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^^^ Boi is anxious about if she'll like the house.
Summary: Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
You’re anxious.
You don’t tell Brendon that, but he can sense it underneath the surface as you sit inside the car he’s rented because your wheelchair won’t fit in the Porshe without total disassembly. He’s thinking of trading it in, getting something that will suit your needs more.
“I know that this is scary.” He says gently as your hands curl into fists, the fabric of your shorts bunching up as you grip it. “But you’re ready to come home, they wouldn’t have let you out if you weren’t.”
“It’s not that.” Your jaw clenches as you suck in a breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling. “It’s the car. I haven’t been in one since the accident, it’s… I didn’t expect it to be so tough.”
He kicks himself for not thinking of that. He’d been so focused on making sure the house was ready, that you had everything you needed that he didn’t even think about the journey from A to B.
“I’ll take it slow.” He offers. If he could take this away from you, helicopter you home instead, he would but the yard is only so big, and that cost would be even more than he could afford. “We can stop if you need to, just say the word…”
You nod shakily, your shoulders tensing as he turns on the engine.
“Would it help if you closed your eyes and put on one of your Quinn stories in your earbuds?” He suggests. Distraction was always something his own counsellor recommended when he was trying to curb his drinking. “Yes Chef, always seems to make you laugh, or there’s that one about the sexy groundskeeper.”
The edges of your mouth tip up into a smile as you reach into your fanny pack in search of your headphones. It’s new, something he picked up a couple of days ago when he realised how much you had to juggle in terms of navigating your altered balance and carrying a purse. It’s been a saving grace on your many trips around the hospital. Everything you need is right there in reach.
“I find it interesting it you know the contents of my Quinn originals.” You note as you open the tiny white container and take out your earbuds. “Do you want to roleplay chopping wood while I pretend to be a princess?”
“I prefer going down on you in the kitchen.” He shoots back before considering the other scenario. There is a wood burner in your new house, and he could see you getting a little hot and bothered as you sit on the decking in the garden watching him swing an axe. “But I could be persuaded into a little lumberjack fantasy.”
You cackle as you hook up your Bluetooth to your headphones. He waits until you’re settled, eyes closed, head leaning against the headrest before he pulls out of the disabled parking space and hits the road. Your fist clenches again but you take another deep breath dispelling that nervousness just like in the exercises your therapist has been teaching you.
It’s a short journey, only twenty minutes. He takes it as carefully as he can, trying not to agitate your anxiety. When he pulls up outside the house, his hand comes to rest on your good knee squeezing gently.
“We’re home.” He says softly as you pull out your ear buds.
You open your eyes, your breath catching. You press your fingers to your lips, your eyes glossy as you stare at the house in front of you with two hanging baskets full of flowers and a wheelchair ramp leading up to the front door. “You didn’t…”
“It was meant to be a wedding gift.” He tells you as your hair falls over your features so he can’t read your expression. “Your something new but then the accident happened and it seemed the perfect place for you to recover since your apartment was on the third floor and the stairs in my condo would have killed you.”
“Did you move all of my stuff in?” Your voice is small, unreadable. His heart starts to pound, every beat thudding against his ribcage as the blood rushes in his ears.
“Everything is in there.” He confirms, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. “I wanted it to feel like home for you, for you to be around all your things. I did have to put the rugs and coffee table into storage for now as they aren’t wheelchair friendly but once you get your new leg you’ll have better mobility so we can bring them back out again.”
There’s silence, it hangs heavy between the two of you before he breaks it. “Did I fuck up?”
You shake your head with a sniffle, and that’s when he realises you’re crying. It’s the first time you’ve shed a tear since this whole thing happened and it breaks his fucking heart.
“Oh Rae.” He unfastens his seat belt and reaching over the console to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He draws you into the shelter of his form, the back of your head resting in the crook of his neck as he kisses your hair. “I know this is a lot of change, but we’ll find our way.”
“It’s not that.” You tell him, using the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that mar your cheeks. “It’s just so perfect, you’ve thought of everything and I just… I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life.”
“No.” He says fiercely, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’m the lucky one, you saved me Rae, you really did. You lit a fire in me… first by pissing me off and then…” He trails off but you understand, he knows you do. “Do you want to see inside?”
“Yeah.” You say brushing more tears away from underneath your eyes. “I really do.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
“Subverting” Catholic art? Oh, okay. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You log onto the internet and you post about how “Wound of Christ” from Psalter and Prayer Book of Bonne de Luxembourg, attributed to Jean le Noir, c.1349, for instance, looks like a vulva because you're trying to tell the world that you enjoy Catholic art and imagery in an alternative, queer, risqué way that challenges Christian beliefs. But what you don't know is that that stigma isn’t just a vulva. It's not just a mandorla. It's not just yonic. It's actually intentionally erotic. And you're also blithely unaware of the fact that around 1297, Saint Angela of Foligno experienced a vision of Christ himself, who called her to put her mouth to the wound in his side and lick the freshly flowing blood. And then I think it was Saint Catherine of Siena who drank blood and a clear liquid from the wound before receiving a ring made from Christ’s foreskin? And then graphically erotic encounters with the side wound of Christ quickly showed up in the writings of eight different mystics. And then the yonic interpretation of the stigmata filtered down through the illuminated manuscripts and then trickled on down into some pseudo-intellectual corner of the internet…where you, no doubt, fished it out of some Pinterest board. However, that interpretation represents hundreds of years and countless visions of religious ecstasy. And it's sort of comical how you think that you've come up with an idea that exempts you from Christian theology when, in fact…you're posting an image that was sexualized for you by the very Medieval saints you think you’re so different than…from “subverted” Catholic art.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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We're here, we're queer, we're really fucking tired so we're just gonna go straight to biting instead of feigning polite confusion if you're gonna be a bigot this time, just so you know.
AN: Sadly we're going to have to do away with the taglist as Tumblr has terminated my account twice over the span of an hour for tagging folks in the comments. As deeply frustrating as this is I prefer to keep my blog active so moving forward I guess just make sure you're following the blog for updates or turn on notifications.
Summary: Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
Prequel to:
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
High heels and hoodies…
They shouldn’t do a something for Brendon, but they most certainly do as he watches you trot around his living room trying to find your panties clad in his Pittsburgh Penguins hoodie and a pair of stilettos he fucked you in earlier tonight. He holds them up as he sits on the couch, the lacy black thong dangling between two fingers with a smirk as you snatch them back from his hand scowling.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” He retorts, not even pretending to hide his amusement as he pretends to return his attention to the medical study he was reading on his tablet. His teeth sink into his lower lip as you step into the underwear, dragging the black lace up your thighs until it hugs your ass just right.
“You jizzed on my coat and ripped my fucking dress.” You remind him, your gaze resting on the offending items, neatly tucked away into a plastic bag on his dining table for drycleaning. “Now I have to go home wearing this.” You gesture at yourself in the Penguins hoodie and he has to admit he loves knowing that the only thing you’re wearing underneath that thing is a matching bra to that thong. “I’m going to give my Uber driver a heart attack.”
“You’re not getting an Uber.” He says firmly, setting his tablet down on the side table alongside him. “I think it’s time we set some rules about what we’re doing.”
“This is a one night thing.” You argue, your hip cocking, hand coming to rest on it.
God, that shouldn’t be so sexy…but his dick twitches inside his basketball shorts making it’s interest known despite the fact it’s chafed.
“This has been a five night thing so far over.” He reminds you, his hand clasping together in his lap as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “The point is I’m not adverse to it becoming a friends with benefits situation.”
You snort at the term ‘friends’ and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, if we’re not fuck buddies…”
“Booty call?” You try the word on for size, but he can tell from your expression your hate it.
“I’m the guy you come to when you want to fuck nasty.” He summarises, waving off the need for correct terminology. “It doesn’t have to have a name but if we’re going to continue whatever this is we need some ground rules-”
“I swear to God, if you say don’t fall in love with me, I’m about to laugh in your face.” You inform him, picking up your phone from the coffee table and sliding it into the pocket of his hoodie.
“I’m very much aware that this is not a love story.” There’s a bitterness to his tone that he can taste on his tongue as he continues. “Rule One… No Ubers. After we’re done, I’ll drive you home, make sure you get in safe. I don’t need to end up on a true crime documentary because you climbed into the back of an Uber never to be seen again.”
“Ah, so it really is an act of self-preservation.” You say picking up his keys and dropping them, into his lap. The sharp edges just miss catching his balls underneath his shorts as you give him a malicious smile. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything different from a shark.”
“No.” He bares his teeth, picking up the keys from his lap and rising to his feet so that he can take you home. “You really fucking shouldn’t.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
1. *screaming* THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED. THE HOTEL WAS FULLY BOOKED. * giggle snort* 🤣🤣
2. My goodness is meat sack really not picking up on the “this man is clearly being polite”
3. 👀 Trouble, there’s a clearly a woman on the other side of that wall fighting for her life - take the shot! * .5 seconds later * No this is good flirt back! Flirt back! It’s dark you don’t even have to look at him. You’re MARRIED.
4. I respect walking away from morning wood…could’ve at least gave a cheeky good morning.
5. Get back here and dance with your husband before Warren…oh no. She’s a runner. A track star.
6.
*record scratch followed by world’s slowest blink*
7. You know what I too, would laugh. A lot.
8. Jack just tell her how you feel man. OH. Okay, that works too.
9. THAT DEFINITELY WORKS. That’s a sturdy desk.
10.
11. Why would she regret it?? You saw how she was looking at you!
12. Putontheshirtputontheshirtputontheshirt. She put it on!!!!!
13. Yes. Absolutely reaffirm the love. Lest we forget .2 seconds later.
14. Neither should ever let you two live any of this down. Bring it up at every anniversary event.
15. You have private investigators as coworkers- good luck.
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I'll never get over how fucking ridiculous the post-hunger games dystopian YA trend was. Every book was "society is sorted into *rolls dice* 5 groups based on *picks card* astrology signs. It is illegal to *throws dart at wall* sing. The main character is special because she *spins wheel* knows how to read. Two boys are in love with her."
Hunger Games said "I am this incredible piece of literature detailing the evils of a capitalist society in conjunction with an increasingly authoritarian government. The purpose of my love triangle is to make the protagonist face a very real choice of staying with what she knows— passion and war and survival— or finally having a chance at peace. My twist ending was genuinely unexpected but fully understandable, because switching out one tyrant for another accomplishes nothing aside from placating the people. I contain so many layers of nuance and meaning that it is astonishing that middle school children were able to truly grasp me." And every YA author looked at that and went "Heehoo teenage giwl fights against scawy govewnment WHILE twying to pick between boys!!!!!!! I'm gonna wepwoduce this pewfectly!!!" and frankly I hate it
Summary: You're the person who has to deal with the consequences of Brendon Park's actions, which means you're the only one willing to bite his head off. You want to strangle him; he wants to kiss your feet.
A/N: nobody needs a woman to yell at him like park the shark
Word Count: 6.2k
There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.
Your high heels, specifically.
It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.
Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”
Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”
Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”
Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”
You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”
Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”
“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”
Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”
“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”
“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”
You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”
“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”
“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”
His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”
“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”
He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”
You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”
With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”
“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”
With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”
“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”
Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”
And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”
Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”
Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”
Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”
“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”
“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”
Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”
It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”
That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”
You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”
“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”
You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”
“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”
“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”
But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”
You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”
“No problem; give me two days.”
Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”
“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”
Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.
“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”
He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”
“I meant more that-”
“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”
“What does that mean?”
You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”
“Brutal.”
“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”
After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”
You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”
“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”
“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”
Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”
You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”
“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”
Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever I say.”
“In practical terms, please.”
You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”
His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”
“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”
Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”
“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”
Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”
“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”
Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”
You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”
He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”
“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”
He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”
You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”
The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.
It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.
Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”
As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”
“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”
“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”
All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”
You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”
“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”
“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”
“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”
With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”
“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”
You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”
“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”
You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”
He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”
The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.
The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.
But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.
That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.
You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.
But no.
Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.
Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.
“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”
You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”
“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”
“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”
“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”
You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.
By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.
Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.
You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.
While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”
Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”
Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”
“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”
Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”
“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”
“Ew.”
Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”
Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”
“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”
Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”
“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”
“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?
This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”
“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”
After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”
With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”
Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”
You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”
You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”
“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”
Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”
“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”
“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say, “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”
“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”
You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”
He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”
A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”
“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”
You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”
Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”
You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”
“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”
“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”
“Yeah? How long?”
“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”
“See you soon, Viper.”
Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.
In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”
Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”
You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”
“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”
With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”
Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”
He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.
The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.
Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”
When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”
His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”
You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”
He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”
You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”
Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”
“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”
“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”
You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”
Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”
“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”
“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”
“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Make a Vampire character who’s lived through several waves of the common language’s development and can’t let go if certain gramatical habbits from different time eras.
So like, thou ist a horrid creature, an absolute cur, but go off i guess
Absolutely you can and I encourage more uses of similar phrases that just completely fuck up the chronology of the english langauge. I wanna hear 15th century english mixed with surfer speak mixed with current age internet lingo like all the time.
You are an unrighteous, bastardly gullion. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. When you die, I will face God and walk backwards into hell just so that I can beat your ass in the afterlife too.
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AN: Sadly we're going to have to do away with the taglist as Tumblr has terminated my account twice over the span of an hour for tagging folks in the comments. As deeply frustrating as this is I prefer to keep my blog active so moving forward I guess just make sure you're following the blog for updates or turn on notifcations.
Summary: Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
Ten days post op and you’ve become a serial absconder.
Brendon’s lost track of the number of times he’s dropped by your room between surgeries to find your bed empty and a pink post it note on your pillow. You should be completely tuckered out after your morning physio sessions but instead, you’re driving the nurses crazy with your disappearing acts.
The interesting part is you have accomplices. People who understand you need enrichment activities in order to function.
Robby and Jesse sneaking you out to play with Trouble in the memorial garden.
Whitaker whisking you away to the gift shop for new books.
Abbot leading you up to the eighth floor for the wheelchair races that he thinks Brendon doesn’t know about. It’s why you have a small stack of cash sitting alongside your bed, Abbot doesn’t use a wheelchair too often anymore, he’s got a little rusty with the manoeuvrability.
“Who broke her out today?” He asks Michelle, the nurse on duty for overseeing the ward during the handover period. He’s just finished up a Shoulder Arthroscopy and has an hour before his ACL Reconstruction.
“Garcia this time.” Michelle informs him, rubbing an agitated hand across her forehead. She seems to be the most irritated by your antics. “The Whitakers had their baby a couple of hours ago, and she wanted to see if they needed anything. I thought she would have texted you.”
That is big news. Huge news in fact. He knows the Whitakers don’t have any family in the city, that Dennis barely speaks to his folks back home in Nebraska except his brother Rick, and Lola was a ward of the system before striking out on her own. Their support network is a patchwork of friends they’ve made along the way, a found family just like his.
“My phones in my locker.” Brendon tells her, waving his hand dismissively at her snarky tone. He hates the way she doesn’t use your name, it’s always a harsh she whenever they talk about your wellbeing and it’s really starting to piss him off. “I just wanted to check in and see how physio went, but I think I’ll take a trip down to maternity ward, see how baby Whitaker is doing.”
“Doctor Park.” Michelle calls out as he pushes away from the desk. “I was sorry to hear about the wedding…if you need to talk about it…”
“Then I’ll talk to my fiancée.” Brendon snorts as he strides away without so much as a backwards glance.
There have been several offers like this since news got around the two of you called off the wedding. There’s a theory that the two of you are hurtling towards a breakup, that he’s only sticking around long enough for you to get back on your feet before he takes off for greener pastures. The thought of it is absolutely abhorrent to the man who spends his evenings catching the game in your room or fighting over what movie to watch and trying not to spill popcorn onto your bed.
It leaves a bad taste in his mouth as he takes the elevator up to the maternity ward. He’s just about managed to shake it off by the time he gets the Whitaker’s room number from the ward administrator. The door is open when he swings through it, but fledging parents are nowhere to be found, instead there you are, wheelchair drawn up alongside a plastic bassinette, watching over the tiny person swaddled up inside.
“Dennis is helping Lola take a shower.” You explain, never taking your eyes off the bundle of joy nestled in her blanket. “She looks just like him doesn’t she? She’s got Lola’s hair but those eyes…”
“They’re farmboi all the way.” Brendon agrees as he crosses his arms over his chest. There’s an ache in heart, a dull pain that makes it hard to breath as he watches you with the baby. “What did they name her?”
“Mia.” You say and he swallows past the lump in his throat as he stares down at the child. She stares back, those vivid blue eyes fixating on him as her tiny lips smack together. She starts to fuss and something in Brendon’s chest cracks at the sound. It’s so familiar to the one Toby used to make, but so different too.
“Do you think… do you think they’d be ok with me holding her?” He asks softly as those cries get louder, grating against his nerves.
“She’s been passed around like a football over the past few hours, I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.” You say, scooting your chair back a couple of inches to give him some space.
He reaches into the bassinet, drawing the tiny bundle into his arms. She’s lighter than Toby was, his boy has been a heavy baby just like him. Mia settles almost immediately, her ear pressed to the thrum of his heart as it beats wildly in his chest.
“I thought this would be a lot harder than it is.” He admits, shifting so that he’s supporting the baby’s head better in the crook of his elbow. “I stayed away from kids for a long time after Toby… this feels ok, it feels…good.”
“I’d be careful wielding that baby. Don’t want all of those nurses that are trying to get into your pants heads exploding at the thought of playing happy families with you.” You tease as he sits down on the edge of the bed so that the two of you are on a similar level.
The fact you’ve clocked that doesn’t surprise him, but it does infuriate him because he finds it so fucking disrespectful that they treat you as if you aren’t there while they’re doing it. You seem to be taking it in your stride through. He isn’t sure if it’s the faith you have in him, or the fact you have bigger things to worry about.
Your fingertip smooths over Mia’s delicate cheek and she smacks her lips together, bubbles appearing across them. “I can’t believe they made such a tiny person.”
“Rae, I know we talked about this but… does this change anything for you?” He says, thinking back to the look in your eyes when he first walked in. There was such a tenderness in your expression, a love he never saw from Rowena even with their own son. “I know I’ve had a vasectomy but there are other options if you’ve changed your mind-”
“No.” A soft smile plays across your features as you look down at Mia. “I think being god mother to this little one will be enough for me… that and you know… the dog we’ll be getting when I heal up since Trouble wants to stick with his dog daddies.”
“Yes, Trouble is proving hard to lure over to the dark side.” Brendon sighs thinking of his Godpuppy. He’d brought a lot of joy to your lives even before the accident, and now that the house is almost finished, the two of you will definitely have the space for an additional furry family member. “He’s Robby and Jesse’s baby through and through.”
“You are very cute though Mia…” You console the child in his arms. “Oh, she’s making a face…”
“That’s because she’s pooping.” Brandon informs you, his nose wrinkling as the smell hits him. “Christ, I do not miss that.”
You roll your chair back as Whitaker steps through the door. Lola’s arm is threaded through his as he supports her back to the bed. She looks almost rejuvenated after her shower, her gaze comes to rest on the baby in Brendon’s arms as he holds her out towards her father.
“Just in time.” Brendon says handing Mia over. Whitaker takes her with a special kind of gentleness, one that Brendon remembers from his own experiences as a first-time dad. “She’s ready for her first diaper change. I can help if you’re not sure. The first time I did Toby’s…”
He trails off, the words dying on his tongue. He senses Whitaker’s confusion before the reality dawns on him. After what happened with Rowena and that video everybody knows he had a son, that he passed away before he got to live a full, meaningful life.
“Yeah.” Whitaker says as he looks up at Brendon, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile. “I think we could use all the help we can get.”
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