first time she pointed out the townhouse, jack didn't think much of it. he hummed in response, holding onto her smaller hand even tighter as a biker was passing them on the sidewalk.
they were walking back from their favorite coffee shop, paper cups warming their hands against the chilly pittsburgh morning.
she'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring across the street with that dreamy look she got whenever something captured her attention.
"ugh.” she swooned. “that's my favorite house," she'd said.
jack had followed her gaze.
it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.
he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.
that should have been the end of it.
but it wasn't.
because the next week she pointed it out again.
and the week after that… and the one after.
soon it became part of their routine.
coffee, pastries, the townhouse.
every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.
sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.
jack never teased her about it.
he just listened the way he always listened.
collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.
it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.
—
months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.
she looked up immediately.
"what.. really?" she said is disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.
"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signal sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.
the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…
when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.
sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.
the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.
it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.
jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.
watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.
watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.
he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.
even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.
she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.
"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.
her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.
her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.
"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.
she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.
he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.
it looked like she wasn’t visiting.
or imagining.
she was just belonging.
as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.
the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.
that was when the trouble started.
because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.
and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.
by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.
jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.
it's okay," she said softly.
nobody had even asked a question.
jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.
"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.
the fireplace.
the staircase.
everything.
"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.
jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.
because she wasn't being dramatic.
or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.
the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.
she loved things completely, with her whole heart.
"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.
jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.
"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.
his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.
then he nodded toward the room around them.
"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.
confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"
"you don't have to dream about it, baby."
the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.
"i bought it."
she blinked…once…twice.
the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of purse confusion.
"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the kitchen.
still nothing.
her mouth opened slightly.
closed.
opened again.
jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.
"you..." her voice disappeared.
jack nodded trying to get it out of her.
"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.
another heartbeat passed.
then another.
finally her eyes widened.
not a little.
a lot.
the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.
"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.
jack's expression softened immediately.
"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."
the tears arrived instantly.
jack sighed.
because of course they did.
she slapped both hands over her face.
which somehow made it worse.
"sweetheart—"
"you bought me a house?”
his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."
"a whole house, jack."
"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.
then immediately started crying harder.
“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”
the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.
of course he caught her automatically.
strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.
the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.
safe, comforting, home.
kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.
they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.
the house quiet and waiting.
finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.
her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.
beautiful.
"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.
"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.
she laughed softly. "the windows."
his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.
not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.
the windows.
the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.
"the balcony." her voice trembled.
"the flower boxes."
jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.
"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.
and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.
—
later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.
the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.
jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.
she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.
their house. their future.
their home.
jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.
"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.
and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.
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Pairing: Max Verstappen x Charlotte Fischer (Original Character)
Summary: Charlotte Fischer has spent years making sure no one in Formula One knows who she really is.
At Red Bull, she is simply Charlotte: Cambridge graduate, simulator engineer, owner of a deeply judgmental cat, and the woman responsible for making the team’s broken 2025 car model finally tell the truth.
She prefers it that way. No family name. No questions. No one looking at her like she is someone’s daughter, someone’s mistake, or someone’s failure to protect.
Max Verstappen notices her anyway.
Warnings and Notes: I wrote fanfiction of my own fanfiction. This is the result.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble.
Charlotte Fischer had been at Red Bull since the week after she graduated.
She’d sent in her CV like anyone else. Interviewed in a windowless room with bad coffee and too many questions. Signed her contract quietly and moved her life to Milton Keynes with the vague sense that she’d chosen something irreversible.
Sometimes — usually when she was three coffees deep and the sim refused to behave — it amused her, in a dry, private way, that she’d ended up here of all places.
Red Bull Racing.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
No one here knew who she was related to.
No one softened their tone around her. No one watched her for signs of brilliance or disappointment. No one projected legacy onto her shoulders.
She wasn’t anyone’s daughter.
She could just be Charlotte.
Just another engineer with too many tabs open and a stubborn relationship with data.
Charlotte liked it that way.
The simulator lived deep inside the building, far from daylight and distraction.
Charlotte liked to joke — only to herself — that you could lose entire days down there and no one would notice.
She’d learned the rhythms of the place: the hum of machines, the faint smell of warmed electronics, the way the air never quite changed. It was insulated from the outside world, from weather and seasons and expectations.
The sim didn’t care who her father was. It didn’t care who her mother had been.
It didn’t care that she’d once lain in a hospital bed counting ceiling tiles and wondering if this would be the last room she would ever see.
The sim only cared whether the model was wrong.
If the numbers were wrong, it told her.
If the assumptions were flawed, it punished her.
If she fixed it, it responded honestly.
There was no pity in it.
Only cause and effect.
She spent most of her time down there — long hours, irregular meals, headphones on, mind locked into the language of physics and probability. People sometimes forgot she existed until something broke or improved unexpectedly.
She didn’t mind.
Being invisible had its advantages.
There were days — quieter ones, harder ones — when she recognised the truth without flinching:
When it wasn’t Tilly the cat keeping her alive, it had been this.
The focus. The problems.
The sense that something complex could be understood if she stayed with it long enough.
She had survived because she’d had reasons to keep thinking forward.
Sometimes, late at night, she’d sit alone in the sim control room, lights low, replaying runs not because she needed to — but because the repetition was grounding.
The steady hum reminded her that she was still here, that time was still moving.
She didn’t think about her father much while she worked.
That part of her life felt distant, sealed off behind professional neutrality and old decisions. Here, she was judged on output, not origin.
Here, she was competent.
Here, she mattered.
Charlotte adjusted a parameter, watched the model settle, and made a note to herself for the next session.
Just Charlotte.
And that was more than enough.
***
The car was lying to him.
Max had known it for weeks, in that low, irritating way that lived between shoulder blades and instincts — the way a thing felt wrong even when the numbers insisted otherwise.
The simulator said one thing. The track said another.
And every time he brought it up, it got smoothed over with words like correlation and tolerance and development window.
None of which helped when the rear snapped like it hated him personally.
So when GP told him there was someone in the sim department who wanted ten minutes of his time, Max expected another polite meeting.
Another explanation.
Another we’re working on it.
He did not expect her.
She was standing half-turned toward the screen when he walked in, arms crossed loosely, posture straight but not stiff.
Tall. Longer legs than most people in the room.
Short dark hair that brushed her jaw, slightly mussed like she’d run a hand through it too many times.
Dark eyes — sharp, focused— flicked to him, assessed him, and then went straight back to the data.
No awe. No hesitation.
Interesting.
“Max, this is Charlotte Fischer.” GP said. “Sim engineer. Charlotte, Max.”
Charlotte Fischer nodded once. No smile. No fuss.
“Hi, nice to meet you.”
Her voice was calm. Neutral in a way that suggested it had been trained that way.
Max nodded back, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was still in his race suit and probably smelled faintly like heat and frustration.
“So,” he said, because silence felt loaded already. “You found something.”
“Yes,” she said immediately, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer to the screen. “The sim wasn’t wrong because of bad inputs. It was wrong because it was assuming the car behaved honestly.”
Max blinked.
“…Okay.”
She glanced at him then, just briefly, and there was something dry in her expression. Not amused. Not impressed. Just… certain.
“The aero load model is overcorrecting for yaw instability,” she continued. “Which means the sim compensates in ways the real car can’t. It’s smoothing behavior that doesn’t exist. So when you drive it, you subconsciously trust a balance you’ll never actually have on track.”
GP inhaled slowly, like someone bracing.
Max stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the replay she pulled up.
“That’s why it snaps,” he said quietly. “Mid-corner. Feels fine until it doesn’t.”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”
Not maybe. Not we think. Yes.
She pulled up a comparison run — sim versus real telemetry — and the discrepancy was suddenly obvious, glaring in hindsight. The sim was lying, and it had been doing it for months.
“I adjusted the assumptions,” she said. “Removed the artificial stabilisation. It’s… less pleasant to drive now.”
Max snorted.
“Good.”
That earned him a real look. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “I thought you might say that.”
He liked her already.
They ran the updated sim together.
The car was ugly, nervous, difficult — and suddenly, it made sense. The feedback matched his hands. The fear points lined up with reality.
When Max climbed out, adrenaline buzzing in his veins, he realised something else had changed.
He was smiling. “That’s it,” he said, turning toward her. “That’s the car.”
Charlotte inclined her head, like she’d expected nothing else.
“You’ll still hate it,” she said. “Just for the correct reasons now.”
He laughed before he could stop himself.
GP cleared his throat, looking between them with interest. “Good work,” he said to Charlotte.
She nodded again, already gathering her tablet, mentally moving on.
Max watched her for half a second too long.
Pretty was the wrong word. She wasn’t decorative. She was… arresting.
Tall, composed, dark hair sharp against pale skin, dark eyes that didn’t seek approval. Someone who fixed things quietly and didn’t need applause for it.
And something else — something he couldn’t quite name — tugged at him.
Familiarity, maybe. Or recognition.
As she turned to leave, Max found himself speaking without planning it. “You’ll be around for the next sessions?”
Charlotte paused, glanced back at him. “Yes.”
Just that.
Then she walked out, steps measured, already gone from the moment.
Max stood there, helmet under his arm, heart doing something annoying and unexpected.
GP watched him, unimpressed. “…Don’t,” he said flatly.
Max didn’t even look away from the door. “I haven’t done anything.”
GP huffed. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
Max smiled to himself, slow and crooked. Yeah. He definitely was.
***
Lunch was a brief ceasefire between debriefs and damage limitation.
They were halfway through eating when Charlotte appeared at the edge of the table, tablet tucked under her arm, tote bag slung over one shoulder.
She paused, polite. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Max looked up immediately. Tried not to look like he had.
Hannah smiled. “You’re not interrupting.”
Charlotte reached into her bag and pulled out something… knitted. Crocheted, actually. Thick yarn, carefully shaped.
It was a tiny hat.
A ridiculous, adorable, painstakingly made tiny hat.
“This is for Nimbus,” Charlotte said, handing it to Hannah. “Your daughters asked if the ears could be… exaggerated.”
Hannah gasped softly. “Oh my god. They’re going to lose their minds.”
Max stared at the hat.
Then at Charlotte.
Then back at the hat.
“…Is that,” he said slowly, “a cat-sized hat?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No embarrassment.
GP choked on his drink.
Hannah turned the little thing over in her hands, inspecting the stitches. “You’re a miracle worker. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Charlotte hesitated, then added, “If Nimbus hates it, tell them it’s my fault.”
“He won’t,” Hannah said confidently. “He tolerates nonsense remarkably well.”
Charlotte nodded once, satisfied, and glanced briefly at Max — just a flicker — before stepping back.
“Enjoy lunch,” she said.
Then she was gone again, leaving behind a crochet hat and a table full of stunned engineers.
There was a beat of silence.
Max broke it immediately.
“I need to see pictures,” he said, pointing at the hat. “Immediately. When your cat wears that.”
Hannah laughed. “Of course you do.”
“I’m serious,” Max said. “This is important.”
GP sighed into his coffee. “Please explain to me how this is now important.”
Max ignored him, eyes still on the hat.
Hannah smiled knowingly. “Charlotte has an Instagram.”
Max’s head snapped up. “She does?”
“Yes,” Hannah said casually. “She only posts her cat. Modeling the hats.”
Max froze. “…Only that?”
“Yes.”
“How many hats are we talking about?”
Hannah shrugged. “Seasonal. Themes. There was a little witch one at Halloween.”
Max was already pulling out his phone.
“What’s the handle?”
Hannah told him.
Max followed the account without a second’s hesitation.
The feed loaded.
Cat. Hat. Another hat. A different angle of the same cat. A caption that was aggressively understated.
Max stared.
Then smiled.
Then liked three photos in a row before realising he probably shouldn’t like all of them.
GP watched him with the weary expression of a man who had seen this before and knew how it ended.
“You are,” GP said, “deeply predictable.”
Max didn’t look up.
“She crochets hats,” he said faintly. “For cats.”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “And?”
“And she fixes our sim,” Max added. “And she’s tall.”
Hannah snorted.
GP stood, collecting his tray. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”
Max finally glanced up, phone still in his hand, eyes bright.
“It’s already worse,” he said cheerfully.
And he liked another photo anyway.
Max was still scrolling when GP came back with his coffee.
Another cat. Another hat.
Max liked it.
Hannah watched him do it.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking between Max, the phone, and GP with the quiet confidence of someone about to ruin a man’s day.
“Ah,” she said eventually. “There it is.”
Max frowned. “What.”
GP glanced over. Took in the scene in half a second. “Oh,” GP said flatly. “No.”
Max finally looked up. “What do you mean no.”
“You have a crush,” Hannah said, far too cheerfully.
Max scoffed. “I do not.”
GP sat down slowly, the way one does when bracing for disappointment.
“You followed an engineer’s cat Instagram within thirty seconds,” GP said. “And you’re smiling at your phone.”
“It’s a cat,” Max argued. “In a hat!”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t follow my cat.”
“That’s because your cat doesn’t wear costumes,” Max shot back.
GP pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Max, “is exactly how it starts.”
Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both being dramatic.”
Hannah leaned forward. “Max. You asked me to send you photos of Nimbus wearing the hat. You said it was ‘important.’”
“It is important.”
GP stared at him. “Why.”
Max opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Well,” he said, stalling, “because—”
Hannah smiled sweetly. “Because you like her.”
“I like that she fixed the sim,” Max said quickly.
“And crocheted a hat for my cat,” Hannah added.
“And has an Instagram for it,” GP said.
“And you followed it immediately,” Hannah finished.
They both looked at him.
Max exhaled through his nose, defeated.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “Maybe a little.”
Hannah clapped once. “Oh god. You have a crush.”
GP groaned. “We are not doing this in the middle of a season from hell.”
Max looked back at his phone. The orange cat stared out from the screen, tiny hat slightly askew.
“She’s just… interesting,” he said, quieter now. “And she’s good. At her job.”
GP gave him a long look. “So were many people before who you did not stalk via crochet content.”
Max shrugged.
Hannah laughed outright. “This is adorable. I give it three weeks before you ask her about yarn.”
“I am not asking her about yarn,” Max protested.
GP didn’t even look convinced.
Max liked another photo.
Just one more.
For science.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/gridwatcher:
🚨 extremely important max verstappen following update 🚨
he just followed… a cat account???
@/tyredegpls: a WHAT account
@/gridwatcher: no because look
it’s just
a cat
wearing crocheted hats
@/papayapanic: pls tell me you’re joking
@/gridwatcher: I WISH I WAS
handle is literally tillyshats
@/softsector: hold on
scrolling
oh my god
WHY IS IT SO CUTE
@/dutchdelight33: max: fighting a cursed car every weekend
also max: yes. tiny hat.
@/downforcegirlie: this is the most unhinged thing he’s done all season and that is SAYING something
@/gridwatcher: the captions are killing me
“she hated this.”
bestie SAME
@/tyredegpls: do we think max knows the person irl or is this just him discovering joy again
@/softsector: either way i support his healing journey through crochet cat hats
@/downforcegirlie: he’s gonna like every post isn’t he
@/softsector: he already liked three in a row. source: me, refreshing.
@/gridwatcher: someone please tell him twitter has eyes
@/papayapanic: no don’t
this is the only joy we have this season
@/gridwatcher: max verstappen following a cat crochet account is the most emotionally stable thing he’s done in months and honestly? relatable.
@/papayaemergency: the captions are like
“she did not consent”
“winter collection complete”
I’m crying
@/F1Detective: give us 24 hours
@/F1Detective (later): ok so:
– account has existed for years
– never posted anything F1 related
– follows exactly 12 people
– max followed it today
this is either chaos or romance
@/OrangeSector33: max verstappen silently liking crochet cat content during a catastrophic season is my new coping mechanism
@/MaxAppreciation: I just know GP saw this and sighed
@/SlowPitStop: this is how it starts
first the cat
then the yarn
then suddenly he’s knitting in the garage
@/RedBullChaos: max hasn’t liked anything else today
just the cat
priorities king 👑
@/DutchF1Watcher: I don’t care who runs the account
I just want them to know
they made the fandom happy today 🧶🐱
Sim_Ruby: because he is a dedicated professional athlete committed to improving performance
Aero_Matt: ruby
Sim_Ruby: because charlotte is here
Strategy_Leah: ah
Composite_Tom: there it is
Garage_Pete: wait are we allowed to say that now
Strategy_Hannah: No.
Garage_Pete: so yes
Strategy_Hannah: Also no.
Sim_Ruby: Max asked whether the updated low-speed model was ready
Aero_Matt: is it
Sim_Ruby: it was ready yesterday
Aero_Matt: and did he know that
Sim_Ruby: yes
Aero_Matt: Beautiful
Powertrains_Nina: I saw him walk past the sim wing three times this morning
Garage_Pete: maybe he was lost
Powertrains_Nina: max verstappen has been in this building since he was seventeen
Garage_Pete: emotionally lost
Composite_Tom: that checks out
PR_Sophie: Can someone confirm whether Max has actually followed the cat account or is this another rumour?
Strategy_Leah: confirmed
PR_Sophie: oh my god
Aero_Matt: what cat account
Sim_Ruby: Charlotte’s cat. Tilly. The crochet hats.
Aero_Matt: the WHAT
Garage_Pete: welcome to the lore
Powertrains_Nina: Tilly has worn, to my knowledge:
pumpkin hat
dinosaur hat
mushroom hat
flower hat
PR_Sophie: and max followed within approximately thirty seconds of learning it existed
Aero_Matt: that is not a crush
that is a telemetry trace
Engineering_GP: All of you have work to do.
Aero_Matt: so do you
Engineering_GP: Correct. Mine is apparently preventing a world champion from flirting like a concussed golden retriever.
Sim_Ruby: GP
Garage_Pete: A CONCUSSED GOLDEN RETRIEVER
Powertrains_Nina: accurate though
Strategy_Hannah: Unfortunately.
PR_Sophie: For legal purposes, no one is to discuss this outside internal channels.
Aero_Matt: we have legal purposes now?
PR_Sophie: Max liking five consecutive photos of a cat wearing hats is market-sensitive information.
Strategy_Leah: true
Composite_Tom: the FIA should investigate
Garage_Pete: penalty for excessive adorableness
Sim_Ruby: UPDATE: Charlotte just told Max the simulator was “less wrong than yesterday” and he smiled like she handed him a trophy
Aero_Matt: oh he is GONE gone
Powertrains_Nina: did she mean it as praise?
Sim_Ruby: for Charlotte? yes
Strategy_Hannah: That is basically a sonnet from her.
Engineering_GP: Do not encourage him.
Strategy_Hannah: I am not encouraging him. I am observing.
Engineering_GP: You gave him her cat Instagram.
Strategy_Hannah: That was cultural enrichment!
Garage_Pete: max just asked whether charlotte was having lunch
Aero_Matt: normal
Garage_Pete: then immediately said “not like that”
Strategy_Leah: less normal
Garage_Pete: then left without eating
Composite_Tom: catastrophic
Powertrains_Nina: has anyone told charlotte
Sim_Ruby: told charlotte what
Powertrains_Nina: that the entire building thinks max has a crush on her
Sim_Ruby: she knows
Aero_Matt: SHE KNOWS?
Sim_Ruby: she has eyes
Strategy_Hannah: And a Cambridge degree.
Garage_Pete: so what is she doing about it
Sim_Ruby: mostly pretending not to know
Strategy_Leah: valid
Composite_Tom: romance, but make it deeply repressed and data-driven
Sim_Ruby: MAX JUST BROUGHT CHARLOTTE A COFFEE
Aero_Matt: did she accept it
Sim_Ruby: yes
Composite_Tom: oh my god
Garage_Pete: wedding when
Strategy_Hannah: Do not be weird.
Garage_Pete: sorry
Powertrains_Nina: what kind of coffee
Sim_Ruby: black. no sugar. exactly how she drinks it.
Strategy_Leah: oh
Aero_Matt: OH
Composite_Tom: he knows her coffee order
Garage_Pete: we are so back
***
Charlotte arrived early enough that the building had not fully woken yet.
The corridor lights were still dimmed to half-strength, the air cool and quiet in the way she liked best, before the factory filled with voices and footsteps and the restless machinery of a race weekend being prepared in a thousand invisible ways.
She had a coffee in one hand, her tablet tucked beneath her arm, and half her mind already turning over the work she had left unfinished the night before.
There was still a discrepancy in the latest sim run that annoyed her.
Not enough to be alarming.
Enough to be personal.
She slowed when she reached the entrance to the sim wing.
Voices drifted from the coffee machine.
Two engineers stood near the counter, jackets still on, mugs in hand, bodies loose with the kind of ease people only had before the day had properly claimed them. They were talking the way people talked when work had not yet narrowed them down to data and deadlines.
“My mum keeps asking if I’m coming home for Easter,” one of them said, amused. “As if I can just teleport.”
The other laughed. “Mine’s already planning Christmas. It’s March.”
“Better than my dad,” the first replied. “He sends spreadsheets. Travel options. Budget comparisons. Last year there were colour-coded tabs.”
Charlotte stopped just out of sight.
Family talk had a way of slipping under her skin before she had time to brace for it. It was always the harmless conversations that did the most damage.
The little complaints. The fond exasperation. The casual certainty that someone was waiting somewhere, planning too much, caring clumsily but consistently.
She waited until the moment passed, then stepped forward.
The engineers glanced over, nodded in greeting, and moved aside to let her reach the coffee machine. Their conversation faded naturally as work reasserted itself.
Normal.
Unremarkable.
Charlotte returned the nod, polite and distant, then continued down the corridor with her coffee warming her hand.
She did not think about her family often.
Not actively.
It was not something she pushed away so much as something that had ceased to belong to her daily life. Like a room in a house she had stopped entering until, eventually, she no longer remembered the exact placement of the furniture.
She had a mother once.
That part was easy to remember.
Warmth. Beauty that had nothing to do with mirrors. A laugh that lived in the body more than the mouth. Hands that tucked hair behind Charlotte’s ear with absentminded tenderness. A voice that spoke to her as if she were already someone worth listening to.
Then she had a father.
Had.
The word still landed strangely.
She had not spoken to him in nearly four years now. Not properly. Not since the last argument — if it could even be called that. Arguments implied heat on both sides. Noise. Back-and-forth. Something alive enough to resist.
What they had…that was a rupture.
A single moment where everything unspoken finally surfaced, where Charlotte stopped absorbing it quietly and said, in every way she knew how, this hurts.
And he had answered with calm-downs.
With compromises.
With that familiar, polished instinct to keep the peace, as if peace had ever been neutral. As if it had not always been purchased with her silence.
She had walked out that night without slamming the door.
She had never gone back.
Cutting contact had not been dramatic.
It had been administrative.
She changed her number. Updated emergency contacts. Removed his name from forms and replaced it with her own. Changed what needed changing, signed what needed signing, and built a life that no longer required anyone else’s permission to continue.
It had not felt like loss.
That had surprised her, at first.
It had felt like relief.
She reached the simulator control room and set her things down. The machines hummed around her, steady and familiar, wrapping the room in a sound she understood better than most people’s voices.
This, she could trust.
Data did not ask where you were from.
It did not ask who raised you.
It did not assume connection where there was none.
She powered up her workstation, eyes scanning the screen as systems came online. The familiar glow caught against her coffee cup, her notes, the edge of her hand.
Families, she thought, were something you either got lucky with or learned to live without.
She had learned. And she had survived.
Still, sometimes, she could not help thinking about it.
It happened more often than she liked to admit.
Not deliberately. Not masochistically.
Just… in passing.
A screen left on in the background. A photograph in a paddock recap. A video clip that autoplayed before she could stop it.
Her father laughing with Jack on his shoulders.
Her father leaning down to listen to Rosa, one hand warm and familiar at her back.
Her father with Benedict, proud and attentive and present in a way that looked effortless from the outside.
A father.
Charlotte never sought those moments out, but they found her anyway, slipping into her periphery like static she could never quite tune out.
Every time, she wondered the same thing.
How can you do it for them?
How could he know how to kneel to a child’s height, how to listen, how to protect, how to make himself soft enough to be trusted — and still never have managed it for her?
She did not think it with anger anymore.
That part had burned out years ago.
What remained was quieter. Sharper.
Confusion, edged with grief.
She had been there first.
The thought arrived uninvited every time. Not as an accusation. Not even as a plea.
Just as fact.
She had been there first.
Stephanie’s face surfaced next, as it often did when Charlotte let herself follow the thread.
Stephanie, cool and immaculate. Stephanie, whose displeasure had never needed to become a raised voice to be felt. Stephanie, who had looked at Charlotte as if she were a problem that should have resolved itself through gratitude and silence.
Charlotte had spent years trying to be smaller around her.
Quieter.
Easier.
Less inconveniently alive.
It had never worked.
Nothing would have worked.
That had been one of the cruellest things to learn. That sometimes there was no correct version of yourself that would make someone love you. Sometimes the offence was not your behaviour, or your tone, or your awkwardness, or your grief.
Sometimes the offence was simply that you existed.
Susie belonged in a different category altogether.
Susie had never been cruel.
That mattered.
It also had not been enough.
Charlotte had learned early that kindness without intervention still left bruises. That sympathy did not stop harm if it stayed quiet. That a soft look across a dinner table was not the same thing as someone saying, enough.
She did not resent Susie.
Not exactly.
She simply had not trusted her.
And that, too, had felt inevitable.
Her mother was the only one untouched by complication.
Charlotte missed her with a dull, persistent ache that had nothing to do with time. No amount of years had softened it. No amount of success had replaced the absence. It lived in her quietly, beneath the skin, like an old injury that ached before rain.
She missed the way her mother had spoken to her like Charlotte’s thoughts mattered.
The way she had touched her hair when she was thinking.
The way she had laughed — full-bodied, unselfconscious, generous — as if joy was not something to ration.
She missed the safety of her.
The certainty.
Sometimes Charlotte tried to imagine what her life would have been if her mother had lived.
She suspected the answer was: simpler.
Not easier.
Just less lonely.
She rarely allowed herself to dwell on the question that haunted her most.
If she were still alive, would any of this have happened?
Charlotte knew the answer.
No.
Because her mother would never have let anyone make her feel optional.
She sat down at her desk, set her coffee beside the keyboard, and pulled up the latest sim data.
The discrepancy was still there, waiting for her.
Good.
That, at least, was something she knew how to fix.
***
Max hadn’t meant to listen.
That was the thing.
He was not sneaking around the sim wing like some sort of stalker who lingered near doorways because Charlotte Fischer happened to be on the other side of them.
He was simply walking.
And then he heard her laugh.
Not the small, contained sound she sometimes made when someone said something mildly funny and she decided, apparently by committee, that it deserved acknowledgement.
This was different.
Quick. Unpolished. Surprised out of her.
Max slowed before he could stop himself.
The office door was half-open. Voices drifted out into the corridor — easy, bright, the kind of conversation people had when the day had not fully sharpened around them yet.
Charlotte’s voice cut through the others.
Distinct.
Calm.
Impeccably British in that way that made Max think of expensive schools and people who used forks correctly even when angry.
“You know,” one of her colleagues said, audibly grinning, “every time you say can’t, I expect you to start announcing tea.”
Charlotte made an offended sound. “That’s not even fair.”
“It is,” another voice chimed in. “You sound like you went to the kind of school that has its own crest.”
“I did,” Charlotte said dryly.
Max stopped walking.
He pulled out his phone, because apparently he was now that person and if anyone asked, he could pretend he had received a message.
“Called it,” the first colleague said triumphantly. “I knew it. Boarding school.”
“Very pricey boarding school,” Charlotte corrected. “With uniforms that cost more than my rent.”
Someone laughed. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. There was a blazer. It had piping.”
“Oh, posh-posh.”
“Traumatised-posh,” Charlotte corrected. “There is a difference.”
Max’s mouth twitched despite himself.
He could picture it too easily.
Charlotte in some severe school uniform, dark hair shorter even then maybe, dark eyes already watchful, standing too straight because someone somewhere had taught her posture could be armour.
Charlotte learning early how to sound composed. How to make every sentence smooth enough that no one could grab hold of it.
He filed it away.
Boarding school.
Expensive.
Old money, maybe.
Or at least money somewhere.
That part did not quite fit with the rest of her, though. Not with the way she never talked like someone expecting anything to be handed to her. Not with the way she moved through Red Bull like she had carved out every inch of space herself.
Then one of her colleagues said, “Okay, but wait — you’re not even British, are you?”
There was a pause.
Small. Almost nothing.
Max noticed anyway.
“No,” Charlotte said. “I was born in Austria.”
That stopped him properly.
Austria.
The word clicked into place somewhere in the back of his mind, sharp and unexpected.
“In Austria?” the colleague echoed. “Then why do you sound like you were raised by the BBC?”
Charlotte huffed softly. “Because I moved young and learned quickly that sounding neutral was useful.”
The colleague laughed. “Neutral? Charlotte, you sound like you should be disappointed in my table manners.”
“I often am.”
More laughter.
Max did not laugh this time.
Sounding neutral was useful.
He turned the words over once.
Twice.
He had learned, in the few weeks since Charlotte had appeared properly in his orbit, that she rarely wasted words. She could make a joke, yes. She could be dry enough to make GP look up from his coffee. But she did not say things by accident.
Useful.
Not natural.
Not inherited.
Useful.
He stored that away too.
Austrian.
Moved young.
Accent chosen. Or trained. Or both.
He should have kept walking.
He really should have.
Instead, he stood there in the corridor with his phone in his hand, pretending to scroll through nothing, collecting pieces of Charlotte Fischer like small, mismatched parts of a car he did not yet understand.
Cat Instagram.
That had been the first piece, really.
The account with the orange cat in crocheted hats.
Tilly’s hats. sixty-seven posts. No selfies. No friends. No food pictures. No glamorous life tucked between work and travel.
Just a cat staring into the camera with offended dignity while wearing whatever newest crocheted creation her owner had made.
Max had followed the account within thirty seconds of finding it.
Hannah and GP had mocked him for that.
Fairly, maybe.
He had liked only three photos at first, because he had enough self-control not to like all of them immediately. Then he had gone back later and liked two more, because the cat had been wearing a tiny mushroom hat and he was not made of stone.
That had told him something about Charlotte too.
Not the obvious thing — that she liked cats, though that was important and frankly made her more interesting.
But the other thing.
That she made things with her hands.
Tiny, impractical, ridiculous things.
For a cat.
The same woman who spoke in clean, precise lines about sim correlation and flawed modelling assumptions spent her free time crocheting hats for an animal that looked furious about it.
Max liked that more than he knew what to do with.
Now Austria. Boarding school. The accent.
The little pause before she answered.
He put those beside the cat hats in his head.
None of it made a full picture.
All of it made him want to look again.
“So what,” the first colleague said, still teasing, “secret posh childhood?”
Charlotte made a sound Max could not quite read. “Something like that.”
That was not an answer.
Max knew that because he gave those kinds of answers all the time.
The ones that sounded enough like truth that people stopped asking.
“Come on,” the colleague pressed. “Austria, British boarding school, Cambridge, Red Bull. That’s a lot.”
“It looks more coherent on paper than it was in practice,” Charlotte said.
There it was again.
A sentence with a door behind it.
Max stared at his phone without seeing it.
“Did your parents just decide England would build character?” someone asked.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then Charlotte said, lightly, “Something like that.”
The same phrase.
Different weight.
Max’s fingers tightened around his phone.
Parents.
So there were parents. Or had been. Rich enough for boarding school. Connected enough for Cambridge. Absent enough, maybe, that Charlotte had learned to make her voice sound like something that could not be questioned.
He did not know.
That was the problem.
He did not know anything, really.
He knew she was tall. That he had noticed immediately.
Tall, short dark hair, dark eyes that looked at data like it had personally offended her. Pretty in a way that did not ask to be looked at and therefore made him want to look more, which was annoying and inconvenient and absolutely GP’s fault somehow.
He knew she was good.
Not normal good. Not useful member of the department good.
Very good.
The kind of good that made people in the sim wing listen when she spoke. The kind of good that had made the car, for the first time in weeks, feel honestly bad instead of dishonestly manageable. The kind of good that mattered, because Max hated being lied to by machines almost as much as he hated being lied to by people.
He knew she was not impressed by him.
That might have been the worst part.
Or the best.
He had not decided.
She did not look at him like most people looked at him. Not fans. Not sponsors. Not women who already knew his reputation before he opened his mouth.
Charlotte looked at him like a data point.
A very fast data point, maybe.
Occasionally useful.
Occasionally irritating.
But not miraculous.
Max should have found that insulting.
Instead, he found himself walking slightly slower past corridors where he knew she worked, checking whether she was in the sim bay before he asked a question he could probably have asked someone else, and thinking about an orange cat in a frog hat more often than was dignified.
“Anyway,” Charlotte said inside the office, her voice shifting back toward professional even as the others still sounded amused. “If we are finished psychoanalysing my vowels, the model is still wrong.”
Someone groaned. “You’re no fun.”
“I am enormous fun,” Charlotte replied. “In controlled conditions.”
Max nearly smiled.
There she was.
The door closed on the conversation a moment later, the voices muffling into work.
Max stood there for half a second longer.
Then he put his phone away and continued toward the sim bay.
By the time he arrived, Charlotte was already there, because of course she was. She sat at her desk with her posture perfect and her eyes on the screen, short dark hair tucked behind one ear, speaking to another engineer in that polished British register that now sounded different to him.
Not fake.
Never fake.
Constructed.
There was a difference.
Max watched her while pretending not to.
Austria, he thought.
Boarding school.
Cambridge.
Cat.
Parents with money, maybe. Or money around her. Or something complicated enough that she had learned to answer around it.
He added each fact to the quiet little folder in his mind labelled Charlotte Fischer.
It was becoming embarrassingly full.
She looked up suddenly, as if she had felt him watching.
Max, who was excellent under pressure and had won world championships, immediately forgot what he had come in for.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
“Did you need something?”
“Yes,” Max said.
A pause.
Her eyebrow rose a fraction higher.
He recovered badly.
“The sim,” he said. “I wanted to ask about the updated model.”
That was at least true.
Charlotte turned back to her screen. “Sit down, then.”
Max sat.
Too quickly.
Behind him, GP made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough and even more suspiciously like amusement.
Max ignored him.
Charlotte pulled up the model, all focus again, all precision. The polished accent. The steady hands. The brain that saw flaws in systems and fixed them before anyone else had found the right question.
Max listened.
Mostly.
But some part of him stayed in the corridor, holding the pieces he had collected.
He wondered how many versions of herself Charlotte Fischer had built to get here.
And, more dangerously, whether she ever let anyone see the one underneath.
***
The apartment was quiet in the particular way Monaco became quiet at night.
Not silent.
Never silent.
There was always the low hush of the city beyond the glass, the distant drag of tyres over tarmac, the occasional voice rising from the street below and dissolving into the dark. But up here, above most of it, the noise arrived softened. Cushioned. Expensive.
Toto Wolff sat alone at the dining table, laptop open in front of him, the glow of the screen cutting pale lines across the polished stone.
The paperwork was orderly.
Of course it was.
Trust statements. Account summaries. Investment reports. Tax documents. Things that made sense because numbers had the decency to declare what they were. They could be checked, balanced, corrected.
He had reviewed these accounts often enough to know most of them by heart.
Often enough to pretend this part would not still hurt.
He scrolled.
Benedict’s trust was active. University fees. Living expenses. Transfers made with the faint carelessness of someone who had always known the safety net was there.
Rosa’s was the same. Regular withdrawals. Sensible ones, mostly. A larger payment for an apartment deposit. A few indulgences Toto had noticed and chosen not to comment on.
They were using what he had built for them.
That was the point of it, he told himself. That had always been the point.
Then the next file opened. Charlotte Wolff.
Her name sat there in the same clean font as the others, understated and formal, as if it were simply another account to review. As if it did not reach through the screen and close around his throat.
Toto went still.
The balance was untouched.
No withdrawals.
No requests.
No transfers.
No activity beyond interest accrual and the neat, automatic work of money compounding around an absence.
For years.
He stared at the numbers for a long time.
Four years since she had blocked his number.
Four years since his calls had stopped ringing through and gone instead into that cold, immediate silence. Four years since messages had remained delivered but unanswered, until eventually even that stopped because he no longer knew whether she had the same number at all.
Four years since he had told himself the same cowardly thing over and over.
She will call if she needs something.
It had sounded reasonable at the time.
Respectful, even.
A way of giving her space. A way of not forcing himself into a life she had clearly decided to keep without him.
Now, looking at the untouched trust, he saw it for what it had been.
An excuse.
She had never called.
Not for money.
Not for help.
Not because she was frightened.
Not because she was ill.
Not because there was no one else.
She had taken his absence and made it permanent.
Cleanly.
Efficiently.
Like Charlotte did most things.
And the worst part — the part that sat heavy and sickening beneath his ribs — was that he had always known she would be capable of it.
Even as a child, she had been too self-contained.
Too careful.
Too ready to take responsibility for the temperature of a room before any adult had asked why a child was reading it so closely.
He could still see her sometimes, if he let himself.
Small at the edge of a dining table. Hands folded. Back straight. Eyes lowered, then lifted, then lowered again. Watching. Measuring. Learning what not to say.
He remembered the way her shoulders tightened when Stephanie spoke her name.
He remembered the way she grew quieter over the years.
He remembered noticing.
That was the unforgivable thing.
Not ignorance.
Not blindness.
Not some convenient failure of perception.
He had noticed.
He had seen enough to know.
The tension in her jaw. The way she left rooms before she could be dismissed from them. The way she stopped asking for things. The way she learned, year by year, to make needing him unnecessary.
And he had done nothing.
Not because he had not loved her.
That was the excuse he had reached for in darker moments, but even he had never managed to make himself believe it.
He had loved her.
He had simply loved his own peace more.
He had loved the fragile balance of the household more.
He had loved avoiding confrontation more.
He had loved the version of himself who could provide everything measurable and pretend protection was included somewhere in the cost.
Toto pressed his fingers to his eyes.
“I didn’t protect her,” he said.
The words fell into the empty apartment and stayed there.
They did not shock him.
They were too old for that.
Too worn down by repetition.
Too true.
Behind him, the door opened softly.
Toto did not turn around.
He heard Susie come in, the quiet click of keys set down, the pause that followed when she saw him sitting there in the dark with the laptop open and every line of his body pulled tight.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
It was not really a question.
Susie had always been better than most people at reading the shape of disaster before anyone named it.
Toto kept his eyes on the screen.
“I really fucked up with her,” he said.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath.
Susie did not ask who.
That was its own kind of mercy.
After a moment, she came closer. Her hand settled lightly on the back of his chair, not quite touching him yet.
“Charlotte,” she said.
Toto nodded once.
The name hurt more when Susie said it.
“She hasn’t touched the trust,” he said. “Not once.”
Susie’s gaze moved to the laptop.
Toto heard her inhale.
“Years,” he continued, and his voice sounded strange even to himself. Too flat. Too controlled. “No withdrawals. No calls. No requests. Nothing.”
Susie was quiet.
“I told myself she would call if she needed money,” he said.
The shame of it rose hot in his throat.
“God,” he muttered. “Money.”
Susie’s hand moved from the chair to his shoulder.
“That was never how Charlotte asked for help,” she said gently.
Toto laughed once.
Short.
Humourless.
“She didn’t ask,” he said. “That was the point.”
“I know.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I did. Not properly.”
He looked back at the screen.
At the pristine account.
At the money he had set aside like proof of fatherhood. As if a trust fund could stand in for all the rooms where he had remained silent. As if Cambridge and doctors and security and a name on paperwork could add up to safety.
“I gave her everything except what she needed,” he said.
Susie said nothing.
There was kindness in her silence, but not absolution. He was grateful for that.
“She was a child,” Toto said, and this time his voice cracked around it. “She was a child, Susie. And I left her alone in that house.”
“You were there,” Susie said softly.
“That’s worse.”
Her hand tightened on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes.
“She looked at me that night,” he said. “Before she left. After I told her to calm down.”
The memory came back with brutal clarity.
Charlotte standing at the table, pale with fury, eyes too bright and too dry. Stephanie offended. Rosa defensive. Benedict silent.
And Charlotte looking at him.
Not waiting for him to fix it anymore.
Just watching him fail one final time.
“I thought I was de-escalating,” he said.
The word tasted obscene.
Susie did not soften it for him.
“You were choosing the room,” she said. “Not her.”
Toto nodded.
The truth of it settled between them like dust.
“I know.”
He had known then too, perhaps. Somewhere beneath the practiced instinct. Beneath the diplomacy, the management, the relentless need to make every conflict survivable by making it smaller.
Charlotte had not needed the conflict made smaller.
She had needed him to make himself larger.
He had not.
Susie drew out the chair beside him and sat.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The laptop screen dimmed slightly, the numbers fading toward grey.
After a long moment, Susie said, “You could try reaching out again.”
Toto stared at Charlotte’s name.
“I don’t know how.”
“Start with the truth.”
He let out another brittle laugh. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“That would take years.”
“Then start with one sentence.”
He looked at her then.
Susie’s face was calm, but her eyes were not easy. She was not offering comfort. Not exactly. She was offering something harder.
A way forward that did not pretend forward meant forgiveness.
“She blocked me,” he said. “I don’t even know if anything would reach her.”
“You could write.”
“She might not read it.”
“She might not,” Susie agreed.
“She might hate me.”
Susie held his gaze.
“Toto.”
He looked away first.
Of course.
“I don’t even know what she’s doing,” he admitted. The words came quietly, and somehow that made them worse. “Where she lives. Who she knows. Whether she is happy. Whether she is safe.”
His mouth tightened.
“I don’t know who she is anymore.”
Susie’s expression flickered.
Pain.
Regret.
Something she did not ask him to name.
“She made a life without me,” Toto said.
The laptop went darker again, Charlotte’s untouched account now barely visible on the screen.
He looked at it anyway.
“And I taught her how.”
Susie reached for his hand then.
He let her take it.
For once, there was nothing to fix. No strategy to find. No call to make. No negotiation, no restructuring, no transfer of money large enough to alter the shape of what had happened.
There was only the untouched trust fund.
The daughter who had not needed it.
The father who had mistaken provision for protection until the evidence became impossible to ignore.
And in the expensive quiet of the Monaco apartment, Toto Wolff finally understood that Charlotte had not left because he had given her too little.
She had left because the one thing she had needed from him had never been something he could buy.
oscar piastri x yn!singer | request — here | masterlist |
"One night I was bored in bed, And stalked you on the internet" in which a popstar's crush on a f1 driver turns into a front page story...
note — (all manips made by me!!) i love this fic soooooo much, like it's very dear me.... hope you all enjoy it (not proofread ignore any mistakes) <3 !! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤
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♬ Y/n L/n ‧ obsessed
Liked by yourinstagram, user1 and 772,256 others
oscarpiastri 💪
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user1 new song to add to the playlist
user2 thirst trap on main???
user3 y/n is holding her self back by not commenting
->user4 ik she's remembering her pr training right now
->user5 wait why????
->user4 it's a known thing among fans that she has a crush on oscar...
->user5 HUH!??!?!? how haven’t i heard about this??!???
user6 You got this 🏎️
user7 okay can mclaren invite y/n to a race please
user8 listening to obsessed?? why does oscar know ball
user9 need to see all his playlists
user10 Future world champion💪🔥🧡
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Liked by user1, user2 and 385,924 others
tmz Y/nL/n seen arriving in Melbourne, Australia today.
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user1 love her <3
user2 wait..... the australian gp is this weekend
->user3 and mclaren recently followed her....
->user4 are we thinking they invited her to oscar's home race!?!??!
->user3 YESSS
user5 this could be so major...
user6 winona hat is so cute
user7 she's going to find her a aussie man anyway she can
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Liked by user1, user2 and 645,758 others
YnLnNews Y/N IN AUSTRALIA!!!!! Y/n sat with Oscar Piastri prior to qualifying, Y/n cheered on Oscar as he qualified P2.
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user1 EVERYONE STAY CALM
user2 very important things happening right now
user3 who else was with them???? do we know how long they hung out..?
->user4 i saw a video of them talking and the poster said they were talking alone for about 15+ mins until someone on the team wanted to meet y/n
->user4 he sat with them for 5 mins and they kept talking for around 30 more minutes and hugged goodbye
->user3 omg ty sm user4 !!
user5 her SMILEEEE
user6 already loving them AIWLUHDFLUIAWG
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 2,748,362 others
yourinstagram never finished that beer 🍻
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user1 summer maxing
user2 everywhere but that damn studio
oscarpiastri 🌹🍻
->user3 alright man... we get it
->user4 no im not jealous at all
user5 you r my inspo
user6 mclaren girllll
->user7 **oscar piastri girl
->user8 she's truly only there for the race and oscar
user9 gorgeous girl
user10 what dat mean???
->user11 idk maybe she never finished her beer????
->user10 okay 😐
user12 does the piano mean we're getting music?!!?!
user13 the last slide and the koala.... taking notes
user14 can you get any more perfect
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yourinstagram story !
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oscarpiastri It was great to finally meet you in person!
yourinstagram a pleasure to meet you as well!!!
yourinstagram ik you have a busy schedule so ty for sparing the time!
oscarpiastri SPARING?? I would've skipped qualifying just to keep talking to you
oscarpiastri I wanted to meet you! So the schedule was cleared just for you!
oscarpiastri It obviously wasn't the race I would've liked for you to have been present for....
yourinstagram at least you didn't finish last!!!
yourinstagram hopefully the next race i go to will have a better outcome 🤞
oscarpiastri Speaking of you going to another race have you been to China? 👀
yourinstagram no…. but i’ve always wanted to go!!
oscarpiastri Well there is a race coming up in China if your up for that…?
yourinstagram mhmmmm that does sound like something i’d enjoy
yourinstagram and if i were to go…
oscarpiastri Mhm hmm 🤔
yourinstagram id like to find a place for us to get dinner, since you picked last time 😁
oscarpiastri You drive a hard bargain.. but i think we have a deal
yourinstagram good doing business with you 🤝
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enews Brewing Romance? Y/n L/n and Formula One Driver Oscar Piastri have been causing a stir as of late.
While the pair have been linked to each other since late 2024, the two hadn't met in person till March 15th 2025. Piastri said after meeting L/n "We've talk prior to meeting, so it was nice to finally meet in person. She's lovely." With L/n's recent presence in China for the Chinese Grand Prix, people are starting to wonder if there's a couple in the making...
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user1 they're so cute! im here for it
user2 enews doesn't even know about their crushes on each other
->user3 i was fully expecting to see them mention that but was glad they didn't
->user4 truly don't know how i would react if there were articles written about my crush
user5 i've been rooting for them since she liked an edit of him on tiktok
user6 her with an athlete is scary but he seems chill
user7 not my favs being on the jumbotron wth
user8 i feel like ppl are going to say it's PR but i think they're dating honestly
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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 2,672,856 others
oscarpiastri First win of the year 🏆
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user1 wait is that y/n????
user2 LETS GOOOOOO
yourinstagram and to many more!!
->oscarpiastri 😉
->user3 okay they're cute i guess...
user4 Y/N MADE THE POST!!!!!
user5 mini goat 🐐
user6 keep on pushing oscar we love you!
user7 he knew to ass that y/n pic iktr
user8 power couple omg?!
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Liked by user1, user2 and 45,758 others
deuxmoi While we do enjoy seeing young love, we can't help but wonder is it real... or is it PR?
Comment your thoughts below ⬇
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user1 it's not like they're two young attractive people dating they HAVE to be doing pr??? y'all are so bored, let them live
user2 no shade to oscar but there are much more famous guys she could've gotten with to "up" her image
->user3 LITERALLY
->user4 an actor would've made waves... like it's not about the perception
user5 they had crushes on each other and then started dating it's not rocket science
user6 no one likes you guys, please don't speak on the queen
user7 this is family business.. why are you here??
user8 they're happy.... why does it matter ?
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♬ The Cure ‧ Just like Heaven
Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 4,842,584 others
oscarpiastri 💙🏝🌞
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user1 My parents omg
yourinstagram 🐢🌊🐠 Liked by oscarpiastri !
user2 she is a real life princess
user3 1st slide is my roman empire
user4 you two are adorbs
user5 does he know this is his instagram...? bro only posted 1 pic of his face 😭
->user6 because he knows we're here for y/n
->user5 fairs
user7 he knew to post her on main
user8 that picture being first is so iconic
user9 okay we need about 50 more pics of you 2 cuties
user10 ugh he matches her energy so well <333
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Liked by user1, user2 and 155,758 others
enews Y/n L/n teases new music in Vogue Interview!
"Everything that I've been writing has been written in this notebook and I feel like my last two albums are very angsty and heartbroken and just as a creative endeavor and also because I'm experiencing so much joy in my life, I've wanted to figure out how to like inject that into the songs that I'm making. And I'm really proud of it so far!”
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user1 we are about to get such a lover girl song
user2 she could never make a bad song... im so ready
user3 not related but her face card is so insane in that picture wow
user4 i just know she has a hit song on the way
user5 "y/n to grace us with new music" i can't wait
user6 oooo i need it NOWWW
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 4,563,642 others
yourinstagram <3 !!!
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user1 oh mama is in loveeee
user2 posting her man on main wow
oscarpiastri = ❤♾ Liked by yourinstagram !
->user3 EXACTLYYYY
->user4 need them to get married
user5 it so SERIOUSSSS
user6 "I'm experiencing so much joy in my life" MY SHAYLAS
user7 holy hard launch
user8 and when u + me = <3 is a song title THEN WHAT????
user9 a WHOLE post dedicated to being in love... that love song is going to change my life
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 5,631,874 others
yourinstagram drop dead is out now!!!! I was lucky enough to film the music video at the palace of Versailles a few months ago and I’m so stoked with how it turned out. I hope you guys love it as much as I do xoxo
more soon to come <3
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user1 Can’t stop listening!!!❤️
user2 obsessed is an understatement...
rachelzegler MY GIRLLLL Liked by yourinstagram !
user3 ALREADY LISTENED ATLEAST 100 times
user4 best song of all time
user5 might drop dead over this music video 😭
user6 literally changed my life
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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 3,842,584 others
oscarpiastri "drop dead (taken that eurostar to france)" music video filmed by me out now on y/n's youtube!
so proud of my girl ❤
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user1 HE FILMED IT????
yourinstagram thank you angel boy <3 Liked by oscarpiastri !
->user2 im so parasocial about them
->user3 OSCAR PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR WAYS
->user4 "angel boy" and "my girl" I LOVE THEMMMM
user5 this is so cute i can't
user6 OMGGGG THEY'RE SO ADORABLE
user7 she’s looking like an angel on the walls of versailles
user8 you can hear him say "perfect" at the VERY end of the video
->user9 I knew i heard something !!
->user10 very cute that she kept it in 🥺
user11 this is cooler than any race win lowkey
user12 the way the video is actually beautifully shot too, oscar you have a backup career in photography
user13 "my girl" someone hold me please i can’t take it
user14 PARENTSSS
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✎…… hope you all enjoyed as much i did!!! i adored making this fic <3
using the same profile picture for the tweets made finishing this go 99% faster... probably going to be doing that from now on 😭
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after almost- almost fucking lose you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Dr Brendon Park x Wife!Pregnant!Reader, Dana Evans x Daughter!Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
As requested here by @darknessofhell666-blog-blog hope you enjoy! ♥️
You may not have followed your Mama’s footsteps into the medical profession.
But you did inherit her cheeky wit, and devotion to caring for those closest to her…raised with a deep understanding and respect for those working in the hospital.
You make an effort to drop off little treats from your bakery.
With each appearance you grow closer and closer to everyone.
Leading to the pittlings to wonder just who your husband is
…safe to say it’s the last person they expected.
Notes: some strong language, pregnancy, secret relationship, established relationship. Dana being such a doting mom, and Brendon being so sweet for you 💗
Word Count: ~4.7k
The warming spice of cinnamon.
The gentle warming aroma of vanilla.
And just perhaps a hint of a citrusy twist, whether that be lemon or orange touched with sugar.
It would vary from visit to visit.
But without fail.
Whenever you walked through those doors, it could almost be guaranteed that you’d come bearing baked goods.
Which never failed to cheer up the ER.
Even on the worst of days.
Whether that be from your company or your baked goods, they were always happy to see you.
But no one could be happier than Dana.
Who would wrap you up in her arms, squeezing you tightly whilst your smile would be bright and wide.
“Hey Baby, what’d you bring today?” she asked you with a smile.
“Apple turnovers with a hint of nutmeg”
“Sounds heavenly”
“I know they’re your favourite,” you grin, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, before pulling away, drawn into a conversation with your Mama’s coworkers.
The residents, med students and interns learnt early on, that despite the stress of the ER, at least they were stressed in the Pitt. Where they were lucky to be treated with your specially baked goods.
Because, as you never failed to remind them. Stressed spelled backwards was of course desserts.
Whether it be cinnamon scrolls.
Cookies of all sorts.
Brownies with a twist.
Treats baked with a delicate buttery puff pastry. Strawberry danishes with a hint of pistachio, or simply pear with a little crumble on top.
Tarts, cakes, and everything else in between.
You simply made sure that whatever you brought in, could be eaten with ease, could be eaten in a hurry.
Being the daughter of a charge nurse meant knowing that time was of the essence when it came to working in the ER.
Nothing was ever stale.
Bringing only the best of the best for these hard workers.
Even treating them with new creations, offering these all up for free and all you’d ever ask, is for a bit of advice on whether the recipes needed a little tweaking.
Not that anyone had a single complaint.
Merely that there was never enough, Trinity would teasingly complain.
You were kind, with a humorous wit that matched your mother’s.
So no one thought too deeply over the fact that you dropped by.
Not realising that on days you’d stop by during the change over, whilst you’d leave side by side with your Mama.
Just outside, just out of sight, you’d be met with a gentle kiss and sweet hello.
By the very fearsome, intimidatingly brooding orthopaedic surgeon, the Shark.
Otherwise known as Brendon Park.
Your husband.
You couldn’t say for sure that you meant to keep it a secret.
You couldn’t say that you intended to hide your relationship. Not even your Mama worked very hard to conceal this link.
In fact whenever Park would be summoned down to the ER, he’d always make an effort to stop by and check in with Dana.
He knew how much you worried cared for your Mama. So whenever he could, he would say hi.
And she’d be just as happy to see him.
Perhaps with a little teasing remark. That always kept him on his toes.
For however brief the interaction was. It meant a lot to Dana to see Brendon make such an effort.
Because she knew that deep down, behind his cold facade and abrupt nature. He was as soft and gooey as the brownies you would bake.
It just happened that no one had noticed.
Simply believing Park to have the decency to be nice towards the ER’s charge nurse. It wasn’t uncommon, seeing as he could be civil with Robby, the nurses and a few others in the ER.
Only ever truly being curt and clipped towards the juniors. He could be most impatient when it came to improper handling of cases.
His method of teaching being more akin to throwing them in the deep end rather than holding their hand in a wading pool.
…Truly, besides knowing that you were Dana’s daughter and an owner of a bakery, with a knack for making the very best treats.
Not much was known about you.
Well.
With only a handful of people knowing more of your personal life. Including Robby and Jack, Lena and Lupe, as well as most of the nursing staff, especially those closest to your Mama, such as Princess and Perlah.
All of whom knew better than to divulge your personal life.
Leaving many of the medical students and newcomers to wonder about your life.
Whenever time was on your side, you’d do your best getting to know them.
Listening intently when Dennis would speak about his youth growing up on the farm–giving him a little advice here and there. You had of course picked up a few things being Dana’s daughter.
Gently teasing Victoria when you saw her stumble over her words as she spoke with Mateo, feeling a burst of pride while you watched her confidence grow.
Samira would gravitate towards you and rant about her day, whilst you let her frustrations roll off. With a sympathetic smile, and always a little treat to quell her stress.
Frank would greet you with a wide grin, endearingly calling you “Baby Evans” in honour of your mother often calling you Baby.
Unfortunately, that nickname had caught on…
“Hey Baby Evans–what’s new with you? It’s been a while since you stopped by,” Trinity grinned, leaning upon the desk as she looked at you.
From where she was standing all she could see was your top half as you sat at the station.
“Well–uh. Funny you should ask,” you smiled gently, a small coy glint to your eye, “Maybe you’d like to guess?”
She rests her head in her hand as she looks at you.
A slight glow to your complexion, but that wasn’t overly unusual.
A slight glossy sheen to your hair.
And a wide smile upon your face.
But–
Trinity tugged Mel as she passed to stop her, while pointing a finger towards you, “Does something seem different with Baby Evans today?”
Mel’s brows knitted together, “Uh–”
"Something's different and I can’t quite put my finger on it”
Mel looked at you, as you gave her a little wave, before she glanced back at Trinity.
“She seems a little more glowy today? But that could be because of the pregnancy,” Mel replied a little quizzically.
Trinity blinks rapidly before her eyes snap back to you, “What?-”
Your laughter cuts through the room as you nod.
Trinity’s lips curl into a smile, rounding the corner, “Congratulations–Why didn’t you tell us?” her arms wrapped around you from behind, while you reached up to hold her arms.
And now as she stands beside you, she can see your growing stomach, rounded and full.
Smiling with such delight you answer, “We were just waiting a few weeks, just to make sure–wouldn’t want to jump the gun, a few weeks just happened to turn into a few months”
Trinity nods before glancing up, interrupting Dana and Robby mid conversation, “Dana! Why’d you hold out on us!”
Dana looks up, eyes peering over her glasses, before plucking them off, “Like N/N said, just wanted to make sure everything was tracking along ok,” her gaze drifts down to you, “Did you tell them the other news?”
You shook your head, “You can”
Dana nods with a smile, walking over taking Trinity’s place by your side, looking down at you fondly, “My Babygirl is going to be having twins,” she beams with pride.
A round of congratulations pour out from everyone, all of them taking the time to say hi and congrats to both you and Dana.
And so with this news.
The murmurs of gossip began.
All revolving around, who was the lucky guy to call you his partner in life?
With only a few tidbits of information to go on.
For one.
He was considerate. Caring.
It was no secret you were very much in love, with never a bad thing to say about your husband besides the fact that he worried too much over you.
Two.
He was a doctor.
It had come up in passing. So brief. Barely even a moment spent on the topic.
Merely a fleeting comment, whilst one of them fussed over you, insisting they help you with the boxes of baked goods claiming the stress wasn’t good for the babies.
You had simply swatted them away with a small chide, “Oh please don’t fuss over me, I get that enough from my Mama and my husband cause he’s a doctor”
And then three.
Dana never had a bad word to say about him. So he must’ve been a great guy to have gained her approval.
Oh.
And that he was handsome. But as that information came from you, that could’ve easily been a subjective opinion.
That was it.
That was all they had to go on.
And instead of asking either you or Dana outright.
They had resorted to trying to work it out themselves. Sifting through whatever snippets of information they could gather. Trying to piece together this little mystery,
Unaware that the answer was right beneath their noses.
Unaware that your husband worked alongside them.
“So who do you think it is?” Trinity asked Victoria, her eyes glancing at you from across the room.
“Who?” Victoria asks, without looking up from what she was doing.
Trinity clicks her tongue, “Who?–Pay attention Crash–I’m obviously talking about Y/N’s husband”
Victoria nods in understanding, before shrugging, “I don’t know, is it really any of our business”
“I’d still like to know,” Trinity says, biting the tip of her pen in thought. Before adding, “Do you think it’s someone from the night shift? I mean she always arrives at changeover–What do you think, Huckleberry?” She drags him into the conversation.
He shakes his head, “Uh–uh, I am not getting involved in this. I still want Dana to like me”
She rolls her eyes at him, before directing her gaze once more to Victoria.
Who hums in thought, “But her showing up at changeover doesn’t really prove anything, I mean she could easily be with someone from the dayshift”
Trinity sighs in agreement.
Her eyes narrow, observing you whilst you happily chatter with those around you. All of them trying to guess the sex of your babies, listing off plenty of names as suggestions.
Olive and Sage. Poppy and Colby. Or even Hazel and Brie.
Seemingly everyone found it very amusing to suggest names relating to you being a baker…
But you held your cards close to your chest. Not once showing whether you favoured one name more than the other.
Though you did scrunch your nose in distaste when Jesse offered the name Graham…after you had brought in graham cracker crusted tarts.
And you definitely broke down into a laugh when Princess had whispered the name Hunter with a knowing look in her eyes.
And yet.
The med students were no closer to figuring out who your husband was…the only other clue they had was that he had to be quite well off, considering the very sparkly ring they saw upon your hand.
Whilst your due date grew closer and closer. Your Mama loved to fuss more over you. Trying her best to dissuade you from coming to the ER.
With worries such as, “It’s not safe, patients can be erratic”
“The stress of the ER isn’t good for you”
And everything like that…
Unfortunately for her, you were as strong headed as she was. Waving off her concerns always with the same response.
Whilst you’d gently squeeze her hand, “Mama,” looking her in the eyes, “I like coming in here, I like coming to see you, and besides–I’ve got plenty of baked goods and you all deserve a little sweetness too”
However both your Mama and Brendon had managed to convince you to take it easy at work. To reduce your hours and hand over more responsibilities to your employees.
Telling you to take it easy.
To rest and stay off your feet a little more.
And whilst at the start you had complained…you were starting to see their point once you began to get winded more easily, feet growing sore, back aching.
Especially noticing that your bladder was growing weaker as your babies pressed upon it with each little shift.
Leading to times like these.
Dropping the box of cookies at the hub with a quick hello, before rushing past your Mama to the bathroom.
And then.
The elevator doors open.
Brendon Park steps out, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Icy blue eyes scanning the room, noting the familiar box of cookies at the hub.
He strides over to Dana, with a small raised brow. As interns and students alike duck their heads to avoid eye contact.
Question on the tip of his tongue.
“The babies decided the bathroom was where they wanted to go,” she explained.
He nods his head in understanding, “And how are you today?”
Dana nods with a smile, “Not bad”
Their conversation cuts short as Trinity waltzes up to the hub alongside Dennis, as she plucks a cookie, sending Dana a look before glancing at Brendon.
“Didn’t know we needed an ortho consult?”
Dennis’ eyes widen in panic trying to avert himself from Brendon’s eyeline.
Whilst those around hold their breaths.
Waiting for the bite back.
For the sharp retort.
But it never comes.
Brendon simply arches a brow. His eyes flicker down to meet Dana’s who meets his, before she looks back at Trinity.
And then.
Dana huffs out a laugh.
Stunning those around them – well those of them who didn’t know the relation between the two.
“If you’re not here for a consult, then why are you here?” Trinity probes further. The cookie in her hand, now half eaten.
Grinning widely, Dana wraps an arm around Brendon with a small pat on his back, whilst his arm slings across her shoulders.
She answers, with a slight sense of pride, “He happens to be my son-in-law”
Shock enveloping everyone around them. Whilst those who knew stifled a laugh at the sheer surprise flooding everyone’s features. Robby and Jack bite back a grin as he sees his colleagues freeze from the information.
Princess lets out a giggle whispering with Perlah, who hands her a $10 note with a small sigh.
Trinity almost chokes on the cookie in her mouth.
Victoria’s mouth agape.
Samira’s mind racing.
Dennis blinked in shock.
Cassie lets a smile stretch across her face with a small nod as she takes in the news.
Mel and Frank share a look of disbelief.
Until all they can simply do is watch as you walk over from the bathroom.
Seeing how your eyes light up at the sight of Brendon, shuffling over to him, with a soft smile – your gaze only focused on him. Not noticing the stunned expressions of those around you.
Simply delighted to see your husband’s handsome face.
Dana lets her arm fall from Brendon who walks to meet you halfway. You’re arms wrapping around him, “Hey love.”
He leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, a soft smile creeping onto his face.
An expression so unfamiliar to those around him.
They had to pinch themselves to believe it was even happening.
“Hey Angel,” he murmured with such tenderness.
Sighing you relish in his company, so comforting and soothing, “How’s your day?”
“Better, now that you’re here – what about you?” he replies, sincerity drenching his words, his hands drifting to caress your cheek, before settling onto your stomach, “Hope you both have been good to your mom.”
You shrug, lightly with a small laugh, hands shifting to settle on his as they’re warm against your stomach.
“I’ve been good and they’ve been good, making sure I keep my steps up though, constantly making me need the bathroom today,” you reply cheekily, before you notice everyone coming to a stand still around you.
The silence broke as Ellis nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, “I knew it,” she remarked to Trinity.
The crowd of med students and interns all share their own thoughts, whilst Ahmad divides out the money from the bets placed pertaining to who your husband could have been.
Both you and Brendon sigh as you watch it all unfold.
You grin up at him, patting him on the arm, “I better go talk with them about this”
“You didn’t mention I was your husband?”
You shoot him a look, retorting with a teasing lilt to your voice, “It’s not like you said I was your wife”
He tuts at your words, folding his arms over his chest, “Everyone in my OR knows I’m happily married to you”
You lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips before stepping back. With a wink, “Good luck, living this one down”
He sends you the slightest of smiles, the expression reserved only for you, while you leave his grasp.
Brendon is pulled into talking with Robby, and Dana, while Jack pats him on the back. All of them watching the others flock to you.
And in a moment you are swarmed by all those who were surprised by this revelation as they ask you any and all questions that come to mind.
How?
Why?
When?
All wanting to know, just how you managed to make Shark become as soft and sweet as a shortbread cookie. And even more so, how Park had managed to gain Dana’s approval.
In the midst of talking with Samira and Trinity, your breath hitches slightly, “Oof–”
Samira’s eyes furrow in concern, sharing a look with Trinity, “Are you okay?”
“Hm? – Oh, yeah. I’ve just been having these pains for a little bit – but I had them before and they weren’t anyth–oof” you hunch over just a little, hands settling to rest on your lower back, breathing deeply.
“Hey can you get Dana or Park here?” Samira asks Trinity, who nods.
You wave them off, “I’m fine”
Samira ducks slightly, hands resting on the sides of your arms to support you, “I’d rather not take the risk – especially considering you’re related to Dana and Park”
She observes you, slipping into habit as she asks, “How long did you say you were feeling like this?”
“Over the last hour or so, but I’m sure they’re just braxton hicks or whatever–” You explain. Not overly concerned.
“You really don’t think you’re going into labour?”
You think over her words. Over how you’ve been feeling, the discomfort and pain. How you had simply chalked it up to just being pregnant.
“I mean–now that you mention it–”
“Hey Baby, what’s going on?” Dana steps beside you, joined by Trinity. While Brendon joins your other side.
“Oh–hey Mama, Brendon, uh–everyone seems to think I’m going into labour,” you say with an airy laugh.
Both of their eyes look at you in concern.
Dana glances up, a questioning look entering her eyes as she looks to Samira and Trinity. Who both nod in agreement.
“Ok, well lets get you up to the labour ward and we can get you sorted,” Dana’s hand soothingly rubs across your back.
“Do you think you can walk, or would you like a wheelchair?” Brendon asks. Ready to step into action.
About to argue, insist that you could walk, you stop yourself short as another wave of pain enters your abdomen with a sharp breath.
Hand gripping your Mama’s.
“I think I’ll take that wheelchair”
He nods and moves quickly to grab one, before settling you down.
Feet moving quickly, steadily as he pushes you towards the lift.
Everyone calling out their good lucks and words of support as you leave.
While Dana walks quickly beside you both, grabbing at her bag as she passes by, nodding towards Lena, “Sorry I can’t help more with the hand offs–”
Lena gives Dana’s hand a gentle squeeze, shaking her head, “Don’t even start. You just make sure your Babygirl’s ok when she has her babies”
Dana nods gratefully, before disappearing into the lift alongside you and Brendon, her hand slipping to hold yours.
Looking up at them both.
You smiled, a slight mist entering your eyes. Grateful for their support. For their love. Breathing deeply.
Calm.
Assured.
That your babies were coming into a family so full of love.
A loving father. Brendon’s hand resting on your shoulder, so soft and tender. Looking at you with complete adoration and affection.
A doting grandma, Dana, who had quickly called Benji, asking for him to pick up your pre-prepared baby bag back at your home.
While she informed your sisters of the recent development. Who were more than ready to be adoring aunts for your soon to be born twins.
It made your heart swell at the thought.
You couldn’t wait for the next chapter of your life.
After a long night.
Soon, your struggles came to an end, as you were handed over your beautiful babies wrapped up in cotton blankets.
Tears welling up in your eyes, forehead sticky from the long labour.
Smiling widely, while Brendon kissed your head firmly, his own eyes growing misty. Heart melting at the very sight of your babies.
“I love you so much,” he told you.
Within his grasp he held his entire world. Your two precious little twins, Finnick and Rosie. With bright wide eyes peering at you both with intense curiosity, fingers curling around yours.
Whilst you beamed down at them, leaning against Brendon. Whose eyes lifted to meet Dana’s, gesturing for her to come over.
“Would you like to hold one of them?” he asked.
A smile stretches across her face, her eyes glittering as she looks upon the scene before her.
What more could she ask for? She had a son in law who ensured her daughter’s comfort–who ensured that you felt loved every moment of every day. And two little baby grandkids to fill her days with joy…
Nodding, her arms stretched out while Brendon carefully placed Finnick in her arms. She coos softly at the little baby.
Hours pass, as you all simply relish in the peace.
The news filters its way down to the ER.
And from the moment the news broke.
Every so often, you would have a new guest knock upon the door.
Friendly faces stopping by.
To they discover, you with Brendon never far from your side, close and cosy, and the two little bundles of joys.
Jack and Ellis made an appearance when the ER had succumbed to a rare moment of relative peace.
Until soon the dayshifters began to filter in.
Dropping off little snacks and some food for you, brought to you by Samira and Victoria, helped by Lena who told them all of your favourites.
Trinity and Dennis had stopped by a stack of gifts neatly wrapped in their arms, from blankets, to two little plush stuffed sharks.
Robby had briefly checked in, sharing his own congrats with you both.
And of course, most of the nursing staff had taken the time to check in with you all. Princess and Perlah crooning over your two little sweethearts.
And each time whenever someone would stop by.
One of the first questions they would ask was.
What are their names?
And each time you’d be asked that question. You’d share a glance with Brendon, a tender softness.
Finnick Park.
This one.
This one took a little arm twisting for Brendon to agree, catching onto your little joke immediately, as you were barely able to conceal your growing grin when suggesting it.
But with a little effort, with a few sweet kisses you had managed to get him to agree.
The nail on the head was just after you had given birth to them - there was no way he could say no to you.
But the next name.
Rosemary ‘Rosie’ Park.
That name took no effort at all to convince him.
In fact as soon as the name left your lips he had fallen in love with the idea.
A small way to preserve the memory of the very first time you had met each other…
Years ago.
Back when Brendon had only started out at PTMC. Had only just started his journey there. Already growing a reputation. A cold demeanour.
But he had cracked this day.
A slight fracture in his otherwise pristine facade…
A tough day that still had hours left.
He had managed to slip out, for a bit of fresh air he had convinced himself that this was all it was – a bit of fresh air…
But as he walked down the street.
He had come across the quaintest little bakery – a cafe. Friendly and welcoming, with butter yellow awnings. And a bright blue door.
Sugar & Spice.
The words neatly printed upon the glass pane.
And for whatever reason. He had stepped in. The faint doorbell ringing out. Whilst he was enveloped in the fragrant warming aromas of all the baked goods, rounded off with the notes of coffee in the air.
A few people sat dotted around the space.
Not quite flooded by people.
Judging by the space it seemed to be relatively new. Perhaps only having been opened for less than a few months.
This place was your dream come true…served with a side of stress. A small team of four, including you, worked to maintain the demand.
Mind racing with a multide of things whilst you worked.
But your gaze came to a halt.
Stopping upon the lonely figure of a man sat by the window…
Unable to choose from the array of baked goods, Brendon had simply ordered a black coffee.
Simple.
Just wanting something simple.
But you had other plans.
A small frown twisting at your lips while you watch him.
How his dark brows furrowed. Lips pulled taut.
Crystal blue eyes, now clouded over.
Murky.
With that very same look you had seen a hundred times before on your own Mama’s…
How his shoulders’ slumped as though carrying the weight of the world. The brunt of the day.
Just like your Mama did.
It was how you had known he worked in the medical field.
…well that and the fact he still had his scrubs on barely hidden beneath his jacket.
Now while better judgement might have told you it was a bad idea to give out free food so early on into opening your business.
Your bleeding heart had won out in the end.
The gentle clink of the ceramic plate broke Brendon from his daze.
Icy blue eyes met yours.
Making your breath catch for just a moment.
Before regaining composure whilst you slide the plate closer to him.
A plate of rosemary shortbreads.
Fresh from the oven.
A crisp and perfectly buttery crumble texture, with the salted edge from the rosemary, lifted by a citrusy twist from a touch of grapefruit.
You watch as his eyes knit together in confusion, voice low, as though a gentle hum, “I didn’t order—“
“You’re not allergic to anything are you?” You had asked, tilting your head looking at him expectantly.
Only for him to shake his head.
There was something about you. That had made his words lodge in the back of his throat.
Nodding in satisfaction you added, “Good. Try these and tell me what you think of them before you leave.”
“But–“ he goes to argue. To counteract. Unsure what had warranted him this act of kindness.
“On the house,” You had flashed him a smile, before walking away.
His eyes trailing after you.
Gently lifting the unique shortbread to his mouth.
Letting it simply overtake his senses as it melted onto his tongue.
Soothed by just a single bite.
Catching your eye as he smiles your way in thanks.
Who knew.
That that was all it would take to make him besotted with you.
Leading you both to this moment now.
Your twins now fast asleep in their little bassinets.
Whilst Brendon’s arms wrapped around you. So warm and steady.
The rise and fall of his chest helping ease any worries.
Even when life would throw you troubles. Even if there would be disagreements or problems.
Those would always fade away. Would always be worked through.
Embraced by his unwavering love and affection for you.
Brendon was unconditionally in love with you.
Just as you were with him.
Now this…
This was sugar and spice, and everything nice.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story ♥️ I can just imagine that when Brendon first met Dana as your boyfriend he was a nervous wreck. This was absolutely so sweet to write and explore!! I had a lot of fun developing these dynamics. (My heart is such a sucker for softy Brendon behind his steely facade)
Also check out this recipe for rosemary shortbreads (they are delicious)
Let me know what you thought ✨
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!
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pairings: ex!michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x reader, jack abbot x talent agent!reader
summary: you’ve made a name for yourself as an agent for a big actress. when she gets into an accident, you’re forced to face your ex boyfriend and his flirtatious best friend.
word count: 3.6k
warning: heavyyy making out, dry humping 😝, praise kink, jealous!toxic!robby, medical inaccuracies, flirting, use of ‘little girl’ once, random oc i created for plot purposes, reader is very . euphoria s3 maddy perez coded .
note: eeek i love writing jealous fics HEHE i had sooooo much fun writing this ! honestly id be very open to writing a pt 2 but let me know what you guys think ! i’m like one fic away from just writing smut atp …………
a young woman’s scream echos the PTMC,
“Somebody call my agent!” she cries in pain as she enters through the ambulance bay,
“Rochelle King, 24 years old, vehicle hit her going 30 miles. Sounds like she was launched about nine feet. BP is one forty over ninety, heart rate one ten” the paramedics say as Doctor McKay and Doctor Robby approach the gurney,
“Hi Rochelle, we’re gonna get you some pain meds as soon as we can. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing any dizziness or nausea?” McKay starts as they enter trauma two. from a distance Victoria and Joy watch in disbelief,
“Is that Rochelle King?” Victoria says walking over to trauma two to get a quick peek. Joy follows quickly behind,
“Whoever it is, they’re a patient. One of you find out who her agent is or whatever she needs,” Dana calls out to the two med students. Joy walks to the desk begrudgingly. “Who the hell even is she?” Dana asks Joy as she takes her phone out to find the correct phone number,
“Seriously? She just won an Oscar for that Audrey Hepburn biopic? She’s in Pittsburgh filming for the new X-Files reboot,” Joy looks at her unimpressed as Dana blinks, still confused. Joy passes her phone over and Dana’s eyes widen in surprise as she stares at the headshot of you. she hasn’t seen you in years and you were almost unrecognizable. there’s a new look in your eyes, a less naïve and more ambitious look that only those who knew you previously would notice. Dana hands the phone back to Joy,
“Call her, let her know we have her actress here.” Dana leaves and sees Robby leaving trauma two. She speeds over to him, just as he’s taking his plastic gloves off,
“How’s our Hollywood star?” Dana starts.
“Her?” Robby turns around looking back at Rochelle as they pull her gurney out.
“What, you didn’t see that movie she was in? She won an Oscar for it.”
“Nope, I’m too busy saving lives here to watch anything.” Robby looks up at the patient board to see who’s next,
“Yeah, well the agent she was screaming about? Her agent is your ex-girlfriend,” Robby looks at Dana with panic before shaking his head, concealing his initial fright with a straight face. “You’ve got about four hours left, Robinavitch, I’m sure you can handle her until Abbot is in.”
Robby’s palms run up his face in agitation. of course, right as his shift was on its last few hours, he’s forced to face you. it felt like an impending doom that the universe sent him for all his mistakes he made while with you.
“I refuse to sit here any fucking longer and wait for you! I can’t believe I gave up my life for this… I be should in school, making a name for myself but instead I’m in fucking Pittsburgh playing housewife to you!” you yell with hot tears rushing down your face, voice cracking as you struggle to finish your sentence. Robby stands in the middle of your shared living room, hands on his hips, quietly taking all of it. he looks as if he’s disassociated from the conversation, waiting for it to be over so he can move on with his night,
“You done?” Robby says with a mildly condescending tone.
“Yeah, actually, I’m fucking done.” you walk to your shared bedroom, throwing clothes into a bag, rushing to get out. Robby doesn’t put up a fight, he simply sits on the couch, throwing his legs up on the coffee table. he’s been through this before with you. he doesn’t think you’ll get far and thinks it’s only a matter of time before you come running back. you needed him to survive, or so he thought. you took everything you could and bought a plane ticket heading west, never looking back. since then, you’ve been untraceable (though it’s not like he went looking for you anyways).
the sound of heels clicking against the linoleum floors snaps him out of the memory. you enter the ER dressed in a clean, well tailored designer outfit, carrying a matching bag with all sorts of papers poking out. your heavy eye makeup matches your blown out hair and minimalistic jewellery. you had your phone to your ear, quickly shutting it off as you approach the workstations,
“Dana!” you say with your arms open, embracing her. Dana squeezes you tightly in response. you look wildly different from the last time Robby saw you. if you passed him in the street, he wouldn’t be able to recognize you but there was something about your new look though that Robby wasn’t entirely buying. he felt as if he could see right through your alleged act, how could you mature so quickly from being someone who used to be so dependant on him?
“Hey kid!” Dana says as she pulls away, her hands still gripping your forearms. “Look at you! All grown up!” you smile big at her, relishing in her kindness,
“Thank you! Listen, I’m here for my client, Rochelle King?” in the corner of your eye, Robby approaches,
“She’s resting.”
“Robby, long time no see,” you say, adjusting your posture so you’re standing a bit taller now. Dana slowly backs away as she watches you try to keep your composure. Victoria and Joy’s heads poke up in interest, observing from not too far away. “You know, I asked them to take her to Westbridge, but apparently PTMC was much closer.” you say, trying to take the opportunity to get a quick jab at him,
“We put her on some pain medication and are waiting on her CT results back in case she has any symptoms of a brain bleed. She’s got a concussion, an ankle fracture and some pretty bad road rash, but she’s lucky to be alive.” you nod at his diagnosis,
“So where is she?” Robby stretches his arm out, guiding you down the ER,
“Robby’s ex is Rochelle King's agent?” Victoria asks Dana,
“And if she is, he fumbled. Hard.” Joy continues.
“Don’t you two have patients to check on? Chop chop, let’s go!” Dana claps her hands, breaking up the scene.
the curtains inside the ER room are closed and security stands in front of the room. before Robby opens the door he turns to you,
“Did I get a chance to say that you look amazing?” Robby says quietly, making sure only you could hear.
“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?” your eyes squinting slightly in suspicion.
“But between us, I’m not buying it,” you scoff at his caveat.
“You can convince Dana and the rest of this ER that you’re a big Hollywood agent, but deep down you’re still a little girl, scared to live without someone taking care of her twenty-four seven.”
“Unbelievable. You’re still so self-centered as always, Robinavitch. You really can’t believe that I actually made a life for myself after you.” you shake your head in shock and disappointment before entering the room. Robby follows close behind.
“Hi!” you say softly to Rochelle, something about the tone of your voice makes Robby’s heart ache, it’s reminiscent of the way you used to speak to him when he’d come home from a rough shift,
“Miss King, we’d like to keep you overnight for observation while you wait on your results back. We don’t suspect any brain bleeding at this time but we’d like to just monitor you in case anything comes up.” your client stays quiet, nodding at the new information,
“That’s all, thank you Doctor Robby.” you dismiss him, keeping your eyes on Rochelle. you give her a soft smile as you grab her hand. you don’t care to look at him, or give him any attention besides what’s necessary. you’re technically still working, and you weren’t going to let your ex get in the way of that. Robby watches as you pull out papers from your bag before exiting the room.
maybe Robby will be okay with you here. an hour has passed since he dropped you off in the ER room and there’s three more to go before he can clock out and hopefully never see you again. through the ambulance bay, Jack arrives early than usual, camo backpack slung over his shoulder,
“What’re you doing here? You don’t come in till six usually.” Robby says as he double checks his watch for the time,
“Yeah, I’ve got a SWAT friend coming in for a wound check up, figured I might as well just come in and do it myself.”
as if the universe's timing couldn’t be worse, you come out of your clients room and walk over to Dana,
“Hey Dana, are there any issues with ordering food to the hospital? My client refuses to eat anything right now unless it’s a protein smoothie.” from a distance, Jack sees you chatting with Dana,
“Is that who I think it is?” Jack chuckles in amusement, “Didn’t think this place couldn’t get worse for you, brother.” Robby sighs as Jack gives him a sympathetic pat on the back.
“She’s an agent for some big actress who got into an accident today. I’ll give you the rundown in a bit.” Jack stares, scanning you from head to toe. with your clothes fitting in all the right places, accentuating your waistline and hips, he can’t help but stare.
“She looks good.” Jack says, testing the waters.
“Yeah? She’s all yours if you can handle that.” Robby jokes. it’s the first genuine laugh Robby has had all day but Jack keeps a straight face, taking his statement seriously. you feel the burning gaze of the two men as Dana passes you a sticky note with the hospital's info. your eyes meet Jack’s first, cracking a big smile on your face. he looks a bit older than the last time you saw him, and damn has time done him well. his salt and pepper hair, deep wrinkles around his eyes, if you were put in a room with him, you aren’t sure how you’d act.
“Hi Jack!” you say throwing your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body against his. Jack wraps his arms around your waist, leaving his hands there as you pull back.
“Hi sweetheart, long time no see. You look beautiful.” sweetheart? beautiful? Robby thinks.
“It’s what happens when you leave Pittsburgh, what can I say?” you say using your fingers to flaunt your face, letting out a giggle.
“Heard you’re here with some big actress? You live in Hollywood now?” Robby’s head tilts as he looks at Jack in confusion.
“Yeah actually, it’s been great. I’m a talent agent to a few actors and I’m in town for a bit while we film a reboot for a series.” you beam, proud of how you’ve established yourself.
“Yeah? Well you gotta tell me about it over drinks sometime while you’re here.” Robby couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. did Jack not remember all the times Robby had complained to him about another fight you two had? or that time Robby had to sleep on Jack’s couch?
“If you’ll excuse us, we have jobs to do.” Robby says as he interrupts the moment. Dana raises her eyebrows from a distance, catching Robby’s attention. you finally look at Robby,
“Good, so do I.” you say quickly looking back at Jack, giving him a wink. Jack shakes his head as he watches you walk away. he knows you’re trouble, and he’s willing to bet everything on you. as Jack heads to his locker, Dana quickly pulls Robby aside,
“What the hell was that? That poor girl has already been through enough of your bullshit.” Robby puts on an innocent face as Dana interrogates him,
“This is an ER, not a speed dating event and we have work to do,”
“Real professional of you, Robby. I almost believe you.” Robby walks away as Dana finishes her sentence. three more hours, just three more he repeats to himself.
𝜗ৎ
the room is quiet in comparison to the ongoing chaos outside in the ER. you type away at new emails before a soft knock at the door that awakens your client,
“Come in.” she mumbles, shuffling around in the bed. Jack and Robby enter the room together as you push your laptop aside.
“How’re you doing Miss King?” Robby starts as he examines her vitals. his eyes quickly glancing at you before bringing his full attention back to the patient. she groans in response, “Hurts.” she mumbles. while Robby slowly begins unraveling her bandages, Jack puts his hand on your shoulder softly,
“You doin’ okay?” you nod in response. the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Robby or Rochelle,
“Wounds look like they’re healing okay, no signs of infection so far. Your CT scans came back good as well so no risk of internal bleeding,” Robby turns to Jack who is standing beside you, “Let’s up her pain meds and keep an eye on the wound tonight. Should be okay to discharge by the morning.” as Robby makes his way out of the room, Jack quickly turns back to you again,
“You let me know if you need anything, got it?” you nod in silence again as he follows the other attending. as the door shuts, your client turns to you,
“What was that?” she says, eyebrows raised and with a smirk similar to a cheshire cat,
“It’s nothing, he’s a friend– an acquaintance even. I’ve known him for a long time,” you say as you pull your laptop back out. she doesn’t break her disbelieving stare, waiting for you to confess, “You’re high on pain meds, go back to sleep.”
“I might be high, but I know when a guy is really into you like that,” you shake your head as she turns over, “Plus he’s hot! My god, should I go for older guys? Honestly, and I mean it respectfully, if you don’t jump on him, I will!” you laugh at her drug induced ramble, trying your best to keep things professional.
just as you’re about to respond to another email, your phone begins buzzing. you’re quick to step out of the room and rush towards the ambulance bay exit. like a puppy, Jack’s eyes trail after you as you dash out answering the call,
“You know I was kinda joking when I said she was all yours?” Robby says sliding beside him,
“Were you? What happened to never wanting to see her again?” Jack challenges,
“All I’m saying is that I don’t believe she’s changed and I don’t think you should either.” Robby says with his hands up in surrender,
“Well I’m willing to be the one to find out.”
Robby shouldn’t feel threatened by Jack’s determination. he deemed that he was over you long before your relationship ended and yet he hated every time Jack made a pass at you (and even more that you were eating it up).
outside, the red light of the ‘Emergency’ sign above illuminates you,
“I promise you, if you don’t change that stunt team and you don’t do another pass at cast and crew safety, you’ll need to find another actress and we both know you’re in too deep to do that at this stage,” Jack walks outside to see you pacing back and forth. the click of your heels fill the silence while you listen to whoever you have on the phone, “Great, I’ll have that contract sent to you shortly, thank you.” you shut your phone off letting out a deep breath. Jack waits until you’ve had a second to decompress before approaching,
“Everything okay? Saw you running out the ER, just thought I’d check on you.” you spin around to see Jack with his hands behind his back slowly walking towards you. he stops at a safe distance standing beside, looking out at the nearby road with you.
“Yeah, producers just wanna know when they can start filming her scenes again, it’s nothing really.” your tense shoulders drop as it becomes quiet again, cars passing by filling the silent void,
“Y’know, I missed seeing you around.”
“Really? I thought I was a mess back then. I feel like my terrible decisions showed that.”
“Like being with Robby?” you huff in amusement as Jack’s question.
“Yeah, kinda. But it led me to meeting you…” there’s a brief pause, “And Dana,” you add. seeing Jack after years of being away has made you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time. when you left for LA, you refused to wear your heart on your sleeve again and being around him has brought something out in you.
the way he’s checked on specifically you multiple times since arriving, the interest he has in the life and career you’ve built, and let’s not forget how much more handsome he’s become. you don’t feel like he’s making you smaller being around him, he embraces your change. he treats you like an adult and like someone who is capable,
“The last time I was in Pittsburgh, I didn’t really know what I wanted. I just blindly followed a man who was essentially leading me nowhere.” you turn to face Jack. he mirrors your movement standing closer to you now,
“Have you figured out what you want now?”
“Yeah, I have.”
𝜗ৎ
thirty minutes left, Robby kept repeating to himself. thirty more minutes and he could finally go home, escape the sight of you, escape Jack’s attempts at flirting and repress any resurfacing feelings or memories he had of your time together.
though, he couldn’t help but remember the way you used to laugh when you rode on the back on his Bonneville, or the little scream you let out when he would pick you up and spin you around after coming home. he tries to keep busy to avoid any old feelings resurfacing but he can’t help it when the last four hours have been spent watching you openly flirt with his best friend,
“Princess, have you seen Jack?” Robby asks,
“You could try triage? I think he mentioned something about a wound check for a friend?” Robby flashes a thankful smile and heads over. he just needs to brief Jack on one more patient then he’s out of there.
in the nearby supply closet, Jack pushes you against the wall kissing you desperately as if he’s waited years for this exact moment. you moan as Jack takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. his knee pushes your legs apart and settles in between, allowing you to gently grind yourself against him. he slowly begins kissing down your neck,
“Fuck.” you moan lowly as he marks the sweet spot on your neck. Jack quietly shushes you and puts his hand on your mouth,
“You’ll be my good girl and stay quiet, right?” you nod vigorously, his hand staying on your mouth, following your nodding movements. “Yeah, you’re my good girl.” he kissed and marked your neck, desperately wanting to show everyone he’s yours.
Robby’s head pops in triage, doing a quick pass and even going towards the lobby to see if Jack is around. still nowhere to be found, Robby runs up the stairs towards the rooftop next.
Jack slowly undoes the buttons of your top as he kisses up your neck again, making his way back to your lips. he hovers over them for a second whispering,
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you.” he kisses you again, struggling with the buttons of your top. your fingers run through his grey curls, stopping at the roots to gently pull and tilt his head away from yours. A quiet groan slips from him at the loss of contact with your lips,
“Tell me how long,” you whisper with a seductive smile. Jack smiles back as he looks down at you, hands still in his hair,
“Since the second I met you, I didn’t care that you were Robby’s, I always knew you’d end up here with me,” he confesses. “And I’m not letting you go, I’m not making the same fucking mistake.” you pull him back in again for an even deeper kiss than before.
“Robby!” Doctor McKay calls out from a room. Robby dreadfully turns around. fifteen minutes he reminds himself as he walks over,
“I can’t find Abbot and I need an attending’s opinion on this.” as Cassie goes to unravel a bandaged wound, Robby turns to grab some disposable gloves before seeing the box is empty,
“Hold that thought, let me grab a new box of gloves.” Robby says turning around to head towards the supply closet. Robby turns his head left and right, looking around as he heads towards the closet, still unable to find the night shift attending. he couldn’t have gone far, not when he should be doing his usual nightcrawler huddle with the night shift now.
the supply closet door swings open. forcing Jack to stumble away from you. your eyes meet first with Robby’s whose eyes quickly dart to Jack’s. his lips are sticky with your lip gloss, and his short grey hair is somehow sticking in every direction possible. something about the thrill of being caught by Robby makes you lick your lips and beam a vicious smile at him. he looks back at you mortified, unable to determine if he should start yelling in anger or just close the door and pretend nothing happened. maybe this is your cue to leave and check back up on your emails and missed calls and texts. Jack and Robby turn to watch you pull a small rectangular paper out of your pocket, pressing it to Jack’s chest,
“I’ll be in town for a little longer.” you say, walking out of the closet back to the assigned room of your client. Princess watches you from a distance as you smooth your hair out and redo the buttons on your shirt. she quickly turns to Perlah to relay what she just witnessed.
Robby stands in the closet doorway still, hands on his hips as Jack looks at the small business card. one side is simply your first and last name on a sleek blank background. on the other side is your phone number and a small description at bottom:
“Well, well. It’s a dead man walking!” You quip as Robby heads toward the hub.
He snorts and shakes his head at you, “Isn’t a little too early for your shit talk, Smalls?”
“Never too early, Gigantor,” you reply back with a smirk.
He hums and leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips, “Morning.”
“Morning. If you can’t tell, I’m a little delirious.”
Robby chuckles, “You don’t say?”
“I can’t wait to be back on day shift and sleep like a regular person!”
“Hey! I thought you liked being a Nightcrawler,” Jack says as he circles around the hub.
You shrug, “You guys are built different.”
Both Robby and Jack both chuckle. Robby then asks Jack, “You treatin’ my girl okay, Abbot?”
“She’s a trooper…when she’s not being an annoying little shit.”
“…I’m not afraid to steal your prosthetic and beat you with it, Abbot.”
Jack chuckles, “So much fire in such a tiny body.”
You go to launch at Jack and Robby holds you back, “Alright, honey. Ease up. We’re gonna do hand offs and then you can go home. There’s food waiting for you when you get there.”
“Yay!” You hug your partner and then go finish up checking on your patients.
Both Robby and Jack’s eyes follow you. They shake their heads in disbelief.
“She’s like a gremlin.”
“Careful, if you get water on her, she might multiply,” Jack murmurs, clapping a hand on Robby’s shoulder and guiding him to the South wing.
Summary: “You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.”
WC: 3,017
A/N: direct continuation to Closet Gremlin — you should probably read that first, but idk, you do you; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; also it’s technically still Friday as I post this, so don’t come for me
—————————————————
You don’t know why you’re doing this.
You’re standing in line at your new favorite coffee shop, the cute one on the corner that hosts Star Wars trivia and serves lattes in handmade mugs. You’d found it two weeks after you’d started working at PTMC, and now you show up every Friday like clockwork. Your pitiful grad student stipend makes it irresponsible to come more often than that, though you do occasionally cave on particularly early Monday mornings.
Noa, the barista, already knows your order by heart, and they smile in greeting when you reach the register.
“Just your usual today?” they ask.
You hesitate. You really don’t know why you’re doing this.
“Umm, can I add a long black?”
Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. The first time you’d come here, you’d told them you liked your coffee to taste as un-coffee-like as possible — clearly the extra drink isn’t for you. They don’t comment though, which you’re grateful for. You might see them every week, but you’re definitely not prepared to explain to them why you’re buying coffee for a man you’ve met exactly once and who wasn’t even particularly polite to you.
It’s gratitude, you tell yourself.
That’s not completely a lie. Working at a desk was significantly more comfortable than working on the floor of a supply closet, so you really are thankful. And if that’s not the only reason you walk out of the shop carrying two drinks, no one else needs to know.
The three-block trek to PTMC somehow feels both longer and shorter than usual. By the time you’re scanning your badge and riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, you’ve called yourself an idiot five different ways. It’s too late to change your mind though — the lady at the nurses station has already seen you, and you’ll look like an even bigger idiot if you just turn around and walk back the way you came.
It’s the same nurse you saw when you were here a few days ago. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, with steel grey hair held back by a sparkly butterfly clip and hot pink glasses perched on her nose. She’s sipping something from a mug labeled “World’s Best Grandma,” and her badge reel is shaped like a unicorn.
She must recognize you, too, because something horrifyingly close to amusement is dancing in her warm brown eyes. Patty, you read from her badge, looks down at the two coffees clutched in your hands then back up at you. She smiles.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
You’ve spent your entire academic career giving lectures in front of everyone from freshmen falling asleep in their seats to snobby faculty who disagree with everything you say on principle. You’re trained to be confident, eloquent. To answer any question thrown your way whether directly or by pivoting. Talking to a kind older lady with glittery clogs should not phase you.
It does in fact phase you.
“I’m uh, looking for Bre-, Dr. Park?”
Her grin widens.
“He’s is in surgery right now, but he should be closing soon if you want to wait.”
You shake your head immediately. There’s no way you’re going to stand here waiting for him like a lovesick teenager; you have more dignity than that. You’ll just consider this the universe telling you this was a bad idea.
“I have a meeting,” you lie.
Patty raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call you on it.
“Do you want to leave that here?” she asks instead, gesturing to your occupied hands. “I don’t usually play courier, but I’d be happy to give him that for you.”
It doesn’t take a genius to puzzle out why you’re looking for Brendon while holding an extra coffee, but you still feel yourself flushing at being caught. Maybe it’s frowned upon to interrupt surgeons in the middle of one of their operating days. Or maybe he brings random women to his office all the time, and you’re just the latest in a long string. Either way, you’re overthinking, mad at yourself for overthinking, and late to an imaginary meeting.
“That would be great, thank you,” you say.
You hand over the coffee like you’re handing over contraband. She takes it with what feels like an inappropriately pleased expression.
“I hope your meeting goes well,” she replies.
Yeah, she definitely knows you lied.
Mustering as much dignity as you can manage, you thank her again before turning and heading back to the elevator. You can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of your head as you go. It’s not until you reach your tiny little borrowed office on the second floor that you finally relax a bit. You sit down in your chair, drop your bag on the floor, and take a sip of your coffee. Then promptly gag and nearly spit it out.
The taste of bitter black coffee coats your tongue like a violation. You glare at the innocuous looking to-go cup like it’s responsible for the mixup. Your beloved, sugary monstrosity is rotting upstairs, but you would rather gnaw your arm off than go back and switch drinks with Patty. You groan and drop your head into your hands.
It’s going to be a long day.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Who the fuck sits like that?”
You jump and nearly knock over your coffee. You’d taken it to the cafeteria and loaded it with as much cream and sugar as possible until it was almost palatable. You’d been sipping it on and off while you worked in silence for the last hour, and you hadn’t notice Brendon arriving at your door until he spoke. He stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed and lip curled like he’s looking at a zoo exhibit.
You blink slowly.
You’re sitting with your knees drawn up, feet tucked close. Your chin rests on your knees, and your arms are wrapped around them so you can reach the keyboard.
“It helps me think,” you reply slowly.
“You’re not doing much to beat the gremlin accusations. You look like fucking Gollum.”
Far from being offended, you feel your face light up.
“You’ve read Lord of the Rings?”
“That’s what you got out of that?”
He looks deeply unimpressed, which you find deeply attractive for some reason you’ll explore in therapy next week. He’s just as handsome as you remember, even with his hair mussed from his scrub cap and a small mark on his nose from his eye protection. It’s kind of annoying, if you’re being honest. No one should look that good in hospital-issued scrubs.
“You have terrible taste in coffee,” he continues.
You choke.
You’ve been so disgruntled while slogging through your sad-black-coffee morning that you forgot it meant he did not have sad, black coffee. You’ve been worried about your own drink, when you really should’ve been worried about his. Horror dawns at the realization you brought a six-foot-plus, scowling orthopedic surgeon a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup.
You wince.
“I gave you mine by mistake. This one was supposed to be yours.”
You gesture to your own cup weakly.
“It’s just a long black.”
“So you have some taste,” he snorts.
That pulls a scowl out of you, which in turn pulls a smirk out of him.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” you retort. “I wait all week for that drink, and you didn’t even appreciate it.”
“Thank you.”
You’re shocked by how sincere he sounds. He looks at you steadily, not a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he ruins it two seconds later by opening his mouth.
“Poor timing on your part though, Patty is having a fucking field day over this.”
“Well excuse me for not having your operating schedule memorized.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Besides,” you continue. “It’s just a thank you coffee, not a marriage proposal.”
“Why, you thinking about marriage?”
You should absolutely not blush at that. You blush. Then you blush even harder when that slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. Asshole.
“Did you come all the way down here just to be a jerk?” you scowl.
“Not only.”
He walks into the office then, and your breath catches. The space is small to begin with, really more of a shoe cupboard than anything else, but it feels positively minuscule with his massive frame inside of it. He stops on the opposite side of your desk and nods at your computer.
“I saw the hospital memo — you’re giving a lecture on your research next week?”
“I-, uh, yes?”
You’re shocked that he actually reads his memos — you certainly don’t — and even more shocked that he noticed your tiny little line in the million-page document. It’s nothing big, just you giving an overview of your dissertation and its projected implications for the hospital. Really, it’s mostly just so you can tell people they might see you popping in and out of their departments for observation and to not call security on you.
“Are you planning on going?” you ask hesitantly.
He shrugs.
“If I can pawn off rounds on Feldman, then yeah.”
Oh.
He says it like it’s a forgone conclusion, like of course he’ll be there and you’re an idiot for thinking otherwise. He’s smart, handsome, maybe secretly nice underneath ten layers of grump. But once again, the thing that strikes you most is that he sees you and takes you seriously. You can count on one hand the number of people outside your committee who actually care about what you study, and you wouldn’t even need all your fingers. Even your parents’ eyes kind of glaze over when you get too technical.
Your face must betray some of what you’re thinking, because he’s quick to add-
“I just want to make sure you’re on track to give me my 20%.”
You actually laugh then, and something in his expression softens so minutely you almost miss it. Your heart stumbles over its next beat. You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.
You’re searching for something to say that won’t give away your inner crisis, when you’re saved by the sound of another voice at your door. Although once you glance over and see who it is, you decide you would rather have confessed your undying love than deal with whatever this is about to be.
“Hey, y/n, I brought you some-, oh.”
Several things happen in quick succession. First, you make uncomfortable eye contact with Jeremy Hayes, who’s standing in the doorway clutching a cup from the hospital cafeteria. Second, Brendon looks over at you and clocks your vaguely pained expression. Last Brendon and Jeremy look at each other, and you can almost feel the instant dislike that passes between them.
“Hi, Jeremy,” you say quickly, trying to defuse the situation.
His eyes peel reluctantly away from Brendon’s, and he gives you a slightly more strained version of the smile he was wearing a minute ago.
“Hi,” he greets again. “I got you something.”
He walks into the office, passes Brendon, and then rounds the desk to stand next to you. He places the cup on your desk and lingers by your side. You wonder if it’d be rude to scooch your chair away from him.
You’ve known Jeremy since he started as a post-doc in your department ten months ago, and you have enjoyed approximately zero of those months. It probably makes you mean, but there’s just something about him that rubs you the wrong way. You don’t know why — there’s nothing technically wrong with him. He’s handsome, smart, and well-liked by most others. Maybe, you think as he grabs your old cup of coffee and tosses it in the trashcan next to the desk, it’s because he does stuff like this. You weren’t enjoying the lukewarm drink, but still. It feels presumptuous if not rude.
Brendon must feel the same, because he arches one imperious eyebrow that conveys an entire speech’s worth of words. Jeremy flushes, but powers through.
“I’m Dr. Jeremy Hayes, Carnegie Mellon,” he says.
Brendon just stares at him, arms crossed and expression flat.
“Y/n and I work quite closely together.”
That’s a gross over-exaggeration of your basically non-existent relationship.
“I didn’t know you were working with PTMC,” you say when it becomes clear Brendon has no intention of contributing to this conversation.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, so are you um, visiting someone here?”
“I was just in the area and wanted to come check on my favorite grad student.”
PTMC and CMU are relatively close to each other, only about twenty minutes without traffic, but it still feels…excessive. Even if he really was just in the area. And it’s news to you that you’re his favorite grad student — if you’re being honest, you don’t really want to be.
“Well, um, thank you for stopping by,” you say, hoping he gets the hint.
He does not get the hint.
Instead, he turns to Brendon and smiles confidently.
“You must be one of y/n’s new friends.”
Brendon says nothing, and the smile falters.
“Sorry if I interrupted, you were saying?”
Brendon just cocks his head.
“I can wait until you’re gone.”
Jeremy looks like he’s just been slapped, and you realize you’re going to have to put an end to whatever pissing match this is. Although calling it a match seems unfair. It’s more like Jeremy trying to talk to an uninterested brick wall.
“Thank you for stopping by to check on me,” you say to him. “I’m doing well. I’ll see you at the department brown bag next week?”
Something passes across his expression so quickly you don’t quite know what to make of it, before he pastes on another megawatt smile and nods.
“Of course. I’ll come by another time when you’re not so busy.”
He heads for the door then, but not before casting one more weighted look at Brendon. Brendon, for his part, just looks back with the same bored expression he’s been wearing for the past ten minutes. That is, until Jeremy actually leaves. Then he makes it approximately five seconds before rounding on you.
“You-”
“You don’t have to say it,” you grimace, rubbing at the ache forming at your temples.
“Someone has to. You have shit taste in friends.”
You glare at him.
“He’s not my friend, and that’s rude.”
“So is throwing away someone’s overpriced coffee and replacing it with cafeteria sludge, but you didn’t have anything to say about that.”
You open your mouth to respond, then close it, because he’s not wrong. You thought the exact same thing. You’ve thought the exact same thing about Jeremy several times in fact.
“He your advisor?”
You nearly choke.
“No, he’s a post doc. We don’t actually work on anything together.”
“And yet he came all this way to see you.”
You wince.
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.”
“Because it is. You told me I was terrible and knocked over my pens the first day I met you.”
He stops there, but you hear the rest of it anyways. So why don’t you say anything now? You don’t answer right away, partially because you’re not sure. When you stay silent, he shifts forward, and you brace for whatever scathing thing you’re sure he’s about to say. Instead, his expression softens, and his voice is careful when he asks-
“Is he a problem?”
That’s all he asks, but you once again hear the unspoken words that follow. Is he a problem and do you want me to do something about it? Warmth blooms in your chest. You met Brendon three days ago, talked to him for maybe half an hour, and did indeed knock over his pens after he specifically told you not to touch anything. Twice. But here he is showing real concern for you. Add that to his genuine interest in your research, and you suddenly find yourself too deep in a pool you weren’t aware you were swimming in.
“He’s just…really friendly,” you say when you remember how words work.
“Y/n.”
He says your name flatly, but it still manages to convey disbelief, annoyance, and try that again all at the same time. You feel a mortifying lick of arousal. This is not the time, but your body doesn’t seem to care. Hearing your name in that tone, from his mouth, short-circuits you for a second.
“Okay, maybe he’s too friendly,” you amend, “but I don’t think he’s a problem.“
He looks at you for a long moment, considering, before nodding.
“You can tell me if that changes.”
He’s serious, and you’re gone.
“Are you saying you care?” you joke in an attempt not to confess your undying love on the spot.
He immediately scowls.
“I’m saying that if you get murdered by your stalker before I get my cut, I’m going to be pissed.”
That makes you grin. In a lot of ways, Brendon is the opposite of Jeremy — snappy, rude, not a people person — but you find you prefer that. He’s straightforward, intentional. Sharp-tongued, but respectful of the things that matter. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to hold your ground with him.
“I’m serious,” he says when you keep smiling at him. “Stop looking at me like that. We’re not friends. You’re still an office gremlin with shit taste in coffee and terrible posture.”
“Technically matcha isn’t coffee.”
“For fuck’s sake-, I have a surgery to get to.
He shoots you a look cold enough to kill and leaves without another word. You laugh at his retreating back, then laugh harder when he flips you off over his shoulder. Your morning is starting to feel significantly better.
Maybe getting him a coffee wasn’t a bad idea after all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When you get to your office Monday morning, there’s a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup waiting for you on your desk.
Dr. Brendon Park’s wife somehow managing to talk him into letting her have chickens in their backyard. She looked it up and it’s totally legal in their county. The hoa can suck it okay. She’ll totally deal with the hoa president if she says shit. Barb has it coming and she’s afraid of Park…so Reader is gonna weaponize her scary husband to deal with the hoa…
He’s buying a dumb expensive coop and having a fence installed. Park is spending his day off driving a few hours outside the city to the only feed store nearby so she can buy chicken feed.
He tells her she better not come out with another damn chicken but she’s coming out holding a baby chick defending it by “it reminded me of you 🥹.” “Baby, WTF about a baby chick reminded you of me!!?? Okay fine it is kind of cute. Yeah it’s adorable that it’s speckled, fine.” She tries to come out with a baby duck once but he talks her down by promising two baby chicks instead.
He comes home to find his wife sitting outside with the chickens cuddling them like they’re dogs…does he join her, yes because it makes her happy so shut up…does he at least like the fresh eggs??? Yes. Garcia gets a lot of fresh eggs and Park refuses to explain where he’s getting them…
Reader insists they’re gonna retire to a farm one day…Park says no but she’ll win him over one chicken at a time…
Warnings: pregnancy, angst, mad george, bad words, arguing, mention of abortion (i believe that is a woman's right)
Summary: Bound by a flawless Monaco romance, you and F1 star George Russell have the perfect life, until a failed birth control test leaves you pregnant with the child of a man whose brutal championship ambition labels a baby his ultimate downfall. Trapped in the high-stakes paddock, you must hide a secret that could destroy his lifelong dream in a single breath.
Requested: No
Word count: 5171
Author's note: I’m sorry if this came out so late but i’ve been so busy, probably not gonna publish much until monday as i’m going to the gp, sorry everyone!! xx
Masterlist
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The dawn over the Alpes-Maritimes did not break with a sudden surge of yellow light; instead, it arrived as a slow, glacial seeping of silver and slate through the high, ancient pine trees that perimetered the villa. The air at seven thousand feet was thin, sharp, and bitingly cold, carrying the clean, wet scent of frozen morning dew and crushed limestone. Inside the guest wing of the house, the silence was absolute, heavy, and sterile. You lay beneath a massive duvet of white goose down, your eyes fixed unblinkingly on the dark, whitewashed timber of the ceiling beams.
Your hand was pressed flat against your bare, lower stomach, the thin cotton fabric of one of Max’s oversized gray technical t-shirts, borrowed from his mother’s laundry basket the night before, swathing your frame in an anonymous, oversized comfort.
The adrenaline that had carried you from the Mercedes motorhome to the tarmac of El Prat had completely burned out, leaving behind a deep, bone-deep ache that made even the act of shifting your weight feel like an insurmountable physical negotiation. Every muscle in your neck felt locked, the phantom echo of George’s frantic, high-pitched voice still rattling around the inside of your skull like a loose piece of carbon fiber.
“You don't get to make this decision on your own! You don't get to ruin my life!”
The words were no longer just sounds; they had become a physical weight inside your chest, a toxic sediment that had settled into your lungs. You had altered your entire existence to fit the neat, uncompromising margins of his career. You had spent three years being the quiet, smiling shadow at the back of the Mercedes garage, the person who made sure his hydration drinks were at the exact correct temperature, that his physio notes were sorted, that his media schedule didn't overlap with his pre-session visualization loops. And the absolute second your body did something that wasn't on his strategic map, he had looked at you with a cold, panicked disgust that felt like a knife between your ribs.
A low, rhythmic rumble broke the morning quiet, the heavy, industrial hum of a diesel engine idling on the gravel courtyard below.
You pushed the heavy duvet aside, your bare feet meeting the ice-cold stone tiles of the floor as you moved slowly toward the deep-set window. Down in the driveway, the silver luxury saloon car from the night before had been replaced by a massive, matte-black custom commercial vehicle with diplomatic-grade tinted glass and Swiss registration plates. Willem was standing by the rear door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a heavy black winter coat, checking his watch against the dashboard display. His collar was turned up against the mountain mist that was rolling off the peaks, thick and white like smoke.
When you reached the kitchen, the smell of fresh espresso and toasted rye bread filled the air, providing a small, grounding anchor against the sudden wave of morning nausea that hit the back of your throat. Sophie Kumpen was standing by the stove, her back to you as she monitored a small pot of boiling water, but it was Max who occupied the heavy oak bench by the window.
He had a massive, matte-black ceramic mug of black coffee cupped between both of his large, calloused hands, his eyes fixed on a highly detailed topographical map displayed on his tablet. He wore a simple black technical hoodie, the hood pulled slightly down, his hair still damp and messy from a quick morning shower. He didn't look like a three-time world champion preparing for a media blitz or a sponsor event; he looked like a mechanic preparing a car for an endurance race in the middle of winter.
"You are awake," Max said, his voice a low, gravelly morning drone that barely rose above the hum of the refrigerator. He didn't look up immediately, allowing you the space to slide into the heavy wooden chair opposite him without the pressure of an intense, searching gaze. "Good. Eat something small. The road through the mountain pass to Geneva can be bumpy if the wind is high."
You looked at the small plate of dry, unbuttered toast his mother set before you, your stomach twisting into a tight, defensive knot. "Geneva? Max, we talked about this in the car. I told you I am not going to that clinic. I’m not letting George’s managers or his PR people look at me. I won't let them make me feel like-"
"It is not his clinic," Max interrupted. He set his coffee mug down on the wooden table with a solid, deliberate clink that instantly silenced the room. He turned his blue-gray eyes toward you, their color flat, clear, and completely unyielding under the harsh morning light. "Do you think I would put you in a car and take you to a place his people paid for? Do you think I am that stupid?"
He reached across the table, his large, blunt finger tapping the glass screen of the tablet, showing a private medical itinerary that had nothing to do with the Brackley corporate machine or the Mercedes team.
"I called my own doctor last night," Max said, his voice dropping into that deep, protective register that felt like a iron door closing behind you. "Dr. Keller. He handled my knee rehabilitation after the karting accident in 2014, and his wife runs the private maternal clinic at the Hôpital de la Tour. It is three kilometers from the border. No one has access to their servers."
He zoomed in on the document, his finger tracing the lines of text. "This is for a full check-up. To see the growth. To make sure your blood pressure is normal after what that idiot did in the hospitality unit. You have been running on nothing but adrenaline, anxiety, and salt water for three weeks. We go to Switzerland to find out the truth, not to erase it."
You looked at the itinerary. Your name was spelled correctly, but the billing address at the bottom was listed under an anonymous corporate holding company based in Hasselt, Max’s personal management firm. There was no mention of the Formula One paddock, no mention of George Russell, and no mention of the Grand Prix Drivers' Association. It was an entirely clean slate, purchased with the absolute, uncompromising weight of Max’s personal resources.
"Max," you whispered, your throat closing as the sheer, terrifying scope of his protection hit you. "The cost... the logistics of setting this up on a Monday morning after a race weekend... it’s too much. I can't just let you-"
"I don't care about the money," Max said simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his large forearms over his chest. His expression was completely devoid of the sharp, aggressive edge he usually showed the media, replaced by a flat, practical certainty. "And I don't care about the day of the week. The car is armored, the driver is silent, and the doctor was paid before the sun came up. The only thing you have to do today is sit in the seat and breathe the oxygen. That is it."
Sophie walked over from the counter, placing a small, linen-wrapped package of ginger biscuits into your lap. She leaned down, her lips brushing the top of your head with a quiet, fierce tenderness that felt completely foreign after months of living in George’s hyper-calculated world. "Go with him, darling. Max knows how to handle the roads when the weather is bad. And he knows what it means to keep a house safe from the outside."
Max didn't look at his mother, but the line of his jaw tightened until the skin over the bone turned white. He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light from the kitchen window as he grabbed his car keys from the counter.
"We leave in five minutes," he said, his heavy sneakers clicking with an absolute, heavy finality against the stone tiles as he moved toward the mudroom. "Put a thick coat on. The air in Switzerland is different from the coast."
The journey through the Route Napoléon and up into the Swiss plateau was a five-hour exercise in absolute isolation. The matte-black vehicle moved through the twisting mountain passes with a heavy, unshakeable stability, the double-paned acoustic glass completely drowning out the whistle of the alpine wind against the chassis.
Max sat in the front passenger seat, his seatback tilted slightly forward, his eyes never leaving the gray asphalt ahead. He didn't talk. He didn't play music, and he didn't check his phone for paddock news or race debrief summaries. He spent the entire journey monitoring the vehicle’s navigation system and communicating with Willem in short, monosyllabic Dutch phrases about tire pressures, fuel stops, and weather patterns over the mountains.
To an outsider, it would have looked like the cold, unfeeling behavior of a professional driver focused entirely on a destination. But you knew better. You could see the way his fingers constantly twitched against his right thigh, the precise, rhythmic pattern he used when he was visualizing a qualifying lap under immense pressure. He wasn't distant; he was on high alert. He was treating your safety like a world championship lead that had to be defended with every single microsecond of his attention.
When the car finally slowed, navigating the pristine, flower-lined avenues of Meyrin on the outskirts of Geneva, the sun was high but cold, reflecting sharply off the glass towers of the medical district.
The Hôpital de la Tour didn't look like a standard medical facility; it looked like a private, high-security bank tucked away near the lake. The entrance was a recessed pavilion of smoked glass and brushed steel, completely hidden from the main thoroughfare by a dense grove of silver birch trees. Willem didn't use the public drop-off lane; he drove the massive SUV straight down a concrete ramp into a private underground garage where a specialized security barrier clicked open the moment the car’s transponder registered on the network.
The car door was opened from the outside not by an orderly or a nurse, but by Dr. Keller himself, a tall, spare Swiss man with close-cropped gray hair and the calm, analytical eyes of a master watchmaker. He wore a crisp white lab coat over a dark grey suit, his expression entirely devoid of the sycophantic warmth that usually greeted sports celebrities in public spaces.
"Max," Dr. Keller said, giving the driver a short, professional nod of the head as Max stepped out onto the concrete. "The private elevator is ready. We have cleared the third-floor diagnostic suite for the next two hours. There are no other patients on the level."
"Good," Max said, moving immediately to your door. He reached in, his large hand wrapping firmly around your forearm with that same, unmoving stability from the night before, lifting you gently into the cool, sterile air of the garage. "This is her. She has had no medical tracking since the positive test in Monaco. No scans, no blood work, nothing."
"Then we begin from the absolute baseline," Dr. Keller said, turning to lead the way toward a brushed-steel elevator door that required a triple-factor keycard verification.
The diagnostic room on the third floor was a sanctuary of silent, high-end technology. The walls were paneled in light maple wood to soften the clinical edge of the machinery, and a massive, wide window looked out over the distant, snow-capped peaks of the Jura mountains. In the center of the room sat a leather examination table, surrounded by the sleek, white towers of the latest ultrasound systems.
A soft-spoken female technician with quiet eyes and a calm, deliberate manner entered the room, adjusting the lighting until the space settled into a dim, amber twilight that was easy on your strained, dry eyes.
"You can change behind the screen," she said softly, pointing toward a small alcove where a fresh, heavy linen gown was waiting. "When you are ready, please lie on the couch and adjust the paper blanket over your hips."
You walked behind the screen, your hands shaking so violently you could barely untie the laces of your sneakers. The fabric of the linen gown felt cold against your bare skin, a stark reminder of the sheer vulnerability of your position. You were no longer the elegant, composed partner of a Mercedes driver standing on a hospitality balcony; you were a patient, a mother, a woman whose entire internal world was about to be laid bare on a digital screen.
When you stepped back into the room, Max hadn't left. He was sitting in a heavy leather chair in the corner, his long legs stretched out before him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was set in a hard, protective scowl, his eyes tracking every movement of the technician as she adjusted the sterile gel bottles on the ultrasound tower.
You hesitated by the edge of the table, your fingers clutching the linen gown around your throat. "Max... you don't have to stay for this part. It’s... it can be weird if you’re not..."
"I'm staying," Max said. His voice left absolutely no room for negotiation. It was the same tone he used when his team principal asked him to drop his pace to save the engine, an absolute, unbending refusal based on his own internal assessment of the situation. "I told you in the car. I am not leaving you alone in a room with a monitor until we know everything is okay. Sit down."
The technician gave Max a brief, assessing glance, her eyes lingering for a second on the hard, unyielding line of his jaw, before she turned back to you with a reassuring smile. "It is fine. The father is always welcome to-"
"I am not the father," Max said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat line that cut through the clinical air like a scalpel. He didn't look away from the monitor screen. "The father is in England, looking at a computer screen. I am just making sure the work is done right here. Proceed."
The gel was ice-cold against the skin of your lower abdomen, causing you to flinch violently against the leather padding of the table. The technician muttered a soft apology, her fingers deft and practiced as she took the heavy transducer wand and pressed it firmly into the soft tissue just above your pelvic bone.
For the first thirty seconds, the room was filled with nothing but the dry, rhythmic clicking of the machine’s internal fan. The large monitor on the wall remained dark, a gray expanse of digital static that showed nothing but the reflection of the amber lights.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs with a frantic, suffocating speed. The anxiety was no longer about George, or the paddock, or the contract in Monaco; it was a pure, primal terror that the immense stress of the last twenty-four hours, the screaming, the shattered glass, the flight across the Mediterranean, had somehow damaged the tiny, fragile spark of life inside you. You closed your eyes, your fingers twisting into the paper lining of the table until the material ripped beneath your nails.
Then, the monitor flickered to life.
A dark, fluid-filled circle appeared on the gray screen, surrounded by the rough, white topography of your pelvic anatomy. In the center of that dark space sat a tiny, curved shape that looked no larger than a grain of river rice. It was static, silent, and incredibly small against the vastness of the digital display.
The technician moved the wand a fraction of a millimeter to the left, her thumb twisting a dial on the control panel.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound didn't come from the machine softly; it exploded from the high-fidelity speakers in the corner of the room with a raw, metallic power that filled every square inch of the clinical space. It was a fast, frantic, incredibly loud rhythm, the sound of a miniature freight train racing through the dark at 160 beats per minute. It was the sound of an absolute, uncompromised life, completely indifferent to the political ruin of the Mercedes team or the personal collapse of its parents.
You let out a sharp, choking gasp, your eyes flying open as the tears, hot, thick, and instantaneous, broke over your lids and tracked down into your ears. You reached out blindly with your left hand, your fingers searching for anything solid in the dim room.
Before your hand could fall back to the table, Max’s massive, calloused palm closed around your wrist.
He didn't take your hand with the delicate gentleness of a lover; he gripped your arm with the heavy, unyielding strength of a rescuer pulling someone out of a retaining wall. His large thumb pressed flat against the back of your hand, his skin warm and slightly rough against your cold fingers.
You looked across the space at him. Max was leaning forward in his chair, his laptop forgotten on the floor, his face completely illuminated by the gray light of the ultrasound monitor. His jaw was no longer clenched; his mouth was slightly open, his sharp blue-gray eyes fixed on that tiny, pulsing white dot on the screen with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
For all his calculations, for all his millions of data points and fractions of a second, he had never stood in a room and listened to a telemetry trace like this. It was a loop that couldn't be optimized, a sector time that couldn't be shortened. It was just life, raw and violent and perfect, reasserting itself in the middle of his neat, mechanical world.
"Look at that," Max whispered, his Dutch accent rounding the words into a low, reverent murmur that was completely swallowed by the sound of the heartbeat. "It is loud, no? Like a little engine."
"The heart rate is 164 beats per minute," the technician said, her voice dropping into a warm, rhythmic cadence that matched the sound from the speakers. "The crown-rump length measures exactly twelve millimeters, which puts you at seven weeks and two days. The implantation is high in the fundus, completely clear of any subchorionic bleeding. Everything is perfectly healthy. Everything is exactly where it should be."
You buried your face in your free hand, your shoulders shaking as the heavy, suffocating layer of anxiety that had lined your chest for three weeks finally dissolved into the sound of that little train. The baby was okay. Despite the screaming, despite the terror, despite the cold rejection from the man who had promised to love you forever, the life inside you was fighting with the same fierce, stubborn tenacity that Max used on a Sunday afternoon.
Max didn't release his grip on your wrist. He sat there for the entire twenty minutes of the examination, his hand a heavy, unmoving weight that kept you anchored to the leather table while the technician took the necessary measurements of the gestational sac and the yolk tube. He didn't look away from the screen once, his face locked in that intense, protective focus that signaled to anyone who knew him that the perimeter had been drawn.
When the examination was over and you had changed back into your oversized clothes, Dr. Keller led you both into his private study at the end of the hall. The room was lined with dark leather books and silver models of old racing cars, the air smelling of pipe tobacco and old parchment.
"The blood work will take six hours to clear through the lab," Dr. Keller said, sitting down behind his heavy mahogany desk and adjusting his glasses. "But the ultrasound data is definitive. There is no structural reason for concern. The physical trauma of the emotional stress has not translated to the uterine wall. However, the cortisol levels must be brought down. You need four weeks of absolute quiet. No travel, no high-stress environments, and absolutely no presence in the paddock."
"She stays at the villa," Max said from his seat by the door. He was sitting with his boots crossed at the ankle, his laptop bag resting against his shin. "She does not go to any more races this month. I will tell my team that she is managing some private assets for my family in Europe if anyone asks why she is in the house."
Dr. Keller looked at Max over the rims of his glasses, his expression serious and analytical. "And the father? He will need to sign the medical disclosure forms for the Swiss registry if the child is to be monitored here."
Max’s face turned into a cold, flat stone. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping into that quiet, venomous register that always preceded an escalation.
"He does not sign anything," Max said. "He does not get his name on the paper, and he does not get the data. If he wants to see the reports, he can ask me, and I will tell him no. Write the file under her name only. The Brackley office does not exist for this child."
Dr. Keller hesitated for a fraction of a second, seeing the unyielding, dangerous light in the young driver’s eyes, before he nodded slowly and made a single, sharp notation on his tablet. "Understood, Max. The file will remain fully confidential under the Swiss federal privacy statutes. No one without your personal security code can access the server."
Once you were back in the underground garage, the heavy door of the black SUV shutting out the clinical silence of the hospital, the exhaustion returned with a vengeance. You slumped into the rear seat, your head resting against the cold leather of the headrest, your fingers tracing the glossy thermal printout of the ultrasound image that the technician had slipped into your bag.
The car moved out of the garage, navigating the clean, silent streets of Geneva before turning back toward the French border. The sky had turned a deep, bruised shade of charcoal, the first drops of a heavy alpine rain beginning to smear across the tinted glass of the window.
Max didn't sit in the front seat this time. He climbed into the back beside you, leaving the wide middle armrest down between you, his long legs stretched into the footwell. He looked at the paper printout in your hands, his mouth set in a straight, hard line.
"You are thinking about him," Max said plainly, his voice hitting the quiet cabin with the force of a direct impact.
"I'm thinking about how he could do it, Max," you whispered, your voice breaking as you looked at the tiny white grain of rice on the black paper. "He saw the same test I did. He knew it was real. How do you look at someone you’ve lived with for three years and tell them that this... that this heartbeat is a mistake?"
Max turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto yours through the twilight of the moving car. There was no pity in his face; there was only a deep, ancient anger that seemed to come from a place far older than his twenty-eight years.
"Because he is a coward who only knows how to look at himself," Max said, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that made the hair on your arms stand up. "My father... he was not a coward, but he was a hard man. When I was ten years old, if I lost a karting race, he would make me get out of the van and walk home through the rain in the dark. He would tell me that if I didn't want to win, I didn't deserve a place in his house."
He let out a short, sharp breath through his nose, his fingers clenching into hard fists against his knees.
"I know what it looks like when a man uses his child to make his own life feel big. Jos... he thought my racing was his second chance. He thought every trophy I won belonged to him because he didn't win them when he was a driver. And George... George is the opposite. He thinks the child will take his trophies away. He thinks if he has to be a father, he cannot be the perfect prince of the Mercedes team anymore."
He reached across the armrest, his large palm resting flat against the leather next to your hand, not touching your skin but offering a physical wall of protection that you could reach if you needed it.
"Both of them are wrong," Max said fiercely. "A child is not a tool for your career, and it is not a weight that pulls you down. It is just... it is the only thing that is real after the lights go out on the grid. If George is too small to see that, then he deserves to be left behind in the dirt. You keep that paper. You keep that little engine running. And I will make sure the wall stays up."
The return to the villa occurred under the heavy, drumming roar of a full alpine thunderstorm. The winding roads of the pass were slick with black water and fallen pine needles, the headlights of the black SUV cutting two long, yellow corridors through the gray mist.
When Willem finally brought the vehicle to a halt in the courtyard, the old stone walls of the house looked like a dark fortress against the lightning that was flashing across the peaks of the valley.
Max didn't let you walk up the stone steps in the rain. Before you could open your door, he had jumped out of the front, his large frame completely absorbing the downpour as he reached into the backseat and pulled you out by the waist, his heavy waterproof jacket shielding your head from the cold deluge as he guided you quickly through the heavy oak front door.
The interior of the house was warm, the fire having been maintained by Sophie before she retired to her own quarters. The only light came from the orange glow of the hearth, casting long, jumping shadows across the stone floor and the timber beams of the ceiling.
You stood on the rug in the mudroom, your shoes wet, your body trembling slightly from the sudden transition from the cold rain to the heat of the house. Max stripped off his wet jacket, tossing it onto the wooden bench with a heavy thud, his gray t-shirt soaked through at the shoulders where the rain had caught him.
"Go to the fire," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding command that had become your baseline over the last twenty-four hours. "I will bring the bags up from the car. Don't touch anything until you are warm."
You walked into the main salon, dropping your handbag onto the table and sinking into the deep cushions of the sofa by the hearth. You pulled the woolen blanket back around your shoulders, your eyes fixing onto the small thermal printout that you had laid flat against your knees.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound was still ringed inside your skull, a permanent frequency that had rewritten the entire architecture of your mind. You were no longer running; you had arrived. The future was still an immense, terrifying void filled with legal battles, media speculation, and the inevitable, ugly fallout when George Russell realized he could no longer control your silence. But looking at that little white dot in the firelight, the anxiety felt distant, like the thunder rolling across the peaks outside.
Max walked into the room a few minutes later, carrying a fresh log of oak for the fire. He dropped it into the hearth with a shower of orange sparks, his face serious and composed as he wiped his wet hands on his jeans.
He didn't sit on the sofa beside you. He walked over to the low table by the window, where his laptop and data charts were still laid out from the night before. He didn't open the screen; instead, he stood with his hands resting flat against the dark wood, looking out through the rain-streaked glass at the black valley below.
"The team called while we were crossing the border," Max said quietly, his voice carrying no emotion, just the flat delivery of a team brief. "Christian wanted to know if I was back in Monaco for the simulator loop on Wednesday. I told him I was staying in France until the weekend."
You looked up from the printout, your heart skipping a beat. "Max... you can't miss the simulator loop. The Canadian Grand Prix is next week. If you stay here because of me-"
"I am the driver," Max said, turning his head to look at you with a slow, confident line appearing at the corner of his mouth. "If I tell them the car is not ready for the loop, the car is not ready. They don't start the engine without my seatbelts buckled, you know? Don't think about the team. The team works for me; I don't work for the team."
He walked over, his heavy steps slow and deliberate as he stopped at the edge of the rug, looking down at you and the small paper image on your lap.
"We are friends a long time," he said softly, his voice dropping into that rare, unpolished sincerity that he never allowed the television cameras to catch. "Since the karting days in Genk, when we were twelve years old and had nothing but a tent and some old tires. I know who the real people are in this place. You were always good to me, even when George and I were crashing into each other every second weekend. You never looked at me like I was just the enemy from the other garage."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his personal phone and setting it face-down on the mantlepiece above the fire.
"The gate is locked," Max said, his gray eyes fixing onto yours with an absolute, unshakeable finality that felt like the closing of a contract. "The doctor is paid, and the baby is healthy. You sleep tonight. Tomorrow, my mom is going to take you to the market in Vence to get some things that don't belong to a Mercedes motorhome. And if George calls again... he talks to the wall. Because that is all he is now. Just a name on a lap-time sheet."
He turned and moved toward the stairs, his large shoulders disappearing into the dark shadow of the upper corridor without another word. You sat alone by the fire, the sound of the rain against the ancient stone tiles matching the frantic, beautiful rhythm of the little engine inside you, finally safe within the perimeter he had built.
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<<backward
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The shift started the same way all shifts started, which was to say unremarkably, with inventory and incoming orders and coffee that was adequate rather than good. The lab was its usual self. The refrigerators hummed. The phones rang at reasonable intervals and for reasonable reasons.
The only concession to the date was the small ceramic black cat sitting on the corner of your desk, which had been there since the first of October.
It was 11:50 p.m. on the thirtieth.
You had been at work for an hour and forty minutes when the lab line rang.
“Blood lab.”
“It’s me.” A pause, and then, with the energy of someone who had been waiting to deploy this: “Happy almost Halloween.”
Something warm started in your spine and trickled down, the way it did now with a reliability you had stopped trying to argue with when it came to him.
“It’s not Halloween yet.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Then call me in ten minutes.”
“I’m calling you now.” A brief background noise on his end, the particular ambient texture of the ER in the middle of a moderately busy night.
“How’s the lab?”
“Exactly the same as it was yesterday.”
“Comforting.” You could hear him moving, the familiar sound of him finding a quiet corner somewhere. “You do anything for Halloween? Before the shift.”
“I slept.”
“That’s it?”
“I watched something seasonally appropriate while I got ready.” You straightened a stack of paperwork that didn’t need straightening. “Why, did you?”
“Carved a pumpkin.”
You stopped straightening the paperwork. “You carved a pumpkin.”
“I did, with a scary face.”
“By yourself?”
“Is that sad?”
You considered it honestly. “No,” you said. “I think that’s very you, actually.” *it was cute*
A quiet laugh on his end, low and warm. “I’ll take that.” A brief pause. “What’d you watch?”
“Hellraiser.”
Silence for exactly one beat.
“The one from the eighties?”
“Yes.”
“So just a regular Tuesday for you, essentially.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“You know what I mean.”
You bit the inside of your cheek against a smile. The clock on the wall read 11:57. Three minutes.
“You doing anything for the actual Halloween?” he asked, and the question had that quality his questions sometimes had now, casual on the surface and carrying something more deliberate underneath. More openly curious than he used to allow himself to be.
“Working,” you said. “This shift runs through it.”
“Right, but after. When you get off.”
“Jack. I get off at seven in the morning on Halloween. And I have to be back at ten tomorrow night.”
“So?”
“So I’m going home and I’m sleeping and I’m leaving a bowl of candy on the porch with a sign that says take one and hoping for the best.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“It’s the only system that works.”
“Kids always take all of it.”
“I know. That’s why I buy plenty..”
He laughed again, and it was the real one, the one that changed his whole face even through a phone line, and something about the ease of it, the way it came without effort now, settled comfortably in your heart alongside everything else you’d stopped pretending wasn’t there.
“You could,” he started, and then paused in a way that was uncharacteristically hesitant for him. “There’s usually a thing. After Halloween shift. A few of us go to the diner on Clement. It’s nothing formal, just—”
“Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you asking me to go to a diner with you at seven in the morning on Halloween?”
A beat.
“I’m asking if you want to,” he said, and the careful honesty of it, the way he’d stopped dressing things up with deflection, was still new enough to catch you slightly off guard every time. “You don’t have to.”
You were quiet for a moment.
The clock read 11:59.
“Who goes?” you asked.
“Chen. A couple of the nurses. Ellis, sometimes, if she’s not in a mood.”
“Define a mood.”
“If she hasn’t been personally victimized by the shift.”
“So fifty-fifty.”
“Generous estimate.” A pause. “It’s just the diner. It’s low-key. You can leave whenever.”
You looked at the ceramic black cat on the corner of your desk. The thing was, a month ago you would have deflected this immediately, deployed one of the reliable, well-practiced reasons that kept things contained and manageable and comfortably at a distance. You were tired. You had things to do. The diner was too loud, too bright, too much after a night shift. All of those things were still true. They just weren’t sufficient anymore in the way they used to be, and you weren’t sure exactly when that had changed, only that it had, and that the roof had something to do with it, and that Jack’s hand had been warmer than you expected and he’d taken yours before you’d finished reaching and neither of you had mentioned it since in words but it sat between you now in everything, tender and unnameable and persistent. He asked if you wanted to, and you did.
“Okay,” you said. A beat of quiet on his end.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make it weird, please.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You sounded like you weren’t expecting me to say yes.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, with a honesty that was almost startling, it would be if you weren’t used to it-and him- by now. And you could hear the smile underneath it, warm and unguarded and making very little effort to be otherwise.
Before you could answer, the phone at the nurses’ station behind him crackled with something, and simultaneously the clock on your wall ticked over.
12:00.
“Happy Halloween,” you said.
A pause, just brief enough to be intentional.
“Happy Halloween,” he said back, quiet and warm, like it meant something slightly more than Happy Halloween. Like when he said goodnight.
The line was quiet for a moment, both of you just present in it, the comfortable kind of silence you’d built between you over months of late nights and shared earbuds and cold rooftops and granola bars offered without conditions.
“I have to go,” he said eventually. “It’s picking up here.”
“Go.”
“I’ll call later if it slows down.”
“I know you will.”
Another brief pause.
“Hey.” His voice dropped slightly, the way it did when something was honest rather than easy. “I’m glad you’re working tonight.”
Your chest did something inconvenient and familiar.
“You just like having someone to call,” you said.
“Yeah,” he agreed simply. “I do.”
And the particular way he said it made it quietly, unmistakably clear that the someone was not incidental.
You held the receiver for a moment after the line clicked.
Then you set it down, glanced once at the black cat on the corner of your desk, and pulled the next order from the queue.
Seven hours until the diner. You were, despite all reasonable expectations of yourself, looking forward to it.
abbot fic idea where you and jack get into a fight on your anniversary, like bad enough that you storm out of the house and go for a midnight drive just to cool off
except you get into an accident
and when you wake up, you’ve forgotten the last three years of your life
including him
including your entire relationship
so now jack has to sit there with an engagement ring in his dresser drawer and a girlfriend who looks at him like a stranger, trying not to completely fall apart while he spends the whole story slowly making you fall in love with him all over again
anyway i’m normal and fine about this idea actually.
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not magine herself having kids.
A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't supposed to be a two-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)
You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.
“Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.
“Yeah.”
Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.
“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”
You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.
It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.
Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.
Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.
Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.
But you're not surprised.
Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.
You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.
Still. Eight days.
Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.
You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.
So you step outside.
You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.
You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.
When you look up, you try not to frown.
It's Jack.
Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.
Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.
You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.
And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.
He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.
“How long has it been bleeding?”
“Not that long.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.
”Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”
“Not anymore.”
Or maybe that's what he says.
Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.
You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.
You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.
And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.
The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.
Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.
“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.
“I didn't think it was-”
“That bad?” he cuts in.
You shrug.
“I handled it.”
“You were bleeding for two hours.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”
“You're in the ER.”
Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.
Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.
You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.
Or maybe he knows.
“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.
Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.
And no wedding band. Interesting!
“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”
So he knows who you are.
You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.
You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.
Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.
Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.
“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.
Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.
The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.
“Again.”
You repeat the motion.
“Good. Now straighten them.”
You do.
“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.
“No.”
He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.
“Tell me if this feels the same.”
You nod.
“It does.”
Langdon glances at Jack.
“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”
“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.
"Three years ago.”
Another nod.
“You're fine.”
You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.
“This part's going to sting.”
“Define sting.”
Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”
“Great.”
Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.
And.
It.
Fúcking.
Burns.
“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”
That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”
“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.
To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.
“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."
Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.
“Take a deep breath.”
Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.
“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.
It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.
Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.
It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.
The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.
But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.
Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.
How many times has he done this?
How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?
“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.
“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.
You just know he's a good teacher.
He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.
You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.
“I hate this shit.”
Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.
But you refuse to watch.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.
Anything except your own hand.
“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”
Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.
You glance down.
Thread, needle, forceps.
Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.
“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"
And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.
“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.
Maybe you can keep Jack.
You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.
Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.
The first stitch is… weird.
You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.
Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.
Your fingers twitch instinctively.
“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.
“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”
You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.
“Six or seven, probably.”
“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”
“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.
Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”
They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.
“You’re definitely number two.”
“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.
And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
Then the door opens.
You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.
You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.
Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.
“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”
Your stomach drops before you even turn around.
You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.
Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.
Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.
He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.
You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.
When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.
“What the fúck happened?”
He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.
You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”
No detail, no explanation.
He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.
Robby’s jaw tightens.
“When?” he asks.
“Earlier.”
“When?”
You hesitate.
“Two hours ago. Probably more.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”
“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.
“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”
“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.
“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.
“Can we not-"
“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.
Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”
But Robby barely reacts.
“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”
Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.
“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.
But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.
You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.
“No,” you say. “Not really.”
It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.
“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.
He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.
A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.
“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.
The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.
“Again.”
You flex them once more.
“Good. Make a fist.”
You do.
Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.
Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.
“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”
“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.
“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”
Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.
“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.
“I wasn't-”
“You were absolutely going to ask.”
Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.
“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”
Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.
No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.
The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.
Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.
Robby notices the change immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.
“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.
Not angry this time, just tired.
You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.
“Noted.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.
“You should’ve told me.”
You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.
“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.
You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.
You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.
So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.
He blinks. “What-”
“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.
Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.
“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”
For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.
But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.
And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.
Because you’re right.
And that’s the problem.
*
After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.
So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.
“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.
“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”
“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”
“Noted.”
It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.
By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.
“You got someone to take you home?”
You can't help but snort.
“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”
“Didn't say you were.”
“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.
He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.
You just want to go home.
“Yeah. I know you can.”
There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.
“Thanks. Really.”
“For what?”
“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”
You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.
And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.
“Next time, come sooner.”
“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”
“Good plan.”
You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.
“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”
That earns you a crooked grin.
“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.
“Have a good shift.”
“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”
“Yeah. Don't.”
You freeze.
Of course.
Inhale, exhale.
Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.
At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.
So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.
Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.
His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.
Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.
“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.
You shift instinctively.
“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”
The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.
When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.
And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.
No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).
He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.
Close enough to remember.
“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.
The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.
“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”
From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.
“You should've called,” he says.
There it is. Again.
A laugh escapes you.
His audacity...
“Why?”
“Because I would've helped you.”
You almost laugh.
Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.
And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.
Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.
“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”
His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”
“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”
The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.
But neither of you moves.
Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.
Almost.
The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.
“Yeah.”
You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.
Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.
He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.
“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”
There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.
Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Safe territory.
“I'll take something when I get home.”
His gaze lingers.
Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.
Or both.
You're being ridiculous.
“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”
“Wow.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”
Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.
This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.
Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.
Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.
And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.
“Just be careful.”
The words come out softer.
Not doctor-soft.
Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.
You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.
You can't do this.
“I will.”
You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.
He doesn't.
You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.
What is wrong with you?
“Text me when you get home.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.
You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.
You need to get the hell out of here.
“No.”
The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.
And for a moment, something in his face falters.
“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.
Or the lack of it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.
“I'll be fine.”
He nods.
“I know.”
You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.
So as you walk, you don't look back.
But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.
*
By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.
You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.
Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!
The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.
For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.
Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.
You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.
No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.
Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.
And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.
You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.
Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.
Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.
You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”
Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.
You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.
You shake your head.
The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Like that helps.
You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.
You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.
You could do a lot of things.
Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.
Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.
Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.
Humorless and pathetic, really.
Because despite everything you miss him.
His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.
Ten days before you're free.
*
Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.
Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.
It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.
You want to use your hand... to test it.
But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).
You tell yourself it's necessary.
You always tell yourself a lot of things.
*
The message comes on the third day.
Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.
No hello. No how are you. No are you available.
Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:
I was told 10 days.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You hate that your pulse picks up.
Then:
Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.
You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.
Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.
You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
*
You go anyway.
Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.
The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.
“Back already?”
You glance up.
“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”
His eyes drop to the bandage.
“Follow-up?”
“So I've been told.”
A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.
“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”
“No promises.”
He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.
At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.
Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.
Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.
“Room six.”
“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”
“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”
“Fair.”
“Good luck.”
Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.
The traitor!
The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.
Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.
Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.
Or maybe that's you.
“You came.”
You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.
You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.
“You summoned me via text.”
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.
“Sit down.”
There's no point arguing, so you do.
The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.
Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.
“Let me see it.”
You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.
His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.
Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.
The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.
Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.
The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.
“Any increased pain?”
“No.”
“Drainage?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
You give him a look.
“No.”
His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“You've been using it.”
You let out a short laugh.
“That's a bold accusation.”
When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.
“You've been working despite our medical advice.”
The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.
You look away first.
“I had deadlines.”
“I know.”
Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.
Because he does know.
He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.
His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.
“The swelling's worse here.”
Damn it.
You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.
“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“I am your doctor.”
The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.
When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.
“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”
You nod, because it should feel reassuring.
Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.
“You'll come back in a week for removal.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.
Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.
You don't look back.
Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.
*
You try to work.
You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.
But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.
“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.
Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.
The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.
You can do better than me.
The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.
Your jaw tightens.
“No, that's bullshit.”
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.
“Shit.”
You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.
It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.
Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.
The screen lights up.
Nothing.
No messages except the family group chat.
No notifications, either.
You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.
I'm happy for you.
You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.
I wish nothing-
Delete.
A frustrated laugh escapes you.
“God.”
The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.
You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.
The music keeps playing in the background.
At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.
Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.
Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.
An older version of me…
A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?
“Yeah.”
You rub your eyes.
“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”
The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.
Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.
You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.
The song continues.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
That one almost makes you laugh.
“Fúcking hell.”
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.
Everything is careful now.
The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.
Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.
Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.
You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Nope.”
Your finger points at nothing.
“We're not doing that.”
But your imagination ignores you completely.
Of course it does.
A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.
Your stomach tightens.
Not jealousy exactly.
Something uglier.
Much uglier.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died?
Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?
Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.
You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.
You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.
The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.
Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.
It feels really pathetic.
You drag a hand over your face.
“God, I sound insane.”
But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.
*
The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.
There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.
So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.
Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.
And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.
“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.
There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.
When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.
Then he wraps it anyway.
Habit, maybe.
“You’re healed,” he says finally.
“I’m free.”
You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.
A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.
You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.
Like it never left at all.
Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.
“I want you to know something,” you say.
His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.
“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”
You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.
“What are you doing?”
No denial. That alone tells you enough.
You were right.
“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.
And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.
Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” he says.
He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.
You almost smile as pick up your bag.
Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.
And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.
“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.
A beat.
“I didn’t need better than you.”
Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.
“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”
The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.
Then, very quietly:
“You should go.”
And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.
Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.
A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.
“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”
The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.
He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.
When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.
“We’re done here.”
*
The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.
Like nothing important happened at all.
You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.
Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.
Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.
But you do.
You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.
We’re done here.
Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.
Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?
The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.
What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?
Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.
Permission.
He always said you were too kind.
Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.
And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
“Fúcking asshole.”
Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.
Park the shark and his wife spend the first 30-50 minutes of the morning cuddling and kissing each other in bed.
She just rotates around him, cuddling, kissing, sleeping, and he does the same, pulling her leg over his hip, gently caressing the small of her back as he makes sure the thick duvet covers her
(Yes i promise I’ll write something soon ive been busy!)
Brendon Park is a “wife guy” but not in the toxic clearly compensating for something shitty way. The man just loves his wife okay…yeah he’s stoic and clinical and scary but he’s soft as hell when it comes to the subject of his wife. Medical students and staff are stunned the first time they hear Park the Shark mention “date night with Mrs. Park.” All soft eyed and sweet. Some medical students have been bold enough to attempt to manipulate Park by asking about his wife hoping to pull out something other than the Shark…dumb move. The man is protective of his wife and clocks that shit. He’s not gonna like yap about his wife if some dumbass resident asked as a clear means to sway him towards giving them an easy day…when he’s in “wife guy” mode it’s his own choice and a sign he’s not totally locked in scary surgeon mode. He’ll do it in front of like Robby or Abbot or Garcia because they don’t really react anymore. They met Mrs. Park and she’s old news at this point. She’s Park’s only soft spot.
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Titus literally hunting a human for sport while talking on the phone with one of country club friends about how they have to move their tennis match to next week cause he promised Mrs. Danforth they’d take their private jet out to dinner at that new experimental Japanese French fusion restaurant. “It’s date night!” He explains as he stabs someone who pissed off the Danforth family and earned a spot as prey in a human hunt.
Evil wife guy Titus Danforth. He knows where his priorities lie.
40 yr old brendon park going back in the dating scene expecting the worst because his coworkers keep telling him how horrible the modern dating scene is that he was genuinely nervous with his date with you only to find out the issue was the bar was actually in hell. they get mad if you don;t buy them flowers on dates. duh? they want you to pay for everything! of course he's going to pay for everything he earns more than half a million a year. they want to put labels on the relationship! he's a grown man he'd be insulted if you don't treat this relationship seriously enough to put a name to it.
and suddenly to everyone's surprise, brendon park -- who has not dated seriously since college -- is getting married ahead all of them because he's genuinely just a great guy and a better boyfriend lmfao
