Please…

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

Robby’s relationship with the Pitt is…complicated.

Sometimes, the Emergency Department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feels more like home than his own house. All of the most significant moments of his life over the last 20 years have occurred within the sterile white walls of his ED. His promotion to attending. His career-defining relationship with Montgomery Adamson. A significant portion of Jake’s childhood. Countless lives saved, residents mentored, students guided…

In spite of living in his Mexican War Streets rowhouse for more than a decade, however, it’s nothing more than a glorified landing pad – perfectly comfortable but impersonal. It boasts an oversized bed with an orthopedic mattress and a shower with killer water pressure, but there’s also a refrigerator that rarely sees more than a case of beer and leftover takeout containers, a television that never turns off, and a distinct lack of photographs or pieces of art on the walls. So there are some days when Robby arrives for work and feels less like he is about to clock in for a 12-hour shift and more like he can finally breathe again.

Other days, the Pitt is a prison.

Every exam room a cell, every corridor lined with a memory Robby wishes he was strong enough to suppress. Or perhaps callous enough to forget.

The pandemic, of course. Endless weeks, months seen through a foggy plastic face shield, trapped behind layers of scrubs and gloves and sanitary gowns, strung tight enough to snap, haunted by the endless noise of heart monitors and pulse-oxes and ventilators.

The helpless sound of Adamson’s lungs seizing, his heart stopping. The brittle silence that followed.

The crash and burn of his dalliance with Heather Collins. The death of Jack’s wife. The wide blue eyes of his star resident, his protégé, his heir apparent, frantic and desperate and rimmed with unshed tears as Robby shoved the contents of his locker into his arms and banished him from his sight.

And then there’s the blood. The chaos. The impotent, sickening agony of Pittfest. Cold crimson pooling, dripping, spilling onto the floor as poor Leah bled out under his trembling hands.

No.

Robby pauses and draws a deep breath through his nose, eyes falling shut, steeling himself before the memories can overtake him.

Flashbacks, his last therapist had called them. A characteristic symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.

As if he didn’t know. As if such a thing was a revelation to him. He’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake. He knows what PTSD is.

Robby is never sure precisely which version of the Pitt will greet him as he swings through the public doors and breezes through security with a nod to the officers stationed there. It’s the walk through the waiting room that usually tells him. He likes to take a quick pass through the press of bodies there, to scan the crowd and feel its energy, to use it to gauge what he might encounter on the other side of the triage doors. Today, the energy is restless and tense. It’s busier than usual – not holiday busy, thank god, but certainly more than an average Monday morning at 7 AM.

On Mondays, the GP offices re-open, marking the start of the new week. If a patient has waited until Monday to seek medical attention for whatever ails them, they tend to seek it with their own providers. Though he supposes having a GP at all is becoming less and less common.

Regardless, Mondays are typically more…the q-word than this.

He offers nods and half-smiles to the colleagues he encounters on his way to the lockers. Lupe at the reception desk, Ellis doing hand-off with McKay outside Central 10, Kim chatting with a patient in a wheelchair, Esme pushing an environmental services cart in the direction of the South corridor.

If he focuses hard enough, he can sense each of them. There’s the bite of antiseptic, the sterility of the ultra-filtered air, the muted dullness of medical-grade scent blockers and the metallic tang of too many suppressants in too many bodies. But underneath all of the olfactory noise, there’s his people.

One in particular catches his attention as he makes his way toward the Hub, a head of silvering curls accompanied by the faintest whiff of leather, patchouli, and gunsmoke. Subdued, nearly deadened by the white, cotton-backed patches on his wrists and at the base of his neck, but so familiar, Robby feels confident he could pick it out of a crowd of thousands.

If Jack had been on shift the night before, perhaps there is hope that the state of chairs had misled him. Perhaps his ED is in better order than he thought.

One peek at the board, however, squashes that hope in less than a second.

Okay, Robby thinks to himself, allowing his backpack to slip off his shoulder and rest on the counter in front of him. Prison it is.

“There you are,” he groans, pinning Abbot with a frown. “This board’s a nightmare. Surprised I didn’t find you on the roof this morning.”

The other Alpha doesn’t look up from his computer screen and instead continues to chart as he offers Robby a quirk of his lips. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s pleasant, and it’s enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.

“If you’d been paying attention, brother, you’d know I haven’t taken a trip up that way in months,” he replies easily.

Robby’s frown deepens, and he picks up a tablet from the charging station. “Months? It can’t have been that long.”

“Just haven’t felt the need.” A quick, decisive couple of keystrokes, and Abbot logs out of the terminal. “I can flirt with the abyss in plenty of other ways. Think there might be something to the idea of tempting fate too many times.”

The declaration startles a snort from the older man, and he shakes his head, pulling his glasses from his jacket pocket and sliding them up his nose.

If such a thing were true, Jack Abbot would have been dead a hundred times over. As would Robby.

He proceeds to log in to the tablet, but he doesn’t make it far before taking note of the burn of narrowed eyes on the edge of his periphery. Glancing up, he finds his friend staring at him with an unreadable expression on his lined face, arms folded thoughtfully across his chest. There’s tension in his jaw, and a mild flare of frustration colors the air around him.

“Walk with me,” Jack says, ticking his head further down the corridor, toward the relative privacy of the far east end of the department.

“Hm?”

His eyebrows arch, pointed and insistent, and he gets to his feet. He doesn’t check behind him to see if Robby follows.

Robby follows anyway.

The two walk in silence until they reach the narrow stretch of tile where the employee lockers have been tucked away, wedged between Behavioral Health and Trauma 2. Jack pauses there, leans back against the cool metal, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.

“What is it?” Robby asks.

The other Alpha is blocking his locker, his sharp hazel gaze steady and knowing. “What’s this I hear about you dropping the therapist Caleb recommended?”

The question lands like a boulder to the older man’s chest – heavy and forceful enough to knock the wind out of him for a beat or two. It’s a shock to the system, and while some days, it’s easy enough for Robby to laugh off such expressions of concern, to deflect and project and crinkle-eyed smile his way out of confrontational conversations, today, it takes him by surprise.

So instead of meeting the question with laughter, he greets it with scorn instead.

“What? How the fuck do you know that?” he barks, brow pulled low. He hasn’t had the opportunity to put on his hospital-issued scent patches yet, and it’s apparent by the way the burn of Alpha anger crackles through the air.

Jack, unsurprisingly, does not cow in the face of it. Instead, he simply stares, quirks a single brow, and waits for a real answer.

“Jesus Christ.” Robby crosses his arms over his chest, looks down at his feet and shakes his head. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

At that, the other man rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, it wasn’t her. Or Caleb, for that matter,” he adds, before Robby can protest. “But if you want to keep your…experiments with mental health treatment a secret, you’ve gotta stop bitching about it to the good doctor every time he comes down for a psych consult. The nurses hear everything – you should know that by now.”

Ah. Well.

“Of course.” Sighing heavily, the chief presses his fingers to the pressure points on either side of his nose.

“So. What’s the deal?”

Robby looks away with a dismissive shrug. “Just wasn’t a good fit.”

“The others ‘weren’t a good fit,’ either,” Jack counters. Pushing himself away from the lockers, he takes a step closer, ducking his chin as he looks up into Robby’s eyes through his graying eyebrows. “Starting to sound like a bunch of excuses to me.”

This is one of Robby’s favorite traits of Abbot’s. The man is a dog with a bone – focused, determined, stubborn as hell. It had made him a great soldier and an even better doctor. In the friendship department, however…

He scoffs a laugh, the sound humorless and hollow. “Yeah, well, maybe if I could find somebody who didn’t look at me like I’m about to walk into oncoming traffic every thirty seconds, I could actually get somewhere.”

Fuck, Robby hates therapy. The way the therapists always start out with this blandly pleasant expression on their faces, blank and generic and disingenuous. The inane questions they ask, the probing and the poking and the prodding into his every thought and feeling and memory. And of course, like clockwork, the longer he talks, the more honest he allows himself to be, the more offput they all seem to become.

Truthfully, he can never make heads or tails of it. The only conclusion he has managed to come to over his many months of test-driving various providers and modalities is that therapists have no idea what to do with him.

Sometimes, it’s concern he senses, the scent of it warm and lactic – something that might have once been comforting but these days feels cloying and discomfiting. Other times, it’s more like fear, and that’s even worse – astringent and sharp and evoking in him the immediate need to soothe, to comfort, to shield and protect.

How can he be honest with someone who fears for him? His pride won’t allow it, nor will his instincts.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself when he inevitably calls the therapist’s office and informs them that he won’t be continuing his care.

“Well, are you?” Abbot asks bluntly.

Robby blinks. “Am I what?”

“About to walk into traffic.”

For a moment, he is speechless, stunned into silence by the baldness of the question. However, it doesn’t take long for aggravation to rush in to replace the shock, and then Robby is turning on his heel to return to the Central Hub. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time, Robinavitch.”

The words are cold and commanding, the other Alpha sounding every bit the retired Army captain he is, and Robby stops in his tracks, hackles up immediately. There’s a rare challenge in his tone, in his scent.

“Really?” The word comes out like a growl, and he has to swallow thickly to rein in the sound. “That’s how we’re playing this today?”

Behind him, Abbot sighs. The sound is heavy with exhaustion, the first hint of fatigue he has allowed himself to show in spite of just coming off of a 12-hour shift. “Take a breath, quit stinking up the place, and just listen to me for a second, will you?”

Although he is far from the only other Alpha in the ED, Abbot is singular in that he is the only one who could get away with talking to Robby like this. Whether it’s his own rank in the department, or his strength of will, or his seasoned age that makes it possible, he isn’t sure. Jack likes to think it’s a testament to their friendship, to the respect that they have for each other. Regardless, the scolding is enough to stop Robby in his tracks, to force him to turn back around and meet his gaze.

Encouraged by the silent capitulation, Jack spreads his hands wide, putting on a show of making himself open and approachable.

“Let’s take therapy off the table,” he agrees. “Clearly, it’s not doing anything for you. And I know better than to offer the medication route.”

Robby grits his teeth. “Because they make me feel like a fucking zombie, man. I’d rather fuck a cactus than take any more pills.”

Jack’s open hands become a gesture of surrender. “I know, I know. I got it – no pills.” He pauses, then takes a handful of steps to close the distance between them. Voice dropping low, close and confidential, he adds, “But there is one treatment you haven’t tried yet.”

For a moment, the older man frowns in genuine confusion. The way Jack looks at him… There is significance there. There is weight and meaning. Admittedly, embarrassingly, whatever silent message his friend is attempting to convey is lost on him.

He opens his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue, a plea for the other Alpha to please be so kind as to spell it out for him because this attempt at discretion is quickly losing its practicality, but before the words can form, a delicate note of sweetness reaches his nose.

Omega.

His jaw snaps shut, nostrils flaring, tongue feeling wet and swollen in his mouth as he instinctually starts analyzing the scent. There’s a medical compulsion there, of course; you could tell a lot about a person’s biology from their scent. More than that, however, the impulse was…primal.

It was unfamiliar, he noted – not one of his staff. Unfiltered – perhaps a low-dose suppressant, but no blockers, no patches. A patient, mostly likely. Or a family member.

He draws another breath through his nose and allows his eyes to fall shut.

Red roses. Citrus. Something green and fresh, like cut stems and summertime. It’s not to his particular taste, a bit too…perky, perhaps? But pleasant all the same. It’s just enough to smooth the edges of his aggravation, to soothe the barbs of his defensiveness. He feels his shoulders softening, dropping from around his ears. His fists unclench, and the tightness in his chest eases.

The realization shoots down his spine like a bolt of lightning, and Robby’s eyes fly open.

“You’re out of your mind,” he rasps, soft and dangerous and final.

Jack Abbot, however, must have seen the refusal coming. He is there, hot on Robby’s heels as the latter takes off down the hall, determined to put some distance between him and the mere implication of what Jack is suggesting.

“There wouldn’t be any shame in it,” he insists. He keeps his voice quiet, but it doesn’t matter – the two of them are still attracting looks, and the ED is a hotbed for gossip. Robby focuses his gaze on the Hub, clinging to the hope that if he can just get there, something, someone will need his attention badly enough that he can discontinue this conversation and then hopefully shove the roundabout proposal deep into the far reaches of his mind where it won’t be able to surface again.

But still, his best friend is stubborn.

“Look, I hate to break it to you, Mike, but you’re not special,” he hisses. “You are far from the first Alpha to ever struggle with their mental health. Seeking an Omega for emotional support is just about the oldest move in the book.”

At a nearby terminal, Robby notices Princess freeze in place. She does him the courtesy of keeping her eyes on the screen in front of her, but her fingers still, hovering over the keyboard as she subtly pauses in her charting.

Fucking hell.

Robby comes to an abrupt halt, Jack nearly colliding with his back. Quickly, wordlessly, the older man turns, wraps his fingers around the other’s elbow, and ushers him into the closest empty exam room.

Only once the door has clicked shut behind them does he meet Jack’s flinty stare.

“This isn’t the fifties anymore, Jack,” Robby growls. “I don’t need a sweet, submissive little Omega at home just waiting for me to take out my aggression on them. I am not that kind of Alpha.”

And he isn’t, truly. He knows that he might not always be the most reliable judge of his own behavior, but he has been around enough regressive asshole Alphas in his life to know that for all his many, many faults, he has never fit that particular mold. Even as a young pup, freshly presented and bursting at the seams with needs and instincts and desires he had had no idea what to do with, he had felt certain that the path of the stereotypical Alpha was not one that interested him.

It had taken him years to find his own way – to figure out what might suit his natural inclinations, what might sate the need to protect and provide in a way that didn’t involve settling down right after undergrad, bonding with the first Omega that could tolerate him, and keeping them round with his pups. It wasn’t until the start of medical school when he got his first taste of a different sort of pack, one based on competence, mutual respect, and a formal hierarchy that spoke to the deep-seated thing inside him that so desperately needed to understand his place in the world.

In that sort of pack, Robby had excelled. And now he is the Chief of Emergency Medicine at a Level 1 trauma center. Every day, when he walks through those doors, he gets to be a teacher, a mentor, a guide. He is an advocate and a protector. A leader – valued, admired, respected.

What more could an Alpha want?

“I know you’re not,” Jack sighs. There’s frustration in his tone now, his annoyance souring the stale exam room air. “I never said you were.”

Robby’s neck flushes a deep red. “Well, it sure as hell sounded like it!”

At that, Abbot’s hand shoots out and grips him by the shoulder. His palm is warm and broad, fingers firm and insistent as he compels the older man to meet his gaze. “Will you stop posturing at me and give me a chance, here?”

Goddamn it.

He is posturing isn’t he? Drawn up to his full height, shoulders wide and intimidating, throwing the stink of rage and dominance into the atmosphere so carelessly that he knows he’s going to need to have Esme put a portable air filter in here if any of his Omega staff are going to be able to work in here at all today. Not to mention the potential patient impact…

Swallowing the lump of embarrassment in his throat at the realization, Robby rubs the back of his neck in a self-soothing gesture and forces himself to settle down.

“Fine. Say what you need to say,” he rasps.

Something like relief colors Jack’s expression, and he wastes no time making his case. “2022 meta-analysis on the effects of pair-bonding on stress hormone production in sexually mature Alphas.”

The chief releases a deep sigh. Of course, Abbot the niche medical research fiend would come prepared to cite his sources.

“Consistent exposure to Omega pheromones over the course a single month significantly reduced the production of cortisol, epinephrine, norepinephrine, and CRF in Alphas,” he continues, ignoring Robby’s exasperation. “Mating, however, had a multiplicative effect, resulting in benefits to the emotional and physical well-being of both parties.”

It’s all he can do not to roll his eyes. “Brother, I am not a fucking JAMA study.”

“This is what we do, man. We conduct the research. We study the research. We implement the research,” Jack counters, an accusatory finger now pointing at Robby’s chest. “This is legitimate medicine, and you know it.”

In spite of his attempts to get his temper under control, his tone has Robby’s hackles rising again. He feels flayed open, picked apart and placed under a microscope for all of the tender, vulnerable parts of him to be examined. It makes him mean, makes him want to bite.

“You sure you aren’t just chomping at the bit for me to find an Omega because you’ve got one now, and you want to see me all settled down and domesticated like you?” His words come out derisive and cold, and he thinks for a moment that Jack might actually yell at him now. His chest and neck, sun-weathered and freckled, are starting to flush, immediately drawing Robby’s eye to the complimentary bite marks on either side of Jack’s neck. Partially hidden by his scent patches, one is decades old and faded white, barely visible with the unrelenting passage of time. The one on the opposite gland, however, is practically brand new – mostly healed but the scar still a vibrant red, no more than three months old.

However, when his eyes flick back up to meet Jack’s, the other Alpha looks at him not with anger, but with a mix of exhaustion and…

Jesus. Pity.

“Look,” he sighs, the sound of his voice coarse and worn like gravel through a sieve. “All I’m saying is, speaking from experience, sometimes healing for your own sake isn’t enough of a motivator. Sometimes, you need somebody to heal for – somebody you care about enough to actually give a shit about getting better. And then, eventually, over time, maybe you’ll feel good enough to start looking after yourself for you.”

There’s something in the timbre of his words – something in the weight they carry, heavy in the way that only someone who has clawed their way out of their own darkness can convey – that brings Robby pause. For the briefest moment, he considers it.

Jack certainly paints a romantic picture. What kind of love would that have to be? What kind of devotion could inspire one to heal? If such a thing exists, Robby knows he has never experienced it.

“If that were true,” he says tentatively, “don’t you think I would have already done it? This place…” He wraps his long arms around his torso and looks away. His throat feels thick and dry, his eyes pricking dangerously. “It’s the closest thing to a pack I’ve ever had. I’d give my life for each and every person in this department.”

The vulnerability nearly chokes him, and he coughs loudly. He can feel Jack watching him, can feel the fondness and the warmth of his gaze even as he stands at a distance, giving Robby his space. There’s no frustration or anger in his scent now, which upsettingly only makes the attention more difficult to bear. Robby could handle rage. Softness, however, makes his palms itch.

“I know you would,” Jack acknowledges.

“Then why isn’t it enough?”

The other man sighs, scratching his graying stubble thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But what I do know – from one Alpha to another – is that you’re dropping the ball.”

The admonishment comes without malice or cruelty. It’s matter-of-fact, almost kind in its earnestness, but it doesn’t matter. Robby thinks that if the other man had punched him across the jaw, it might have hurt less.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Jack plows onward, undaunted. “And I’ve never aspired to the kind of leadership you’ve taken on, but these are my people, too, and until you start making some real progress on those demons you’re carrying around in your head every day, I can’t sit by and watch you consistently fail to show up for them the way they deserve.”

Every word is a dagger. An accusation. A fear made real, acknowledged out loud and thereby given body and substance. Robby feels as though the other Alpha has cracked open his ribs and reached his fist into his chest cavity, his thick fingers wrapping tightly around every forbidden anxiety and dragging it out into the daylight, hissing and spitting.

Robby’s eyes remain fixed firmly on the floor. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

The words themselves are aggressive, but they land softly – without acid, without bite. It’s only 7:15, the shift has barely begun, and yet he suddenly longs for his bed. He’s so goddamn tired.

Sensing his exhaustion, his hopelessness, Jack brings himself into Robby’s space, grips each of his biceps in his palms, and squeezes.

“You’re my brother, Mike,” he declares gruffly. “I love you.”

Robby makes a wordless noise of disbelief, but the other man won’t hear any of it.

“Don’t fucking scoff at me, man, you know it’s the truth. Just like I know, underneath all the shit you think you’ve buried, that you’re a good man. This place is lucky to have you.”

Wetness gathers at the corners of Robby’s eyes, and he grits his teeth against the threat of it spilling onto his weathered cheeks.

“But believe me when I tell you – whether you choose to take an Omega or not, if you don’t get your shit figured out, I will petition the administration to have you put on a leave of absence. And I will take over the ED.”

The older man’s eyes flick upward, finally meeting Jack’s. “Why not just do it now? Save us both the trouble?” he asks softly, bitterly.

Jack offers him a sad smile in response. “Because I really don’t fucking want to.” Releasing one of Robby’s arms, he reaches up and pats him on the cheek. “So please don’t make me.”

Abbot ducks out of the exam room soon after. The slight limp in his stride is the only indicator he gives that he is fatigued, that the day may have worn on him. Otherwise, his shoulders are square, his eyes clear, and Robby thinks he catches him giving a wave and a half-smile to someone out of sight as he shuts the door behind him.

Robby, for his part, takes a few more moments to collect himself. He’s later than he wants to be getting out onto the floor, but he’s worn thin enough by the early morning confrontation as it is; he decides he can afford to give himself a minute or two to clear his head.

As he emerges into the corridor, however, the first thing he notices isn’t the hustle of his staff or the barely-controlled chaos of his patients. It’s the faint, homey fragrance of clean laundry and drugstore lipstick that lingers directly outside the door. The scent clings to the nearby walls, like someone had hovered there for an extended period, perhaps just out of line of sight from the exam room window.

And he would know that scent anywhere.

Clearing his throat, swiping his hands under a hand sanitizer dispenser on the way by, he makes his way back toward the Central Hub.

There, glasses low on the bridge of her nose, ostensibly concentrating on a staffing chart on her computer, is Dana Evans. She’s got nicotine gum between her teeth, the only indicator that perhaps she also is not having the morning she wished when she arrived today; otherwise, her ironed scrubs, tidy bun, and freshly-applied makeup paint the picture of someone eminently in control. The ringleader of the circus, the navigator at the helm.

Robby approaches her silently then pauses to lean against the counter where she sits. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she replies with a wry smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please. I know better than that.”

At that, Dana shrugs. She turns in her chair, looking up at him over the rim of her glasses. If she was honest with herself, she would get a pair of bifocals. As it is, she makes do with the same lenses she’s worn for the last 10 years.

“I heard enough,” she admits quietly. The Hub is empty with the exception of her, the rest of her staff dispersed around the floor receiving report from the night shift nurses, but she still keeps her voice down. It’s one of the innumerable things Robby appreciates about his favorite charge nurse; she knows when to be discrete.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you have anything to add?” The end of his question tilts up facetiously, and Dana damn near rolls her eyes as she gets to her feet and starts bustling around the station.

“You’ve known me long enough to know what I’m gonna say to that,” she quips in reply, snagging a tablet off the nearest charging bank.

Of course, after so many years working side-by-side with her, Robby does. “Alpha business is none of your business,” he quotes.

“That’s right. If I spent all my time trying to figure out why you all do the things you do, I’d never get anything done.”

He recalls the first time he had met her, decades ago now, he had falsely assumed that she was an Alpha, as well. A supremely self-possessed woman, even before she had been given the formal authority to back it up, she had been so comfortable stepping up, taking charge, creating order out of madness, setting an example for others with her level head and gentle hands. Her scent, of course, hadn’t been quite right, but at the time, Robby had just assumed she had found herself some powerful suppressants. He would never forget the way she had lined him out in front of the entire department for the presumption.

“What, because only an Alpha knows how to be a leader?” she had snapped. “Only an Alpha can be trusted in a crisis? Sure, because all those raging hormones make you all so stable and reliable. Don’t make me laugh, Robinavitch. Now get out of my face, your embarrassment is stinking up the nurses’ station.”

The memory draws a weak, nostalgic grin to his lips. His gaze flickers down to the telltale bareness of her wrists. Her neck, too, is naked, save for the golden cross pendant he has never seen her without. She has no need for scent patches as a Beta, her pheromones too neutral to have any emotional or behavioral impacts on patients.

“And what about not as an Alpha, but as a friend?” he asks.

Dana softens at that, reluctantly matching his fond expression.

“Abbot’s a good friend,” she says easily. “He cares about you. If there’s something he thinks might…help? Might be worth listening to what he has to say.”

Robby’s jaw works back and forth, a humorless smile twisting his lips. “Thought you were on my side.”

“Always.”

He know she spots the furrow of his brow. It’s been years since he has bothered to put on the same masks with her as he does everyone else; he knows she can see the frustration, the confusion, the hints of betrayal lingering in the downturn of his mouth, the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Look,” she sighs, stepping closer, voice soft and raspy from her last cigarette. “You know I’m in your corner. But Abbot’s right. You haven’t been yourself. Not for a long time.”

Defensiveness flares hot and tight in his chest, and he shakes his head. “Jeeeesus, not you, too.”

“Started during COVID, but after Pittfest, and Jake – ”

“Don’t.” For all that he is burning up inside, anger and grief and self-loathing threatening to consume the core of him, the word comes out frigid. It’s solid, sharp, and pointed as a shard of ice.

Dana, however, appears entirely unmoved. “Look, I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through as an Alpha. Not exactly my area of expertise. But I know people, and I know you. And you…” She reaches out, palm patting his chest, blue eyes sharp and knowing. “…need help.”

“Dana.”

If she registers his protests, she does not react. Instead, she continues, “Who am I to say what form that should take?”

“Allll right,” he groans as he pushes himself away from the counter and claps his hands together. Gesturing with two thumbs over his shoulder, he says, “I think that’s my cue.”

“Hold up, I got one more thing to say.”

But Robby is already rounding the nurses’ station, already retreating back down the corridor. “As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with me!” he calls back over his shoulder.

“I’ve got a new nurse starting today.” It’s not quite a shout, but her voice is the kind that carries, and it’s loud enough to reach him even as he gets to the other end of the Hub. “A traveler on a three-month contract.”

He pauses then to look back at her with a frown. “Okay. And?”

“She’s with HR for a couple hours doing her onboarding, but I want to introduce you when she gets down here. She’s good, I think you’ll like her,” Dana explains.

At that, Robby merely shrugs. “Sure, fine. Come find me when the time comes.”

Travel nurses come and go, even more frequently these days in a post-pandemic world. Often he finds that just about the time he gets accustomed to their presence – to the way they move around the department, their skills and their quirks and their scents – it’s time for them to move on. It keeps him on his toes, if nothing else. Keeps him from sinking too deep into the routine.

Still, he tries not to get too attached. Travels are impermanent, transient things. And the loss of a team member (a pack member, a soft, insistent voice whispers) always leaves him feeling a bit…off.

Sometimes you wonder why it’s taken you so long to accept a contract in Pittsburgh.

It’s not as though there is a shortage of available opportunities in Pennsylvania’s second-largest metropolitan area. There was a need for skilled nursing staff here just like there was everywhere else, and Pittsburgh provided the added benefits of familiarity and proximity to your parents. It is your mother’s hometown, the place where you had spent countless summers with your grandparents, the home of your second choice for universities back when you had been up to your eyeballs in SAT study material, spending your weekends applying all up and down the east coast. You know the city fairly well for somebody who still had yet to unpack her suitcases.

But as you emerge from the elevator into the buzzing madness of PTMC’s Emergency Department, a folder of HR paperwork clutched in your hands and a backpack slung over your shoulder, you meet the all-knowing eyes of Dana Evans, and you remember.

Dana quickly finishes the instructions she had been giving two other nurses and shoos them on their way. Smiling widely, she beckons you forward, thin arms spread wide as she emerges from behind the nurses’ station counter.

“There you are, kid!” she says affectionately, pulling you into a motherly embrace. “I was about to send the cavalry after you.”

It’s well past the time you were meant to have reported for your shift; your meeting with HR had dragged on longer than anyone had expected.

“I wish you would have,” you reply as you return the hug. Just like the bedroom you had woken up in this morning, she smells like nostalgia, like childhood. Soft, comforting, bittersweet. “The orientation is always a nightmare.”

At that, the older woman chuckles. “Well, glad to hear we’re living up to your expectations. Remind me again what number contract this is for you?”

“Five.” You can hear the weariness in your voice with the admission. Still, you smile wryly as you count them off on your fingers. “Cleveland, DC, New York, and Baltimore. I’m a one-woman traveling circus.”

It has been over a year now since you broke your lease in Philadelphia, shoved almost all of your belongings into a storage unit, and hit the road, and you’ve been on the move ever since. You had never felt the urge the run before that day, never looked at the city and the people that raised you and thought to yourself, “I need to be somewhere else – anywhere else.” The choice to upend your entire life hadn’t exactly been planned, but heartbreak had proven to be a powerful catalyst.

It had taken months to stop feeling like you were running away from something and to start feeling like you were running toward something. Freedom, independence, a sense of self-competence and capability that you had never been given the opportunity to develop. You’ve grown so much over the last year that you’ve begun to wonder…would this new version of you be strong enough to go back?

Of course, Pittsburgh isn’t Philly. But here, in your godmother’s ER, is the closest you have allowed yourself to get to “going home” in months.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, Dana – your mother’s oldest friend, your aunt in all but name – pats you on the shoulder and gestures for you to follow her. “C’mon. I’ll show you where you can put your stuff.”

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur of new names and new faces, both staff and patients alike. Dana fetches you a set of scrubs in the PTMC-standard nursing gray, checks to make sure your brand-new badge works to log you in to all of their systems, then cuts you loose to shadow with another nurse named Perlah. It’s all par for the course, standard first-shift stuff; by now, you’re deeply familiar with the feeling of drinking from a firehose that comes with trying to digest everything you need to learn and remember about your new workplace. Thankfully, the Beta woman has a sincere, steady energy, and although she doesn’t go out of her way to make anything easier for you, she also doesn’t do anything to make your life more difficult, which is more than you can say for the reception you’ve received on other assignments.

By lunchtime, your impression of the PTMC ED is one of a highly-competent, close-knit staff with a diverse range of personalities and skillsets that are all trying desperately to keep their heads above water amidst the chaos. To your eyes, they seem to be succeeding, though you suspect it is a hard-won success. It’s clear that the lean headcount and the scarcity of beds is wearing on everyone.

You are about halfway through the lunch that Benji had packed for you that morning when you get pulled back out onto the floor. Shoving your lunchbox into the staff refrigerator, brushing crumbs off your scrubs, you find yourself smiling. In your experience, the departments with the biggest staffing problems are the fastest to soften toward your presence. On the one hand, they are the ones who would benefit the most from more permanent, full-time nurses, which can foster more than a little resentment toward those on travel contracts. On the other, however, the sooner you have the opportunity to prove yourself useful, the sooner the team will be willing to bring you into the fold. And goodness knows there are plenty of opportunities here to be useful.

Something else you notice right away is the distribution of designations among the staff. You wish, in this day and age, that it wasn’t such a notable feature of this department, but having now worked in more than your fair share of Emergency departments, you know well enough how their staffing protocols tend to heavily favor Alphas and Betas. There tends to be this antiquated mentality among hospital leadership that the ED is too high-risk, too fast-paced, too physically dangerous for the tender sensibilities of Omegas. Not to mention the potential liability issues of allowing unmated Omegas in the presence of volatile Alpha patients. Intoxication, withdrawal symptoms, psychiatric events, sudden-onset ruts, just regular old aggression, all of it posed an increased risk to Omega healthcare workers in comparison to Alphas and Betas.

You have grown used to being one of perhaps two (if you were lucky) Omega staff members in an ED at a given time. In contrast, during the first few hours of your first shift at PTMC, you meet no less than three Omega doctors and two other Omega nurses, and they all seem fully integrated into the social structure of the team. Perhaps you might actually be able to make a few friends while you’re here…

You catch a spare moment here and there to connect with Dana, which is both pleasant and deeply bizarre, as you have only ever known her as family and not as your superior in a work environment. Still, you quickly find that there isn’t much difference between the two sides of your mother’s friend. Even if Charge Nurse Dana comes with a tougher hide and a sharper tongue, at the heart of her, she is still the same warm, empathetic, powerful woman you have known since childhood. Having a familiar face nearby – even when you know she has a million priorities other than you – is strangely comforting.

During one of these rare minutes of downtime, you find yourself deep in conversation with Dana and a medical student named Victoria when a tall, broad-shouldered figure sweeps by the Central Hub, two other staff members hot on his heels. They’re all clad in black scrubs – EM physicians then – though the man leading the charge appears to be wearing cargo pants instead of a typical pair of scrub bottoms. He is dark-haired, middle-aged, and seemingly in a hurry, but even in the handful of seconds it takes for him to breeze by and disappear into Trauma 2, he catches your attention immediately.

There’s something in the way he carries himself, the way he moves with urgency and absolute clarity of purpose. There is an air of authority to him that is unmistakable, the weight of it solid and heavy, seasoned with age and experience. Granted, he’s too far away and gone too soon for you to deduce much more, but regardless, you would bet your first paycheck that this man is an Alpha.

The errant thought crosses your mind that he must smell divine.

Victoria follows your gaze, watches you as you watch him duck into the trauma bay, and nods knowingly.

“That’s Dr. Robby. He’s the attending on shift today,” she explains, answering your unspoken question.

At that, Dana glances up from her computer screen. “I’ve been trying to pin him down all afternoon – I want to introduce you.”

You nod in easy acquiescence. Even if Perlah had kept you away from the major traumas for your first shift, filling your hours with triage and lower-acuity cases, it was only a matter of time before you would be given the same freedoms and the same responsibilities as any of the other nurses on staff. It would make sense for you to meet as many of the physicians you would be working with as possible.

The opportunity doesn’t come until hours later.

Around you, the day shift draws to a close as members of the night shift staff begin to trickle in one by one. Perlah hovers at your shoulder as you wrap up your charting, her supervision required by policy but not in practice; you’ve used the same charting system in three other hospitals. You are in the middle of documenting the wound care you had administered to an 83-year-old diabetic man’s foot when Dana taps you on the shoulder and beckons you to follow her. Quickly as you can manage, you save your work, lock the computer, and jog after her.

You catch up to her at the South nurses’ station, only to find that it’s not a case that has prompted her to pull you away from your terminal. Instead, she seems to have finally cornered the mysterious attending from earlier. The older man has his hip propped against the nearest work surface, his feet crossed at the ankles, and his head bent over a tablet as he reads lab results. His high forehead creases with a deep frown as he reads, a distorted reflection of the screen visible in the lenses of the round-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Robby,” Dana says pointedly, hitting him an arched-brow stare that you recognize from your childhood. Long summer weekends at your parents’ lake house with Dana and Benji and their two daughters taught you well enough what it looks like when Dana Evans has run out of patience.

Thankfully, Dr. Robby appears to recognize it, as well. His eyes – a deep, soft brown – flick up to meet hers over the rim of his glasses.

“Dana,” he replies, just as pointed and more than a bit facetious. You smother a smile.

If the charge nurse is irritated by the response, she doesn’t give it away. Instead, she gestures to you. “Told you we’d have a fresh face today. This is our newest traveler.” You duck your chin at him in greeting as she introduces you by name. To you, she adds, “Dr. Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine.”

Chief. You add that new piece of information to the model you have created of this man in your mind, and it slots right in with the rest like a puzzle piece. Of course, he’s the chief. He would have to be. Only someone with institutional power and all the baked-in clout that came with it could carry themselves with such…casual gravitas.

You offer the chief attending a polite, personable smile and reach to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say as he grips the meat of your hand in his own. His grip is strong but not domineering, and his hand is huge. You wouldn’t consider yourself to be especially small, but his grasp dwarfs yours in a way that makes you feel almost dainty. It brings heat to your cheeks, makes your mouth run dry.

This close, even with the hospital-issued scent patches clinging to the insides of his wrists, even with the layers of antiseptic that cloak everyone in the hospital, you can finally smell him. You resist the sudden heaviness in your eyelids as you take in his scent – earthy, grounded, comforting. You detect oakmoss and cedarwood, perhaps a whiff of high-quality black tea. It reminds you of an old library or perhaps a cabin nestled in a damp wood.

It makes you feel strangely safe, like you could unclench your jaw in his presence.

Now that you have identified the source, you realize that the whole department smells like him. His scent all over everything – the computer terminals, the Pyxis, the exam rooms. Beneath the bleach and the hand sanitizer and the metallic notes of suppressants, everything carries the scent of this man. He permeates the air, leaves faint traces everywhere he touches. A silent claim – his territory, his people.

Still holding your hand, Dr. Robinavitch blinks. His dark, weary eyes pin you to the spot. “The, uh – pleasure’s all mine,” he replies. There’s a question in the pitch of his voice, and you watch as the frown returns to his brow. His nostrils flare, a gesture you ought to find rude, but instead, it merely makes your neck feel warm. “I – uh, I’m sorry, have we… Have we met? There’s something familiar…”

He glances between you and Dana then, as though trying to add up something in his head, and for the first time, you realize that Dana hasn’t shared anything with him about your relationship. He’s wondering why you smell like his charge nurse. And of course, he can’t ask you outright; a male Alpha attending asking a female Omega nurse anything about her scent was the sort of thing anti-harassment trainings were made of.

For the span of a breath, you consider brushing off the question. Really, it’s none of his business. It isn’t as though Dana had been a part of your hiring process, and while close, you aren’t technically family, which means that there were no policies in place that would prevent the two of you from working the same shifts. From a staffing perspective, there is no conflict of interest here.

But there’s something endearing about the confusion on his face, something that gives you the insane urge to pat him reassuringly on the head. You got the impression that nothing happens in this ED without this man’s knowledge; his ignorance in this situation must be maddening for him.

So before he can open his mouth and say something he might regret, you find yourself offering, “Dana’s my godmother. I’ve been travel nursing for about a year now, but I chose PTMC for my next contract because I knew I would have someone local I could stay with. I’m crashing in her and Benji’s guest room. Much cheaper than trying to find a sublet or an Airbnb.”

You can feel Dana’s eyes on you, and though she says nothing, you’re certain you have surprised her with the disclosure. For the sake of your reception by the rest of the department, you know she would never have revealed your relationship without your blessing. You love her for it, of course. But you were equally certain that if anyone had any misconceptions about any favoritism you might receive, those concerns would be quickly put to rest the more time you spent under her authority.

Dana was far more likely to push you harder because of your relationship than she was to coddle you.

As for the Alpha still holding your hand, this seems to provide him with enough pieces of the puzzle that the deep wrinkles between his eyebrows smooth, and the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth softens.

“Ah,” he says, eyes darting back and forth once more between you and the woman at your side. “That…certainly explains a few things. Well.” He clears his throat and finally drops his grip on your hand, letting it fall limply back at your side. “Welcome to the Pitt. I, uh, hope we haven’t scared you away after your first day.”

“Not at all.” You offer him an earnest smile. “It’s intense, but nothing I can’t handle. And everyone’s been very welcoming and helpful so far. I’m excited to be part of the team.”

Loosing a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and surprised laugh, the attending scratches the back of his neck and shifts on his feet. “Ha. Well. I’m glad to hear it. You know, normally I’d just…direct you to Dana, give you the same spiel I give everybody about how she runs the place and how you can go to her if you need anything, but something tells me you already know.”

The wry expression on his face makes you laugh. “I do,” you agree. “Though if you have any other pieces of advice, I’ll happily take them.”

The question seems to take him aback for a moment, and you watch as he gives you a once-over with his eyes. He doesn’t linger too long anywhere, doesn’t hesitate on any of the bits of you that typically get the attention of men, but you aren’t naïve. He’s scanning for evidence of your designation.

You know what he will see. The scent patches on your neck, partially hidden by the collar of your baby pink undershirt. The matching ones on your wrists, these fully exposed by your rolled-up sleeves. The distinct lack of bite marks.

With his proximity, you wonder if he can smell you the way you can smell him.

You wonder what he thinks. You wonder if he likes it.

Blinking rapidly, Dr. Robinavitch seems to shake himself out of a stupor as he says, “Uh… I guess I would say don’t be afraid to lean on your team. This place isn’t for the faint of heart. We’re all here to support each other, so don’t feel like you have to go it alone.”

You recognize the platitude for what it is, the easy thoughtlessness with which he delivers this nothing-burger nugget of wisdom. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a twinge of annoyance at his words. It’s exactly the kind of gentle, well-intentioned condescension you’re familiar with – as a woman, as an Omega, as someone who is perpetually the newbie, who never sticks around long enough to accumulate the kind of respect earned by those with greater tenure. This man has only just met you, and there is a part of him that already thinks you soft.

You are soft, of course, but he cannot possibly know that.

You wrap up your pleasantries with a close-lipped smile and the unexpected weight of disappointment in your gut.

Each of you goes your separate ways then, eager to tie up the shift’s loose ends as best as you can. Dana greets the incoming charge nurse with an arm around her shoulders, the redhead clearly a friend, while you give report to the night shift nurse taking over Perlah’s patients. In spite of your exhaustion and what you feel is a rather lack-luster presentation, you earn yourself a pleased smile and an approving pat on the shoulder from your Beta mentor. Embarrassingly, the implicit praise gives you a zing of energy that reinvigorates you, and you find yourself humming a tune as you gather your backpack and water bottle from your new locker. It’s nice to be recognized, to be appreciated.

You spot Dr. Robby one more time on your way out the door, the older man chatting with one of the other Omegas you had met earlier that day – a young male resident, friendly and kind, with wide blue eyes and mousy-golden curls. The attending’s arms are folded across his chest, but he looks at the resident with such softness in his gaze that it almost stops you short. It’s nothing like the way he had looked at you earlier, with confusion and mild bewilderment, as though he hadn’t quite known what to do with you. You had wondered whether that might be an Alpha quirk of his, if he struggled to interact with Omegas in the workplace, but apparently not.

Apparently it’s just you.

Something tightens in your chest at the realization, though you don’t allow yourself to pause and examine it further. Instead, you pull the keys to your beat-up old CRV from the pocket of your backpack and head for the parking garage.

It’s for the best that you keep things…detached, you think as you wave good-bye to Dana, promising to park on the curb so she would be able to pull into the driveway. This job is temporary; PTMC is only one of many hospitals you have called home over the last year. You’re good at what you do – good at learning quickly, good at earning the trust of your coworkers, good at turning yourself into exactly what the team needed until it was time to move on. It’s a hard-won skillset, being able to connect and separate, connect and separate, over and over. And you’ve created a good life for yourself doing it.

The last thing you need right now is a man messing up your plans, you remind yourself. Especially when the man in question is an unmated Alpha.

That night, for the first time in months, Robby stops and picks up groceries on his way home.

Well, not exactly on his way home. He goes quite a bit out of his way, all the way to the other side of the Allegheny to the Squirrel Hill neighborhood. He tries not to visit this part of town too often – too many childhood memories, too sweet and too painful and too much when he is already worn thin from the weight of his work. But he finds himself there anyway, at the same kosher grocery his grandmother had favored when he was a child, and he thanks the bone-deep fatigue he had awoken with that morning that had prompted him to drive to work today rather than walk.

He shops thoughtlessly, allowing his limbs to take him where he needs to go. His body seems to know what he’s looking for even if Robby himself hasn’t given it any conscious consideration. By the time he arrives at the checkout counter, there is a modest collection of ingredients in his shopping basket that he pays for in cash.

By the time he stumbles through the front door of his house, it’s nearly 9:00 PM.

There was a time – perhaps not so long ago, though it feels like lifetimes now – when Robby loved to cook. There are cookbooks in the little cabinet above his refrigerator; some are glossy and modern, while others curl and yellow with age, precious heirlooms inherited from his grandparents. There are heavy-bottomed stainless-steel pans hanging from a rack mounted to the kitchen wall, their exposed surfaces collecting layer upon layer of dust. There is an oversized, over-featured gas grill on his back patio rusting beneath a protective tarp. He hasn’t touched any of it in years.

For a moment, he pauses, bags of groceries in his arms, backpack still slung over his shoulder, and wonders. He’s exhausted. The sun set long ago. His house is dim and quiet. On most nights like this, he barely has enough energy to shower the scent of the hospital off his skin and collapse into bed.

What has gotten into him?

When he poses the question to himself, he comes away empty-handed. All he knows for certain is that the day had opened up a pit of longing in his chest. It’s a homesickness that hollows him out, that makes every heartbeat feel effortful, that makes him feel unmoored and fragile in a way that knocks the breath out of him. The feeling does not bear dwelling in for long; otherwise, he will surely fall apart.

So instead, he turns on the TV for some much-needed background noise, and he moves.

He grabs a deep, high-walled sauté pan from the rack and scrubs it until it shines. He dices chicken thighs, minces onions, and grates carrots. He rinses buckwheat over the sink until the water runs clear, dumps it into the pan, and douses it all in vegetable broth. It’s so simple, so easy it almost shocks him, but in the end, it is precisely as he remembers. The memories have not left his muscles after all this time, and those memories guide him now. The rich, nutty, savory fragrance of the kasha fills his kitchen, reaches behind his ribcage, and softens something there.

It smells like his grandmother’s kitchen. It smells like home.

He plates up a serving for himself, packing the rest into a small stack of meal prep containers Heather had bought him years ago. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s used them, but he’s grateful for them now. Perhaps he will actually take the time to eat something during his next shift if he knows he has a home-cooked meal to look forward to.

As he takes the first bite, he nearly chokes and needs to reach for a glass of water as he struggles to swallow. Not because of the food, he realizes, but because of the feeling, and it is then that he understands.

He still has them.

All the parts of himself he thought he had shed so long ago. The parts that had granted him the softness that nearly killed him when Adamson died, the parts that had hurt too badly to keep. Those parts of him hadn’t abandoned him. They had been smothered, scorched, excised like a malignancy that threatened to poison the rest of him, but he hadn’t gotten them all. He is, it seems, still human. Still a man.

Robby takes another bite of kasha, his eyes prick with the threat of tears, and for the first time in recent memory, he feels…alive.

Credits: Dividers - @saradika-graphics, Chapter Beta Reader - @kedsandtubesocks

Taglist: @kedsandtubesocks @sawymredfox @livslifeonline @rosharanfiction @skylardenae @pocket-of-possibilities @bergamote-catsandbooks @peepawispunk @80ssong @ohheyitssj @vicky066 @windsweptarmadillo @sharkerino @dugiioh @tatertot118 @pickles-the-jackalope

It wasn't a vulgar fetish, it wasn't a sick obsession. For him, it was a form of care and affection he had for you. He remembered the first bra he gave you, still in the first months of dating. You had mentioned in passing that the strap of one of yours was uncomfortable, and he, in silence, mentally noted it. Then, a week later, a black velvet box appeared on the kitchen table and inside, a champagne silk piece, so light it felt like a second skin, with tiny and delicate embroideries. You had found it beautiful, your eyes widening and your mouth slightly open, but seeing the quality of the fabric and how well it was packaged, you deduced it was too expensive. Andrew, in contrast, just smiled, that crooked smile of his, full of secrets, and said softly.

"You deserve beautiful things. Especially the ones that stay on your body."

Over time, you realized he had a refined, almost demanding taste. Lace, for him, although beautiful, had something too fragile about it, attached to a romantic ideal he considered outdated. As for tulle, he didn't even mention it, how horrible! He preferred the texture of silk, the perfect drape of satin, the soft sheen against your golden skin. Andrew loved pieces that slipped and were soft to the touch, especially if they were easy to remove.

You remembered the first time you had worn a babydoll at his suggestion. It was a deep blue, almost nocturnal, with thin straps that tied at your back. When you came out of the bathroom, your hair still wet and your skin slightly damp from the steam, Andrew was sitting on the edge of the bed, only in sweatpants and without his shirt. His gaze, always so controlled, seemed to ignite and words flew away, leaving him in silence for a long minute. Cody observed you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten, then he got up and walked to you slowly, extending his large palm which in itself was delicate, touching the hem of the babydoll with his fingertips.

"It's exactly as I imagined" he murmured, his voice hoarse. "The fabric looks perfect on your skin... The sheen reflecting the light." He tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed on yours over his eyelids. "You look like a painting. So beautiful and perfect, I would admire you for hours."

And that's how you discovered that Andrew was also an amateur photographer. Not professional, nothing technical, but with a gaze that captured your essence. He took photos of you whenever possible, to register and keep in memory whenever longing struck. There were several photos, some where you were distracted reading a book on the balcony or laughing at something he had said. However, his favorites were the ones you posed for him, wearing the pieces he chose. Andrew had an album kept with those photos in particular, besides carrying a photograph in his wallet. It was a full-body photo of you, wearing an ivory silk set, the morning light coming through the window and creating a glorious illumination around your body. You had thought it too daring, the lingerie was almost transparent and when you saw it you felt warm, Andrew reassured you saying it was the image of purity and sensuality together, that he needed to have it with him, wherever he went.

But it wasn't just the classic pieces. Pope, or rather, your Andrew, loved duality. That's why, alongside the babydolls and short silk chemises, he also bought the most daring panties you had ever seen.

God, he was impossible and had such a refined and naughty taste!

You remembered the first time he showed you one. It was a thong, but not just any thong. The sides were made of two thin gold chains, studded with small rubies that, in contact with your skin, gave a sensual reddish hue and adjusted perfectly around your hips.

When you held it, you felt the weight of the jewels in your palm and blushed. "Andrew, this is... this is too expensive. And it's so... small," you protested, your voice coming out thinner than you'd like, your eyes vibrating on the small piece in your hands while you wrinkled your nose.

He came up behind you, resting his chin on the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you. "You deserve shiny things" he whispered, kissing your temple and repeating the catchphrase he always used when giving you something with stones. "And I like seeing shiny things on my girl." His hand slowly descended along your belly, stopping at the curve of your hip. "Especially when they're things I bought for her. It's like I'm marking what's mine."

He was right, of course. You always smiled when he gave you these pieces. Not for their material value, but for the way he chose them. Andrew would spend hours in stores, touching the fabrics, evaluating the quality of the fit, imagining how they would look on you. There was an almost ritualistic dedication to it and he never bought anything on impulse, because everything was thought out, from the color that would match your skin tone to the style that would enhance your curves. The older man knew that you had a self-confidence that was still being built, that you hesitated to wear certain pieces because you thought your body was imperfect, and he patiently used the lingerie to show you otherwise.

That you were wonderful, that he loved your details and that every little piece of your skin was precious to him.

One of the most striking moments was on a summer night, about two years ago. The house was silent, the windows open to the night breeze, and you had put on a short black silk chemise with a deep neckline, but covered it with a robe to go to the living room. Andrew was on the sofa when you sat beside him, resting your head on his strong shoulder, and he adjusted himself better, always caring for your well-being, running his hand through your hair and stroking the strands with his nose and inhaling.

"You smell good" he commented, distracted, his nose smoothing the strands and descending along the side of your face, passing over your cheek and leaving a chaste kiss on the soft, well-cared-for skin. Soon the older man's nose descended to his girlfriend's white neck, making a home there and breathing in her delicious scent.

"I'm wearing the chemise you gave me" you answered softly, moving your head when Andrew's breath made you shiver, but upon hearing your phrase he straightened up, looking at you with an almost funny seriousness, his gaze running over your body, even with the robe.

"Let me see."

You stood up slowly, your lips trembling in a little smile, untying the knot of the robe. The fabric slipped over you, showing little by little your skin under the black silk that adjusted over your curves like a glove. The night breeze came in through the window and made the hem of the chemise move slightly, dancing over your thighs. Andrew stayed still for a moment, his eyes fixed on you, wetting his lips.

"Come here" he asked, tapping his hands on his thighs, his voice a little deeper.

You obeyed, stopping in front of him briefly, watching with bated breath as your boyfriend's fingers reached the hem of the chemise, touching it delicately and gliding his fingers over the soft fabric. Then, his hands slowly went up, tracing your waist, going up your back, until he pulled you onto his lap. You sat on his legs, feeling the warmth of his body through his pants. He buried his face in your neck and breathed deeply.

"Do you know what I like most about you?" he asked, his voice muffled against your skin. "It's not just the lingerie. It's what it does to you." He raised his head and looked you in the eyes. "When you wear something I chose, you change. You become more confident and your body relaxes. You stop hiding." His hand went up to touch your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And that's when I see the most beautiful woman in the world. Not because the clothes are beautiful. But because you finally see yourself as beautiful too."

You felt your eyes well up. Andrew always knew what to say. Always knew how to dismantle your defenses with a disarming honesty, and at that moment there was nothing you could do but lean in and kiss him, a deep kiss, full of gratitude and love.

The lingerie, over time, became a language between you. A form of silent communication. A champagne silk piece meant you wanted a quiet day, of affection and conversation. A red satin set was an invitation to passion. The jeweled thong was reserved for special nights, when he wanted to see you shine. You would sometimes catch yourself looking at the closet and smiling, where each piece had a story and a memory associated with it.

But above all, what you loved was the way he admired you. Not just in the bedroom or in bed, but throughout the day-to-day shared with the one you love. Cody liked seeing you walk through the kitchen in the morning, wearing just the silk chemise, the sunlight coming in through the windows and creating shadows he would discreetly try to capture with his phone. He liked seeing you on the balcony, reading, the light fabric moving with the breeze. Once, you caught him looking at a photo of you on his phone, one where you were distracted adjusting the strap of a silk dress, and Andrew had such a sweet smile on his face that your heart tightened.

"Are you watching me?" you asked jokingly, tilting your head to the side, your hair falling in a cascade.

He wasn't bothered. He just put the phone away and pulled you close. "Always" he answered, kissing your forehead. "You're the only beautiful thing I want to see."

Andrew, the man who hid his emotional scars behind a wall of control and a seriousness that few could penetrate, completely fell apart in front of you when it came to these moments. He, who had a mother who never gave him a genuine hug, who criticized and manipulated him, found in you a way to express the affection he never knew how to receive. The lingerie, the gifts, the photos, were not objects of possession. They were prizes of a love he finally felt safe to live.

One night, while you were lying in bed wearing a peach-colored silk chemise, he came into the room after a shower with his hair still wet. He lay down beside you and, in silence, picked up the wooden box he kept on the small table next to the bed. Inside, were the photos of you, of him, and of both of you that he had printed. Andrew spread them over the duvet one by one. You sat up and snuggled into your boyfriend, looking at the images. In some, you were laughing, in others you had a lost, dreamy look, or else looking at him, but in most, you were wearing some of the pieces he had bought.

"Why do you keep all of these?" you asked, pointing at one of them, your voice soft as you looked at the beautiful photographs.

He touched the photo where you were from behind, wearing a short blue silk babydoll, the light creating an outline around your body. "Because when you are far away, when I'm having a bad day, or when I forget the world can be good, I look at them and remember that there is still something worth fighting for, worth loving." He turned his face to you, his eyes shining with a vulnerability he rarely showed. "I remember that I have you and that you are the only thing that really matters."

You held his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

He smiled, that real smile, that lit up his face and made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. "I know. But the photos are for when I am alone and need a reminder that at home there is something waiting for me." He squeezed your hand. "Someone. Waiting for me."

That night, you stayed there lying down, flipping through the photographs like a memory album. The couple talked about each one: the first trip you took together, the day you cooked for him for the first time, the night he asked you to officially be his girlfriend, and when you got to the last photo, the one he carried in his wallet, you felt a lump in your throat.

"That one's my favorite" he said, with a smile. "You didn't know I was taking it. You were looking out the window, your hair loose, the twilight light hitting you. I thought: 'That's it. It's her.'"

You kissed his hand, the tears you had been trying so hard to hold back finally rolling down your face. "I love you, Andrew."

He tilted his head, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, your nose. "I love you too, my girl."

And that's how, among silks and jewels, among photos and glances, you built an intimacy that went beyond the physical. An intimacy made of trust, of admiration, and of a love that slowly healed the wounds he carried. And you, who had never felt so seen, so desired, so loved, discovered that the best lingerie you could wear was the certainty that, for him, you were the only one.