels like you are.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
Whitaker’s expression shifted, frustration creeping in. “You don’t have to take it out on me, you know,” he said. “I’m just trying to have a conversation. I’m not the bad guy here.”
Trinity blinked, like the words had snapped something back into place. For a second, she looked almost caught off guard.
Then she looked away.
“I’m not saying you are,” she muttered. “I just—” She stopped, exhaling sharply. “Forget it.”
But she didn’t mean it. He could tell she didn’t mean it.
Because the look on her face wasn’t just anger.
It was that same thing she’d been carrying for months now—tight, unresolved, and heavy with the feeling that no matter what anyone said, none of it was actually being dealt with the way it should be
Everyone had something to say.
That was the worst part.
It wasn’t just the whispers or the sideways glances—it was the way every conversation turned into a version of her story that didn’t feel like hers anymore. One person said she was brave. Another said she did the right thing. Someone else, quieter but sharper, implied she was… lingering. Like she kept picking at it. Like she needed it.
Like she was just a victim digging into her own wounds to keep the act alive. The thought made her stomach turn. Because it wasn’t an act. It never had been.
It wasn’t fair—none of it. Not the way Langdon could disappear into rehab with a path laid out for him, not the way people softened their voices when they talked about him, like he was fragile now. Like he deserved gentleness.
While she—She was supposed to stand there. Take it. Again.
The anger didn’t come clean. It came tangled with everything else—doubt, exhaustion, something that felt too close to shame. It built and built until it had nowhere to go, pressing against her ribs like it was trying to break out.
And somehow, her mind went back to Morgan.
To that last conversation that never really felt finished. When they were just dumb teens, to dumber college girls making pacts: single by 30 they marry each other or the death pact. When one couldn't handle it anymore the other would join. Their codependency was terrible, to the point where one drunk night after having a shit day they wrote them. A final letter.
The letter.
Trinity sat up from her bed so fast it made her dizzy.
It was late—too late. The kind of dead-of-night quiet where everything feels louder than it should. But she was already moving, pulling open drawers, shoving things aside, dropping books onto the floor with dull thuds that echoed in the stillness.
“Where is it—” she muttered, breath uneven.
Her room turned inside out piece by piece. Clothes half-hanging, notebooks scattered, dust stirred from places she hadn’t touched in months. She didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with that feeling in her chest getting tighter, sharper. Needed to find her release.
Finally—under her bed.
A notebook, bent at the corners, shoved further back than she remembered putting it.
Her hands shook a little as she pulled it out, flipping through pages too fast before she forced herself to slow down.
There. Folded in on itself as many times as it could manage without tearing. Like she’d tried to make it smaller. Easier to hide.
Trinity unfolded it carefully, the creases soft from time. She read. And with every line, something in her face shifted—not surprise, not even sadness. Just recognition.
A quiet, heavy kind.
She exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping as the last line blurred slightly in her vision.
Nothing had changed.
Or maybe it had—but not in the ways that mattered.
Her eyes stung, and she pressed the heel of her hand against them before reaching blindly for a pen tucked in a secret pouch in her nightstand. It took her a second to find it, knocking something over in the process, but she didn’t care.
She flattened the page against her knee. For a moment, she just stared at it. Then she started writing. Not over the old words. Not replacing them. Underneath. A part two.
i shouldnt even be here. i am a ghost roaming because im a fucking coward. i go back on my words. i suck. i fucking suck. i cant even follow through correctly. im a fucking doctor i can make this as painful as i need it i deserved it. i cant fucking take it anymore. i've ruined everything. i always fucking do.
The pen dragged a little where the paper was creased, her handwriting messier than before, words crowding into each other like they were trying to get out all at once. She didn’t stop to think too hard about what she was saying—if she did, she might stop entirely.
She added names this time. New ones.
Not out of spite. Not to blame. Just… because they were part of it now. Part of the weight she was carrying whether she wanted them there or not. Wanted to apologize.
Her chest felt tight the entire time, like something was pressing inward, squeezing the air out of her. But underneath it—threaded through it—was something else.
Relief. Small, but real.
By the time she finished, her hand ached and her vision had gone soft at the edges. She stared at the page for a long second, like she didn’t fully trust it to stay there.
Then she let the pen fall. A shaky breath left her, almost a laugh but not quite. “God,” she whispered, voice rough, “I hate you for that.”
Morgan.
For leaving like that. For making it feel like this was an option. For putting words to something Trinity hadn’t been able to name back then.
Her throat tightened. “…but I get it.” That was the part that scared her. How much she understood now.
Time didn’t fix anything—it just taught Trinity how to move around it.
She showed up. Did her shifts. Said the right things at the right times. Even laughed, sometimes, in a way that sounded real enough if you didn’t look too closely. On the outside, she was fine.
On the inside, it felt like something was folding in on itself. She was relapsing. In that darkness that consumed her many years ago before she lost Morgan to it.
Garcia had changed. Not all at once—nothing that obvious. Just… less. Less lingering, less softness, less of whatever that first night had been. Now it felt scheduled, almost. Predictable in the worst way. Always at Trinity’s place. Always when it worked for Garcia. Never the other way around.
At first, Trinity told herself she didn’t care. She’d done casual before. She knew the rules—no expectations, no attachments, no overthinking.
But this didn’t feel like that. This felt like she’d been something easy to step into and just as easy to step away from. Like whatever had sparked that first day hadn’t actually meant anything beyond the moment it happened. And that—more than anything—felt unfair.
So she stopped thinking about it. Or tried to. Spring gave her an excuse.
“Everything has to go,” she muttered to herself one morning, standing in the middle of her room like she didn’t recognize it anymore. “I’m over being a sentimental hoarder.”
She called Dennis before she could second-guess it.
“Hey I'm cleaning out my room so help me,” she told him in the kitchen after realizing how long this would take by herself. “Or don’t. Just—come take whatever you want. I’m getting rid of stuff.”
Dennis didn’t ask too many questions. He never really did when her voice sounded like that. The place already looked like a storm had passed through. Garbage bags lined the walls, half-filled and slumping over. Drawers hung open, shelves cleared in uneven patches.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said, stepping inside carefully.
“I never kid about cleaning,” Trinity shot back, already tying off another bag. “If it’s not nailed down, it’s probably going.”
He gave her a look but didn’t push. “Alright. I’ll… start over here?”
“Yeah. Whatever’s on the floor, under the bed—just sort it. Keep, toss, I don’t care.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Just grabbed two full bags and headed outside, the spring air hitting her face sharper than she expected. Back in, straight to the bathroom—hands braced on the sink, breath uneven. Then the kitchen. Something to drink, something to keep her moving.
Anything but stillness.
Meanwhile, Dennis crouched near her bed, pulling out the last of what she’d shoved underneath months—maybe years—ago. Old papers. Loose craft supplies tangled together. A shirt he vaguely remembered her complaining about losing.
“Found it,” he muttered to himself, setting it aside.
A couple of notebooks followed, cleaner than the rest. He picked one up, flipping through absentmindedly. “Could use these,” he said under his breath.
Then something slipped out. A folded piece of paper, thick with too many creases. Dennis paused.
“…what’s this?”
He unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear it. It opened wider than he expected—two pages, pressed together, written in different ink.
At first, he smiled faintly. “Is this that fanfic thing she used to—”
But the thought died halfway through. Because it wasn’t that. Not even close. His eyes moved faster, then slower, like he couldn’t decide how to take it in. The handwriting curled tightly across the page, messy but deliberate, every line packed with something raw enough it almost felt invasive to read.
Pain. Regret. Anger.
Shame.
It wasn’t hidden—it was all right there, screaming through the ink. Dennis swallowed hard. “Oh, Trin…”
He shifted the page, scanning for anything grounding—anything that made this feel less immediate. His eyes caught something near the bottom.
A date.
He blinked, reading it again.
“Eight—no… nine years ago?”
His stomach dropped. He turned to the second page. The difference hit him instantly. The handwriting had changed—still hers, but tighter, less… open. No little circles over her i’s anymore. No softness in the loops.
He read. And then—His name.
Dennis froze. Not just mentioned. Written into something that felt like a confession. Of pleas. Of apologies that didn’t belong to him. Of her calling herself things he would never, ever call her.
dennis,, what am i to say do. don't hate me because i didn't let you find my body. i would kill myself hate if i did that to you. you mean so much to me that you're gonna be one great doctor. I’m a bitch selfish terrible person. i don’t know how to let people in without ruining it. i can’t be vulnerable i wanna be so bad. i tend to ruin everything i touch so hopefully you're not too ruined. the mullet obviously is the best i've done for you. you shouldn't be suffering under my walls.
His grip on the paper tightened. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, that’s not—”
There were other names too.
Robby.
Garcia.
Langdon.
Victoria—no nicknames, no humor. Just Victoria, like it mattered too much to soften.
Dennis’s vision blurred, and he blinked hard, trying to steady it. Near the bottom, something else. Numbers. Another date. His brain resisted it at first, like it didn’t want to process what it was seeing.
Then it clicked. Two months ago. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Are you—are you kidding me…”
The room tilted slightly, and he sat back hard against the floor, the paper trembling in his hands. His chest felt tight, like something inside it was cracking open too fast to keep up with.
Two months.
She wrote this two months ago. All of this—everything she’d been carrying—still there. Still this loud. This heavy. And he hadn’t known. Dennis pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing against the sudden wave of nausea that rose in his throat. For a second, he thought he might actually throw up.
“She didn’t—” he started, voice breaking. “She didn’t say anything.” Of course she didn’t. That was Trin.
His other hand clenched against his chest, fingers curling like he could hold something in place that was already slipping.
“I can’t—” he exhaled shakily. “I can’t lose her.”
The thought landed heavy. Immediate. Non-negotiable. She wasn’t just some savior from his lack of support or financial debt. She was his friend. She wasn’t just someone who showed up and filled space.
She was—“Home,” he said under his breath, the word catching.
His eyes dropped back to the pages, to her handwriting, to the parts of her she’d never actually let him see. And suddenly all the “I’m fine”s, all the deflections, all the sharp edges—They made too much sense.
Dennis wiped at his eyes roughly, smearing the blur instead of clearing it. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice unsteady but firming at the edges. “I'm not letting her do this.”
He held onto them. Not like something he found. Like something he wasn’t going to let go of.
Trinity nudged the door open with her hip, balancing two sweating glasses in her hands. Lemonade, mostly. Vodka, enough. “Peace offering,” she called out, already half-smiling. “Or at least a distraction.”
No answer. She stepped further in, the quiet hitting her first. Then him. Dennis was on the floor, sitting back on his heels like he’d forgotten how to stand. Shoulders pulled in, head bowed. Small, somehow.
“...What’s up with you, Huckleberry?”
He moved fast at her voice—too fast. A sleeve dragged across his face, a loud sniff that echoed in the room. Trinity’s brows knit together immediately.
“Oh my god,” she said, a breath of a laugh slipping out. “Did you find the box of—”
Not laughter. He turned. And whatever she’d been about to say dropped straight out of her.
His eyes were red. Not just a little—fully blown, wet and glassy. His nose pink, his face crumpled in a way she’d never seen on him before. And his hands—white-knuckled around a loose sheet of paper. Another one lay open on the floor in front of him. Trinity’s smile faltered.
“…Den?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her. Completely wrecked. Confused, she took a step closer, the glasses clinking softly in her hands. Her brain tried to catch up—what could he have possibly—then she actually saw the paper.
The folds.
The ink.
Her stomach dropped.
Oh.
The glasses nearly slipped from her hands, but she tightened her grip just in time, setting them down blindly on the nearest surface without looking away from him.
“Oh,” she said again, quieter this time.
Dennis made a sound—half breath, half break—and suddenly he was reaching for her, hands catching around her ankles like he thought she might bolt.
“Trin—”
“I—”
He tried again, but the words didn’t come. A sob tore out of him instead, raw and sudden, like it had been sitting too close to the surface.
“Sorry, I've been a terrible roommate—” he choked, throwing a hand over his mouth like he could shove it back in.
Something in her chest cracked open at the sound. Her own breath hitched, and before she could stop it, tears welled up, blurring her vision.
“Hey—hey,” she said softly, voice unsteady despite herself. “You haven't.”
“No, I haven't. You've be struggling,” he shot back immediately, shaking his head, his voice breaking around the edges. “You’re not okay, you’re hurting and I didn’t—I didn’t see it, I didn’t—” His grip tightened. “I’ve been ungrateful. I’ve been so—so not there for you.”
“What? No,” she said quickly, dropping down onto her knees in front of him. “Den, no. If you think that—even after reading that—then you’re not reading it right.”
“Don’t,” he whispered, almost pleading. “Please don’t do that.”
Her throat tightened. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward. Collapsed, almost, into him.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in, and he went without hesitation—folding into her like he’d been waiting for permission. His face pressed into the side of her neck, breath uneven, fingers gripping tight at the fabric of her shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured, even as her own tears slipped free, dampening his hair. “I’ve got you.”
He shook against her, quiet now but still breaking in small, uneven breaths.
“I can’t lose you,” he said into her skin, voice muffled and fragile in a way she’d never heard from him. “I can’t, Trin. You don’t—you don’t get to go anywhere, okay? You don’t—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. “I’m right here.”
And she meant it. Even if parts of her didn’t feel steady. Even if parts of her still hurt in ways she didn’t know how to explain.
She meant that.
Because no one had ever—Not like this. Not this openly. Not this… desperately.
A man, holding onto her like she mattered that much. Like losing her would break something in him. Her chest ached, but it wasn’t the same kind of ache. It was warmer. Softer. Confusing. Her grip on him tightened just a little.
“I’m okay,” she said again, quieter this time. Not to convince him—just to say it out loud. “I’m still here.”
Dennis didn’t let go.
And for once—She didn’t feel like she had to either.
that rooftop scene in the finale was actually so important.
the rooftop is the setting in the pitt where people have these big emotional beats in which they reach out and attempt to find community. this is established in season one between jack and robby. in the beginning of episode one, we see jack facing the void and turning away from it to follow robby back to safety, robby does the same with jack at the end. season two reaffirms this interpretation.
all of these women we saw on the roof were on the brink this whole season. samira was personally and professionally adrift. mel was facing her malpractice suit and sister’s independence. perlah was facing national xenophobic sentiments and the pressure of being a highly capable nurse. dana was reeling from her assault and crumbling under the pressure of her position. mckay was realizing the depths of her emotional detachment. victoria was dealing with her insecurities and lack of freedom. trinity had the situationship and the frank confrontation and the child abuse trigger and the loss of dennis’s company.
all of these women were facing a profound loneliness, a profound void, a profound lack of support. they were all alone in this all day, briefly brushing against each other in moments that chafed and soothed in equal measure.
and just like jack and robby have each other to pull them back from the edge, these women can find that with each other in the exact same spot.
the pitt uses setting very well. the peds room represents the loss and gains of family. the bathroom represents the humanity denied to healthcare works. and the roof represents the community these providers find within each other.
they all have moments where they’re correcting, snapping, or disagreeing with each other this season. samira judges cassie for talking about her lack of intimacy, victoria and trinity have a more sarcastic relationship, mel flat out said trinity has a personality disorder, dana has been short with just about everyone. but in this one moment, they band together. they process the day, feel awe and exhaustion and sadness and wonder all at the same time, all together. they build an imperfect community out of tragedies.
brendon park x you mwah haa ha
did i make this man a little pathetic and ooc...yes. do i regret it...no. he deserves nothing and everything at the same time !
no use of y/n just you,,,gender neutral reader
i have more pitt people, whitantos roomie, x readers and oc’s in the work since i’m crazy like that :p
Booping A Shark’s Snout
Dr. Brendon Park x Reader
Brendon Park doesn’t realize he’s listening at first.
He’s just at the nurses’ station, chart open, pen tapping lightly against the counter while he waits for labs to upload. It’s background noise—voices he recognizes, the cadence of coworkers halfway through a long shift, a little too loose with their thoughts.
“…I’m just saying, if it’s been that long and nothing’s happened—”
He tunes in without meaning to.
“Eight years? That’s insane. At that point you’re just… roommates with benefits.”
A quiet scoff from someone else. “No, seriously. If he hasn’t proposed by then, he’s not going to. Especially if you’re like past your twenties.”
Park’s pen stills.
“Or she doesn’t want it,” another voice adds. “People outgrow each other. There’s like—an expiration date on that kind of thing.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze fixed on the screen but not seeing a word of it. Eight years. They don’t mean Park’s relationship with you, but they don’t have to. They don’t even know about you and him.
“…and don’t even get me started on long engagements,” someone continues. “If you’re engaged for more than, like, three years? You’re not getting married. You just like the idea of it. Then you’re gonna break up.”
There’s a pause.
Then someone lowers their voice, not enough.
“…isn’t kind of embarrassing? To be with someone for so long and not do anything about it? I heard from Garcia that Shark has been in a relationship for so long and hasn’t made a move either. One of them has to be cheating—”
Park sighs.
It’s quiet, controlled, but it cuts through the conversation just enough that the group stiffens. Someone clears their throat. Another pretends to suddenly be very interested in a chart.
“Oh! Dr. Park,” one of them says carefully.
He doesn’t look up.
“Is there a patient update you need?” he asks flatly.
“No, we were just—”
“Then I suggest you get back to work.”
That’s the end of it. But the words don’t leave him.
They follow him into patient rooms, into consults, into the steady rhythm of suturing where his hands move on instinct but his mind is somewhere else entirely.
Eight years. Too long. Expiration date. He hates how easily it wedges under his skin. Because it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. God, he’s thought about it.
There’s a private browser on his phone—locked, hidden—where your Pinterest boards live. Rings you’ve saved absentmindedly, probably not even thinking he’d ever see them. Oval cuts, mostly. Simple bands. Nothing too loud, nothing too much.
He’s memorized them. He already has three tabs open in a cart he hasn’t checked out. He’s just… waiting. For the right time. The right moment. For things to slow down. For your schedules to align. For—For something.
But now—Now all he can think about is whether you’ve been waiting too long for him to make a move.
He sees you later that day.
You’re across the hall, hair slightly messier than when you started your shift, sleeves rolled, talking softly to a kid in one of the rooms. You crouch down to their level, voice gentler than anything he’s ever heard from anyone else.
You’ve always been like that. Soft where he’s sharp. Warm where he’s distant. It’s what got him in the first place.
Second year residents, thrown together on a case neither of you were supposed to lead. You’d challenged him—flat-out told him he was being too rigid, too clinical, that he needed to see the patient, not just the procedure. No one talks to him like that. No one had. You did. And then you stayed.
Through residency, through fellowships, through late nights and worse mornings and everything in between.
Eight years.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you for a second longer than he should. You laugh at something the kid says. It hits him square in the chest.
You find him later.
“Hey,” you say, nudging his arm lightly as you come up beside him. “You look like you’re brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
You hum. “Right. You just… aggressively think.”
He glances at you, unimpressed. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you do it.”
There’s a beat. Comfortable. Familiar. Eight years worth of it. You lean against the counter next to him, shoulder brushing his. “Long day?” you ask.
He hesitates. Not long. Not really. Just… loud in his head. “…something like that.”
You study him for a second, subtle but perceptive in the way you always are. “You okay?”
There it is. The opening. The moment he could say something. He thinks about it—about just asking. About bringing it up plainly, directly, the way he does everything else.
Do you feel like we’ve been together too long without moving forward? Do you think we’re… stuck? Do you still want this?
The questions sit heavy on his tongue. But then you reach for his hand—absentminded, automatic, like you always do—and lace your fingers through his.
And it’s so easy. Too easy to lose the words. “I’m fine,” he says instead.
You don’t look convinced. But you squeeze his hand once, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Okay.”
The weight doesn’t leave him when he pulls into the driveway.
It follows him all the way up, sits heavy in his chest even as the house comes into view—warm, glowing, yours. The soft orange wash of the salt lamps bleeding through the windows, the fairy lights you insisted on stringing up year-round flickering gently against the glass.
“Gotta let people know we are home no matter if we aren’t.”
He remembers the way you said it, half-joking, half-serious, already halfway up a step stool before he could argue. He never really did argue. Not when it came to things like that. Not when it made you look like you belonged here.
The engine cuts. The quiet settles. For a second, he just sits there. Breath slow. Hands still on the wheel. Then he exhales, long and tired, and forces himself to move.
The house greets him the same way it always does.
Soft. Warm. Lived in.
Peaches and mint hit him first—the candle you swore was “life-changing” from that farmer’s market you dragged him to months ago. It’s burned low now, but still enough to linger. Underneath it, something richer—tomato, cream, a hint of vodka sauce still hanging in the air.
You cooked. Of course you did.
He toes off his shoes quietly, setting his bag down by the door out of habit. The TV murmurs low from the living room—something familiar, procedural, the steady rhythm of voices he doesn’t have to pay attention to.
He follows it. And there you are. Curled into the corner of the couch—your couch, even if he paid for it—the massive Love Sac you insisted was “an investment, Brendon, trust me,” swallowing you whole in the best way. A blanket half-draped over your legs, one arm tucked under your cheek, the other resting loosely against your stomach.
Your breathing is slow. Even. Every so often, a small sound slips past your lips. Asleep. Waiting for him, probably. Something in his chest tightens.
He should let you sleep. He knows that.
You’ve probably had a long day too. You always do. And you never complain about it—not really. Not in the way he does, not in the way he feels it sitting in his bones like something he can’t shake.
But—He needs you.
Not in the dramatic, falling-apart way. Just… in the quiet way. The way that steadies him. The way that reminds him he’s not alone in any of it. So he moves closer, careful but not careful enough to keep the couch from dipping under his weight.
Then he climbs in. Big enough for both of you, just like you said.
He doesn’t hesitate—just folds himself over you, slotting in like he’s done this a hundred times before, because he has. Chest to chest, one arm braced beside your head, the other wrapping around your waist as he tucks his face into the space between your neck and shoulder.
Warm. Familiar. Home.
You stir immediately, shifting under him as he pulls you closer—closer—like he’s trying to erase whatever distance the day put between you.
“Mm… Bren…” your voice is thick with sleep, barely there as your hand instinctively comes up, fingers tangling in his hair. “When’d you get home…”
“Just now,” he murmurs, voice low against your skin.
You hum softly, eyes still closed. “We should eat… shower too… then get some sleep…”
“Mm,” he answers, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even try. Because your hand is already in his hair, nails grazing lightly over his scalp, dragging from his forehead back to the nape of his neck in slow, practiced strokes.
Exactly how he likes it. Exactly how you’ve always done it. He exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening almost immediately under your touch.
God. He could fall asleep like this. He wants to fall asleep like this.
Your nails scratch lightly again, a little firmer this time, and his grip around you tightens without him thinking about it. His face presses deeper into your neck, breath warm against your skin. You always know. Even half-asleep, you always know what he needs.
“…long day?” you murmur, words barely formed.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then, quieter—“Yeah.”
You don’t push. Never do. Just shift slightly so he’s more comfortable, your other hand coming up to trace lazy patterns along his shoulder, your nails occasionally dragging just enough to make him exhale a little heavier.
“That’s okay,” you mumble. “You’re home now.”
Simple but it does it, it always does. He doesn’t realize how tight his chest was until it isn’t anymore. Until it loosens under your hands, under your voice, under the steady rhythm of you just… being here. His fingers curl slightly into your side, grounding himself.
“I don’t say it enough,” he mutters into your skin, voice rougher now, quieter.
You hum. “Say what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses a slow, absentminded kiss against your neck. “…this,” he settles on. “Us.”
Your hand pauses for half a second. Then resumes, softer this time. “You don’t have to,” you whisper. “I know.”
And that almost undoes him more than anything else. Because you do. You always have. From the moment you laughed and turned him down the first time he asked you to move in—gentle, not rejecting, just… not yet.
To the way you finally said yes like it was the most natural thing in the world. To this. Right here. He shifts slightly, just enough to look at you. Your eyes are still closed, lashes resting against your cheeks, completely at ease even with his weight on top of you. He brushes his thumb along your jaw, soft. “…I’m serious,” he says, quieter now.
Your lips twitch faintly. “I know you are.”
“No—” he exhales, a little sharper than he means to, then softens again. “I mean it.”
Your eyes blink open slowly, still hazy with sleep as they meet his. There’s no confusion there. Just you. Waiting. He swallows.
“I don’t… handle things like you do,” he admits. “But you make it easier.”
Your expression softens, something warmer settling in your gaze. “Bren—”
“I mean it,” he repeats, quieter now. “Coming home to you. This place. It’s—” he falters slightly, then steadies. “…it’s the only part of my day that doesn’t feel like work.”
A small smile pulls at your lips. “Good,” you whisper. “That’s kind of the point.”
He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, shaking his head slightly before dropping his forehead to yours.
Your hands don’t stop moving. They never do. Scratching lightly at his scalp, trailing down his neck, over his shoulders—mapping him in the way you’ve memorized over the years. He melts into it. Completely.
“You gonna move,” you mumble after a minute, voice teasing but soft, “or are you just gonna suffocate me out here?”
“…no.”
You let out a quiet laugh, breath warm against his lips. “Figured.”
He shifts just enough to take some of his weight off you—but not enough to actually leave. Not enough to lose contact.
“Five minutes,” you murmur. “Then we eat.”
“Mm.”
“Then shower.”
“Mm.”
“Then sleep.”
He nods faintly against you. But neither of you move. Because your nails are still in his hair. Because his arms are still wrapped around you. Because the world outside this couch can wait a little longer. And right now—He just needs this. Needs you. And you let him have it.
He stills under your hands. Not completely—but enough that you feel it. The way his jaw tightens just slightly beneath your palms, the way his eyes flicker like he wants to look away again but can’t because you’re holding him there, grounding him.
You always do that. Pull him back when he starts drifting too far into his own head. Your kisses come fast, scattered, soft against his cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth until he huffs and tries to turn his face away, one hand coming up half-heartedly to block you.
“Okay—okay,” he mutters, voice quieter now, a little less tight. “You’re doing too much.”
You grin, not stopping until you’re sure you’ve broken through at least some of that tension. Then you settle, slipping out from under him until you’re straddling him, hands firm on either side of his face so he has no choice but to look at you.
“I love you,” you say again, softer this time, slower. “And I love us.” His eyes search yours. Like he’s trying to find the catch. There isn’t one.
Eventually, you do get him up.
It takes effort—soft nudges, a quiet “c’mon, Bren”, your fingers still tangled in his hair as leverage—but he follows, slow and heavy like he’s being pulled out of something deeper than sleep.
A sleepy puppy, exactly.
He doesn’t stray far from you the entire time.
In the kitchen, he leans into you while you reheat the pasta, arm slung low around your waist, chin nearly resting on your shoulder. He eats because you hand him a fork, because you nudge his knee with yours and give him that look.
“Eat.”
“…I am.”
“You’re staring at it.” A quiet huff—but he listens.
In the shower, it’s the same. Closer than necessary. Hands slower than usual. He shampoos your hair carefully, fingers working through your scalp in a way that almost makes your knees weak, rinsing it out with the same focus he uses in managing bones. Conditioner next, gentle, methodical.
Then his hands slide down—soap, warm water, familiar paths along your arms, your sides, your back. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just… grounding himself in you.
You do the same for him, returning the care, the quiet attention. He lets you—leans into it, even. Lets your fingers work through his hair, down his shoulders, across his chest. He eyes your lavender bottle when you reach for it. “…no.”
You snort. “You know you like using this.”
“I don’t. It smells like sleep.”
“That’s the point.”
“…I don’t trust it.”
You laugh, rinsing it away anyway. By the time you’re dried off, teeth brushed, and back in pajamas, the weight of the day should be gone. Usually is. But when you collapse into bed, it comes back. You feel it in the way his hands grip your shirt—his shirt on you—fisting the fabric as he pulls you into him, tighter than normal. Not suffocating, but close. Like he needs contact.
Like he needs to make sure you’re still there. You don’t say anything at first. Just go with it. Let him pull you in, let him tuck himself into you the way he always does—face pressed near your shoulder, ear over your heartbeat.
Your hand comes up automatically, threading into his hair. Scratch. Slow drag. He exhales. But something’s off. You know it immediately. Brendon isn’t like this unless something’s wrong.
Sick, drunk, or the rare quiet moments when the world isn’t watching him and he lets himself be softer than he ever admits. This is… different. He’s quiet, yes. But it’s heavier than that.
You wait for the routine to fall into place. For him to tilt his head so you can start your kisses. For him to mumble something half-complaining when you overdo it. For the small, familiar rhythm you’ve built together without ever meaning to.
It doesn’t happen. No kisses. No teasing. Just his finger tracing slow spirals on your bicep. Round. Round. Round.
You frown slightly, even though he can’t see it. “…Bren,” you murmur softly.
He hums, distracted. You shift, pressing closer—closer than you already are—until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers slide from his hair to his jaw, gently nudging.
“Hey.” He resists for half a second. Then lets you guide him. His eyes meet yours. There it is. That tightness. “…what’s wrong?” you ask, voice quiet, careful.
He shakes his head immediately. “Nothing.”
You don’t even entertain it. “Brendon.” A pause. He knows you know. His hand tightens slightly where it rests on you before loosening again.
“…I just—” he exhales, gaze slipping away for a second before coming back. “While I was scrubbing in… two of the girls were talking.”
You wait.
“About relationships,” he adds. “And… their expiration dates.”
Oh.
You don’t react right away—just watch him, the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his jaw tightens like he’s already annoyed at himself for even caring.
“My, my,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips despite it, “Park the Shark listening in on gossip?”
He groans softly, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “They were talking like I wasn’t there.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Bold of them.” There’s a beat. Then you tilt your head slightly. “So what did they say?”
He hesitates. And that—that’s what makes you really pay attention. Because Brendon doesn’t hesitate like this unless it matters. “…that it’s weird,” he says finally. “To date this long. At our age. Without…” he trails off, jaw tightening. “…doing anything about it.”
You blink. Then—softly—“Love, we did do something about it. We went to HR, remember? Very official. Very romantic.”
He huffs, but it doesn’t stick. You notice the way he looks away again. The way his finger starts tracing your arm faster now. Nervous. “…we’ve been dating for eight years,” he says.
“Yeah,” you nod easily. “Almost nine in June.”
“Exactly.”
You study him for a second. Then smile, just a little. “Love… what does that mean?”
He exhales, sharper this time. “They said it’s… not normal. That by now we should at least be engaged.”
There it is. You don’t laugh this time. Not because it’s serious—but because he is. You shift, gently but deliberately, until you’re over him—straddling his hips, hands coming up to cup his face before he can look away again.
“Hey.” He still tries. You don’t let him. Your thumbs press lightly into his cheeks, holding him there. “You know I don’t care about that,” you say softly. “You know that.”
He doesn’t answer. So you keep going. “Your parents dated for what—six months? Got married, had your brother, your sister, then you?” you tilt your head slightly. “You’ve seen how that went.”
His jaw tightens faintly.
“And mine,” you add, gentler now, “dated for fifteen years. Finally got married… and divorced three years later.” A beat. “Time doesn’t mean anything if it’s not right.”
That gets his eyes back on you. Really on you. Good. You lean down then—quick, soft kisses scattered across his face, cheeks, nose, the corner of his mouth until he makes a face and tries to push you away. “Okay—”
“No,” you murmur, smiling against his skin. “I’m not done.”
He huffs, but there’s less weight in it now. You slow eventually, resting your forehead against his, still holding his face.
“I love you,” you say, softer this time.
His eyes flicker.
“So the ring,” you shrug lightly, “the whole paper work, the financial benefits—” a small smile, “—that can come later.” You tighten your hold on his face just enough to keep him from looking away again.
“We move at our pace,” you say. “Not theirs.”
He’s quiet. Really quiet. Searching your face like he’s trying to find hesitation, doubt—anything. There’s none.
“…you mean that,” he says finally. Not a question.
“Always and yeah,” you continue, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, “sometimes I see people getting engaged after like… a year and I’m like—” you pull a face, teasing, “okay, show-offs.”
That gets the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“But it doesn’t make me feel like we’re behind,” you add. “Or doing something wrong.”
His gaze drops for half a second—your hands tighten just enough to bring him back. “Hey,” you murmur. “Stay with me.”
He exhales, nodding once.
“I know what we have,” you say. “I’ve known for a long time. I don’t need a timeline from anyone else to tell me that it’s real.”
That settles something in him. You feel it in the way his grip on your shirt loosens just slightly—not letting go, just… not holding on so tight.
“I’m not sitting here waiting for you to catch up,” you add gently. “I’m already here with you.”
His brows pull together at that, something softer slipping through the cracks of that usual sharp expression.
“…you’re not… worried?” he asks, quieter than before. “That I’m… dragging it out?”
You shake your head immediately. “No.” No hesitation. No second-guessing. “I said yes when I was ready,” you remind him lightly. “Moved in when it felt right. Stayed because I wanted to—not because I was waiting for the next step.”
Your thumbs trace slow, absent patterns along his jaw. “And when the next step happens,” you continue, voice warm, steady, “it’ll be because we decided it—not because some coworkers think there’s an expiration date on us.”
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it’s softer than that. More relieved. “…they said it was weird,” he admits after a second, like it feels smaller now that he’s saying it out loud.
You tilt your head. “Weird?”
“Yeah.”
You shrug. “Good.”
That makes him blink.
“Why would I want us to be normal?” you ask, a little amused. “Normal sounds boring.”
That actually pulls a quiet huff from him. You take the opportunity, leaning down to press a slow kiss to his forehead this time—mirroring him, grounding him the way he does for you.
“We’re good, Bren,” you whisper against his skin. “More than good.”
His hands shift from your shirt to your waist, holding you there—not desperate now, just… certain. “…you’d tell me,” he says after a moment. Not a question.
“Always.”
“…if you wanted more.”
“I do want more,” you correct gently. His eyes flick back up to yours. You smile, softer now. “Just not at the cost of this.”
That’s the thing that settles him. You can see it happen. The tension leaves his shoulders, the sharpness in his gaze easing back into something warmer, something familiar. His thumb brushes absently along your side like he’s reorienting himself.
Back to you. Back to this. “…okay,” he says finally.
You nod once, satisfied. “Okay,” you echo.
There’s a beat. Then you lean in, nudging your nose against his. “Now can we do our actual routine? Because you skipped my kisses and I feel personally attacked.”
He exhales, a quiet, almost-laugh slipping out as his hands slide up to your arms. “Dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“…unfortunately.”
You grin, already leaning in again, pressing quick kisses along his face until he gives in properly this time—tilting his head just enough to meet you halfway, lips brushing yours in something softer, slower.
Familiar. When you finally settle, it’s like muscle memory. You shift down beside him, tucked close, his arm wrapping around you as he buries his face near your shoulder again—right where he likes it. Your hand finds his hair without thinking, nails dragging lightly across his scalp.
He exhales, deeper this time. Steady. Your other hand rests over his where it sits against your waist, fingers lacing together. No tension. No second-guessing. Just the quiet rhythm of the two of you falling back into place. And this time—When he listens to your heartbeat, it doesn’t feel like something he might lose. It feels like something he’s already chosen. Something that chose him back.
That night, he doesn’t sleep much.
He’s lying next to you, staring at the ceiling, your head tucked against his shoulder, breathing slow and even.
He turns slightly, just enough to look at you. Now he wonders if he should have. If you’ve been waiting for him to catch up. If you’ve been quiet about it because you didn’t want to push. Because you didn’t want to scare him off. The thought sits wrong in his chest. You’ve never been the kind to play games.
If you wanted something, you’d say it. Wouldn’t you? …wouldn’t you?
He exhales quietly, careful not to wake you. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. His phone is there. So is the decision he’s been putting off.
The next morning, you wake up to him already gone. Not unusual. But there’s a sticky note on the counter.
Dinner tonight. Don’t make plans.
No signature. He doesn’t need one. You smile a little anyway.
By midday, the cart on his phone is no longer a cart. That evening, he’s home before you. Also not unusual. But when you walk in, the lights are dimmer than usual. The place is… cleaner. Suspiciously so.
“Bren?” you call.
“In here.”
You follow his voice to the living room. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, posture straight in that way he defaults to when he’s… nervous.
You pause. “…what did you do?”
His mouth twitches. “Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you only clean like this when you’re avoiding something or about to drop a bomb.”
“That’s not—” He stops. “…entirely inaccurate.”
You fold your arms, amused. “Okay. Should I be concerned?”
He shakes his head once. Then, after a second, he steps closer. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him. There’s a beat. Then another. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t fumble. Just… looks at you. Eight years. Every version of you he’s known layered into this one moment.
“You’ve never asked me where this is going,” he says finally.
Your brows knit slightly. “I mean… I figured it was going with you.”
“It is.” You soften a little at that.
“Okay,” you say gently. “Then I’m not really worried.”
He studies your face, searching for something—doubt, hesitation, anything. He doesn’t find it. “…you don’t think we’ve been together too long without… making a move?”
You blink, caught off guard. “This? Again?”
“Just answer the question.”
You tilt your head, considering. “No,” you say after a moment. “I don’t.”
He exhales, just slightly.
“But,” you add, stepping a little closer, “I did think you’d say something eventually.”
His gaze sharpens. “Eventually?”
You shrug lightly. “I wasn’t in a rush. I just—” you smile a little, softer now, “—trusted that you’d get there when you were ready.”
“…okay.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Brendon—”
He moves before you can finish. One step back. Then down. Your breath catches as he drops to one knee. “…oh.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t overcomplicate it. Just reaches into his pocket, pulls out the ring he’s already memorized against your hand.
“I was going to wait,” he says. “For the right time. But—” his jaw tightens slightly, “—there’s no version of my future that doesn’t have you in it. So waiting doesn’t make sense.”
Your eyes are already glassy. “Brendon…”
“I love you,” he says, steady and certain. “I have for a long time. I’m going to for a lot longer.” A beat. “Marry me.”
You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half something shakier.
“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Yeah, obviously—yes.”
For the first time all day—maybe all week—he looks completely at ease. Like everything finally clicked into place. He slides the ring onto your finger. Perfect fit. Of course it is. He stands, and you don’t even give him a second before you’re pulling him in, arms tight around him.
“You’ve been looking at my Pinterest, haven’t you?” you murmur against his shoulder.
“…no.”
You pull back just enough to give him a look.
“…yes,” he admits.
You grin. “Stalker.”
“Efficient.”
You laugh, and he kisses you—firm, certain, like he means every second of the next eight years already. And this time, there’s no question about where it’s going.
trying to explain whitaker and langdon’s conversation!
I’ve seen a lot of people confused on Whitaker and Langdon’s conversation in the break room and the subtext is doing SO much work. On the surface it sounds like they’re just making a random Gilligan’s Island reference, and a lot of people are taking it at face value because they just don’t understand what’s happening (lol)
FOR CONTEXT: Gilligan’s Island is an old sitcom about a group of people stranded on an island after a boat trip goes wrong. Every character in the series has a very clearly defined role in the group.
When Whitaker brings up Skipper and Gilligan after Langdon calls him “little buddy,” he’s reacting to that exact idea of being placed into a predefined role. Even if Langdon doesn’t mean it in a cruel way, that kind of language still implies a hierarchy where one person gets to define the other.
Two episodes earlier (I think…?) Santos tells Whitaker about how Langdon, on her first day as a doctor, made her question her competence and whether she even belongs in the ER at all. So Whitaker is already primed to see a pattern where Langdon (intentionally or not) destabilizes people’s sense of where they stand in the hierarchy.
When Whitaker snaps, it’s him reacting to that pattern in real time. And it’s not just about his own interaction, it’s also about what has been happening to Santos because, remember, they’re FRIENDS and he’s looking out for her too.
When Langdon says “Okay, what part am I?” he’s trying to restore that kind of structured system where everyone has a clear, assigned role, specifically because that’s what he’s been trying to do this entire season; he’s been trying to find his role in the ER since last season, he had a definitive role—He was Robby’s golden boy. But Whitaker rejects that entirely with “Play whatever part you like, just don’t pick mine for me,” He is explicitly saying that Langdon doesn’t get to assign him a fixed identity or position in that hierarchy and that it didn’t matter where he, Langdon, fits in the hierarchy either.
ALSO, it’s really interesting is how they immediately start disagreeing on who fits into those roles in the actual ER. Langdon says Robby is the Skipper, which means he views Robby as the clear captain figure, the person at the top of the hierarchy who runs everything. Whitaker pushes back on that and says no, Robby is more like the Professor: someone highly skilled and important, but not necessarily the one actively steering the ship in real time. And Whitaker, instead, places Dana as the skipper, which reframes the authority completely. It suggests that, in practice, Dana is the one who actually keeps everything moving, coordinates chaos, and holds functional control over the environment, not just the person with the title.
Summary: Conversations between you! (an intern), and some of the rather more interesting characters of The Pitt
Warnings: MDNI 18+. swearing, afab reader, slight nsfw, a tiny dose of hucklerobby, some of the characters have MY humour, bullying of all characters, huckleberry is my sweet little babeyyy that i want to protect from the world, jack abbot x reader, a lot of canon and a lot of non canon, some terminology may be wrong but god forbid 🙄
a/n: hello! this is my first EVER fanfic so be kind world 🧘♀️. if you have any thoughts, feelings or questions please feel free to ask and tell!
summary: the everyday conversations between pittsburgh's most beloved trauma doctors (mostly.) and you! small snippets of how i think the pitt characters would interact when not over a patient.
warnings: MDNI 18+ . swearing, inappropriate usage of a work gc, bullying of characters (no one is safe), slight nsfw, crack fic. reader is referred to as 'burn', roommates with santos and whitaker trope, hucklerobby mentioned, afab reader.
✦ ⋆ ࣪. a group chat with residents, doctors, nurses of the pitt and you!
summary: conversations between the pitt’s fav er doctors! and more :) reader is referred to as (sunshine/happy feet!)
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
warnings: 18+, lots of flirting, reader is roommates with santos and whitaker, jack cannon, readers brother is frank langdon, reader is also on the night and rotating with morning shift crew!!, no description of reader so self insert :) mid nsfw, pittfest mentions…talks of blood and doctor work in general. reader is about same age as santos and whitaker!! basically just a bunch of bs talk ogilvie hate idc.
%%%% a collection of random texts with social worker!reader
%%%% warnings— this is not a spoiler free story! lewd talks and behaviors, drug abuse, fem!reader, corny jokes, human behavior that will make you side eye. will add more as the story progresses
In a world where everyone is OOC and reader is a veterinary technician who has a big fat crush on the new doctor at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center after a forgotten lunch incident…where her father- Dr. Robby and uncle…Dr. Abbot work.
⚕️Dennis Whitaker x !Robinavitch reader| EXTRA: all my reaction pics
“i never see you at the club” ok well i never see you on ao3 at 2am reading about the same two bitches falling in love for the 1000th time in the 500th way
