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it is robby’s first day back from his sabbatical and there is an uneasiness inside of him. he can’t pinpoint exactly what it is; it isn’t the excitement his younger self always felt when starting something new, and it isn’t the dread that quickly became his best friend years ago. whatever it is, it felt like change and familiarity all the same. 

robby walks through the doors of the PTMC, and triage still looks exactly how he left that fourth of july – packed with too many patients that were there for probably longer than it had taken him to go to canada and back – with the now board approved patient passport, which he got briefly become acquaintances with on his last day. 

lupe greets him as she buzzes robby in, telling him it is good to have robby back and that she hoped his months off had been good ones, to which robby replied with a “it’s good to be back”, that he desperately hopes it sounded convincing. 

the air in the ED felt… different. everything looked the same, except something inside him nagged in his head, saying it all changed. 

dana spots robby the moment he steps inside the room. her loud clap, followed by her saying “the prodigal son returns!” grabs the much unwanted attention robby was hoping his return wouldn’t have, and the usually five  second walk from the triage’s doors to the central hub becomes a five minute one. ahmad, jesse, donnie, trinity and several other hospital personnel stops to either hug him or shake his hand and tell robby how they missed him, and how glad they are that he is back. 

a feeling he hasn’t felt in ages take over him, and robby smiles, doing his best to not let his emotions take over him. 

love. 

dana hugs him tightly before even saying anything. robby sniffles and he hears her doing the same when she pulls back. with a hand on his face and a soft caress of her thumb on his bearded cheek, dana says “i’m so happy you’re back.”

“i’m happy to be back.” robby smiles. he looks at the board and sees more names working than usual, some he knows, some he is yet to meet and one he hasn’t seen in years, but robby doesn’t think much of it. 

dana sees his confused face and the way his finger points to the gossiping board. before he asks anything, dana tells him that things have changed. 

robby’s face twists before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed.” he looks at his watch and sees it is about to hit ten, almost in time for his meeting. “i gotta go talk to gloria in a few, we’ll catch up when i’m back.”

the walk and the elevator ride to gloria’s office looked very much like the one of his arrival, with several people hugging robby and wishing him a happy return. 

surprisingly, gloria shared the sentiment, catching robby off guard with a hug. dr. al hashimi was also at the office, but unlike gloria, her welcome back was extended by a shake of hands. 

the meeting went well. in less than four months, baran was able to get what robby have been asking for years: each shift now has two attendings, new nurses have been hired, and a third shift was created – consisting of a couple of physician assistants and nurses, to extend and better the continuity of care between the day and night shifts. two dedicated paediatric attendings were also added to the team, one for each main shift. jack is working during the day shift for the next seven days, until robby gets used to the rhythm once again. 

if robby was being honest, he is as pissed as he is elated with the news. happy that the board finally decided to give them better working conditions, but pissed that it took a lot of his well-being and the arrival of baran for it to happen. he thanks al hashimi for her work and her feat, and even apologises to her for how he acted on his last day before the sabbatical. 

“i agree that your tone could've been better, but i know we all have our days.” baran smiles at him. “welcome back, robby. hope we can work well together.”

“thank you, baran.” robby smiled back. “i’m sure we will.”

robby is back at the hub catching up on the cases with dana when a familiar “brother!” hits his ears. jack hugs him like they haven’t seen each other in ages (four months is not that long, is it?), patting his arms and squeezing his shoulder as if he was checking if robby is real. 

jack tells robby he missed him, to which robby says the same back. jack asks how the trip went, to which robby tells him it was pretty good! jack says he–

“robby? hi!” a familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard in years interrupts jack. 

robby calls your name. “hey. what are you doing here?” robby asks a tiny bit harshly, and a confused look takes over his face. 

it makes you giggle. “i know, it’s been a while. but i’m back.”

you were about to be another person on the roster of the ones who has told robby they missed him, when dana tells you that an infant pedestrian MVC is on the way, arriving in three. 

“coming! we’ve got a lot to catch up, robby.” you give him a smile as you walk away from the hub, grabbing a pair of gloves in your way out. 

the week passed by like a blur, and to say robby was stunned daily by your presence was an understatement. 

you had been robby’s resident from 2015 to 2019 and, if he was being honest, you were probably the best one he had ever had. the connection between the two of you matched at minute one of day one; you were quick with your answers and certain with your decisions. robby could count on one hand the amount of times he had to correct you, he knew he could trust you with his eyes closed. 

until one day you simply vanished, left without saying goodbye. 

robby remembers that day well. december 15, 2019. eight in the morning hit, then did nine and you still hadn’t arrived. you were rarely late for work, and when you were about to be, you would let either robby or dana know. he called you countless times, and when he wasn’t the one trying, he was asking dana to. it was around eleven in the morning when gloria asked to talk to him, only to give him your termination letter. gloria asked if you had said anything and robby denied, telling her he was as caught off guard as she was. ever since then, no one, not that he knew of, had any news from you. 

it was odd seeing you walking around the ED again, especially when you acted like you had never left. 

honestly, it annoyed him. 

dana notices the look on robby’s face, the crease between his eyebrows and how his eyes are following you as you walk out south 17 with park the shark, heading towards the elevators. 

“what is it, robinavitch?” dana orders. 

he tuts his chin towards where you were heading. “when did she come back?”

“around two months ago. why?”

robby gives a short shake of his head and lets out a sardonic laugh. “she left, no goodbyes, never cared to even say a ‘hey, i’m alive’ and is now walking around here like nothing ever happened.”

dana and jack, who had been silently filling out a chart, share a look. 

“what?” robby asked, aggravation getting the best of him. 

“we texted… called occasionally.” dana says and jack gives a barely perceptible nod. 

“both of you? really?!” robby barely has time to keep his grievances going when you materialise by his side. 

“hey,” you set the ipad back on that chart rack “just talked to park and he’s admitting the kid on south 17. he’s scheduling the surgery for two in the afternoon since he’s stable and it’s not an emergency. his aunt is with him but was able to contact his mother who gave the ok and she’s on her way.” 

by your side, robby snorts and walks away.

“what was that?” you ask dana and jack, only to get a shrug from the man and a disapproving head shake from dana. 

you follow robby, only to end up at an empty break room with him. silently, you thank the universe that there was no one in there. 

“did i do something?” you ask. 

robby sets his yeti tumbler on the counter with more force than needed, and turns to you with a hurt look on his face. “what are you doing here?”

“what kind of fucking question is that, robby? i’m working!”

a humourless laugh leaves robby’s lips. “you know what i’m talking about. you left– no, you vanished, disappeared from the face of the earth and decided to come back like nothing happened.”

this was bound to happen, that much you knew, but you were hoping it wouldn’t be this early after robby’s arrival. 

robby’s relationship with you walked between a fine, grey line.

you harbored feelings for him for much longer than you could actually pinpoint and, for what you knew, those feelings were never reciprocated. 

robby was in a long term relationship at the time, in one he had found the family he always wanted, and you refused to come in the way of that. 

with a touch to his wrist, yoy lightly press your fingers against his pulse to get him back to you. “i really don’t want to talk about this in here.” you take a deep breath before continuing. “are you going anywhere after this shift?”

“no.”

“alright,” you nod, following your train of thought. “how about we go for some beers? like old times.”

robby finds you waiting for him by the ambulance bay after shift change. the cold november breeze is a welcomed change after the extended summer you had, and you are thankful he doesn’t use it as a conversation starter, and even more thankful for the silent walk to the bar. 

it felt like deja-vu, robby and you walking in on bottlerocket, you choosing some table on a far enough corner so the two of you could decompress and talk after a hard shift, except this time, the conversation wouldn’t be about weird patients and hard cases, but about why you left almost seven years ago. 

a hand sits a pint down in front of you, the same order you always made ages ago, robby had remembered. looking up, you give him a small smile. 

“how was the sabbatical?” you ask as robby sits down in front of you. 

“good.” his answer is short. “why did you come back?”

robby’s brusqueness catches you off guard, and the smile you sport shatters. “straight to the point, huh.”

he sighs and runs his hands over his face. silence stretches over you and it doesn’t take long to become unbearable. 

“seven years… you left, disappeared from the face of the earth and seven years later here you are, acting like nothing happened, like you took a week off work and not almost a decade with no contact.”

robby’s indignation was justified. from day one, your relationship with him surpassed the normal resident-attending relationship. there was a partnership there; a mutual understanding not only in your shared professional lives, but with your personal ones too.

the taste in art, music and film was almost the same, the personal grievances when it came to family and romantic relationships were also almost identical. 

there was also the grey area that you never tapped into. you refused to let your feelings for robby be known by him – robby was your attending, he was your superior and he had power over you. besides that, he was in a long term relationship with janey and the last thing you wanted to be was a homewrecker. 

you take a too big of a gulp of your beer and pursue your lips in thought. “it wasn’t just one thing that made me leave. it was a succession of events that culminated on me having to leave or i wouldn’t be in this realm anymore.” the way your voice gave up slowly on the last words made robby understand how serious it was. his expression softens. 

“my dad had been on another one of his month-long rants about how i should live my life, and he was dead set on having me leave medicine for good to take over the family business, with daily threats of him saying he would stop paying for my college tuition. things were so violent, not in the physical sense, that it had gotten to a point that my mom – and you know how my mom is – was giving me money on the side without him knowing to save in case he did stop paying for it.”

to an outsider, this could very much sound like the world's most spoiled person, but robby knew very well it was the complete opposite. during the four years he had you in his life, robby had been in the presence or heard about your family’s antics, at least for once a month.

you came from a traditional family that ran a successful meat farm in pennsylvania. the business had started with your dad’s great grandfather, passing down all the way to your father, who expected to do the same with you and your sister. but life had other plans, and you decided to go on the medical route, and your sister on the archeological field. 

the constant bickering, threats and manipulation attempts weren’t easy, and only you knew what you had to endure to have you drastically leave the life you were building for yourself. 

“so i left. got a student loan for my last year and left. never told him and my mom anything, because you know, she would tell him and he would find a way of finding out where i was. the only person who knew what i was doing was my sister.”

the angry look robby had in his eyes quickly changed to a soft and understanding one, and he was holding himself back to not grab and hold your hand in his. “and where did you go?”

you smile came back, but soft and timid this time. “NOLA. I remembered you talking about you days at big charity, how good they were and i thought ‘why the fuck not?’”

robby nods and a smile graces his lips. “and that’s where you’ve been for this long?”

“no.” you shake your head, and take another sip of your beer before continuing. “covid hit, and around may 2020 i got an email from medicins sans frontieres summoning me to join them in south sudan. i had filled out the volunteer form a couple of months before i left pittsburgh, so yeah, i did it. stayed there for a year and traveled with them for a bit to congo, syria, lebanon and italy. then i met an english bloke,” you laugh when you mock his accent, and something flashes in robby eyes, but you try not to think about it. “we moved to england, i started a pediatric emergency fellowship there, which i learned a lot working at the NHS system, dated jude for almost a year, got engaged and i kept changing the topic of conversation whenever he told me we should set a wedding date. that went on for almost three years, until four months ago when i finally had the guts to break up with jude, because i knew i didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

robby gives you a look, the same one he always did when he wanted to reprimand you for letting people run over you. 

“he was a really nice guy, i was the one in the wrong this time.”

“for once, huh?” he murmurs over his pint. 

“for once.” you mimick him. 

“and do your parents know you’re back?”

“no, god no.” you shake your head. “well, my father died in 2023. heart attack caused by long covid, since he refused to take the vaccine.” robby grimaces when the words leave your lips but you chuckle. “i know. they sold everything after he died, i bet he’s rolling in his grave. my mom decided she’s tired of men and is off somewhere with her controversially young girlfriend – which, to be honest, good for her. and the only one who knows i’m back in town is my sister, but she’s off somewhere in egypt trying to find cleopatra’s tomb with kathleen martínez.” 

“wow.” is all robby says as he tries to take in your words.

“i know.”

“so why are you back? it seems like you had your life figured out.”

you sigh. “i think i missed having some familiarity. england was great, everyone was so nice to me but i felt empty, alone.”

robby nods and smiles. “so gloria was your sense of familiarity?” 

the way he says it makes you laugh. “no!” you shake your head. “a friend from my MSF days works at presby and she told me they were opening a paeds position, so i applied. i think someone called gloria, because a couple days after i sent the application she called me asking if i was back in town, told me about the changes the hospital was doing, offered me a better deal than presby and the rest is history.”

“makes sense.” robby hums. 

the rest of the night goes smoother. there is still some of that indignant sentiment inlaced in robby’s feelings (as you expected there would be), but you are still able to talk in a more civilised manner, and the few more pints the both of you chugged during the night helped in loosening yourselves a bit. 

silence engulfed you once again, this time much more comfortable than the first. someone had chosen pink floyd’s wish you were here on the jukebox, one of the many songs you and robby have talked about countless times before, and listened to together whenever he gave you a ride home.

david gilmour’s voice fades and the last notes of the song hit your ears, followed by the click of the jukebox changing songs, who was now starting to play harvest moon by neil young. robby fleets his pensive look from the crowd towards you, taking a few seconds to finally ask “you know, i get everything you told me tonight, but none of it explains why you left without telling me, without saying goodbye. why did you? why haven’t you at least told me you were doing alright? you kept in touch with dana and jack, couldn’t you have done the same with me?”

you knew this question was coming sooner or later, and it was one you had been preparing yourself to answer from the moment gloria invited you back to the PTMC. 

“i had a crush on you, robby.” you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “i think crush isn’t a big enough word to describe what i felt for you. i loved you robby, really loved you. but you were my attending, and a lot came with that, it wouldn’t be ethical at all.” you give a humourless laugh. “and you were with janey. you were happy and had the family that you had always wanted with her and jake. i would never, ever do anything to ruin that, god forbid.”

“but it had gotten to the point that it was extremely painful to watch and be a part of, and add everything that was happening with my parents… i wasn’t in a good place mentally, so leaving everything behind and starting anew felt like the right thing to do.”

you pause to try and find a way to even your voice, index finger running over the edge of the wooden table, stopping when you find a nicked piece of wood that you are now picking at. “there wasn’t a day in those seven years that i didn’t think about you or getting in touch with you, but i also had to think about myself and doing what was best for me. and, at the time, it was being far away from you.”

robby’s face drops instantly, and many emotions ran over his eyes in a matter of seconds. he even opens his mouth to say something, but nothing except a few confused “whats”, “buts” and “whys” come out. 

you hold his hand between yours, run a finger over his knuckle before you squeeze it and tell him that “i know this is a lot to take, and i’ll understand it if you want some time for yourself, i won’t force a friendship and i truly don’t expect for us to be back to where we were before i left, but i just want you to know that i missed you too, and that leaving hurt me more than you can even imagine.”

a little over a month went by after that night at the bar, where you finally told robby why you disappeared for seven years. 

as expected, things didn’t get back to normal; robby was still weary about you being back, keeping a certain distance from you, trying to not get attached again as if you were going to vanish at any minute. 

and knowing everything that happened with his mother’s departure, you understood him. so, you gave him space, talked to him sparsely, nothing beyond a “good morning” and “how are you doing?”, occasionally asking how the shift was going, and, obviously, exchanging details about cases that showed up in the ER. 

but something was still eating away at robby. 

december 15 was approaching and robby was restless. he was stressed, short tempered and more snappy than usual. no one really understood what was going on except for jack and dana, who had their suspicions confirmed after you arrived half an hour late that tuesday, with a smile and a “morning! god, the the traffic was insane because of the ice. if i knew the roads would be this bad i’ve left home earlier.” on your lips, as you pulled the first resident in front of you to get you on par with the cases. 

robby’s relieved exhale was the shakiest he had ever given his whole life. 

and this is why he finds himself sitting on jack’s couch watching the penguins game. not that he knew of jack’s secret plan to have him spill whatever was going on in his head. 

jack sits down by his side, handing robby another bottle of his favourite local beer as he says your name. 

“what about her?” robby grumbles. 

“she’s really here to stay, huh?” jack tests the waters. 

robby’s eyes move almost imperceptibly, trying to hide the interest and anxiety with everything that involves you, with the fake attention paying to the game. “i guess.”

jack nods and says something about sidney crosby losing a pass, before hitting robby with a “i’m glad she’s back. she’s doing a great job, the pitt really needed her.”

robby’s newfound interest over the beer bottle’s label doesn’t let him look back at jack, but his long time friend knows robby is just trying to pretend to not be affected by the conversation. “it did. not only her but all of the professionals hired with her too.”

“mhm.”

jack stares at robby for a second or two, paying attention to his friend’s silent tells. the furrowed brows, the more prominent than usual crinkle around his eyes, the, what know seems to be permanent, down turn of robby’s lips, and how he tries to stop but can’t cease the tapping of his right foot. jack exhales and mute the game before turning to his friend. 

with a sigh, robby beats jack to it and pleads “can you turn the fucking game back on?”

jack doesn’t dignify him with an answer. “robby, every year december fifteen comes and goes, and every year around that time you get stand-offish–“

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

jack continues, completely ignoring his friend's interruption. “you were restless this morning, going through cases paying more attention the the ER’s doors than to the patients themselves. you visibly relaxed when she finally arrived at the hub. she’s not leaving, brother.” jack says the last sentence softly. 

with a light squeeze to robby’s shoulder, jack forces his friend to look at him, and puts some more intent onto his next words. “she’s not leaving again, robby.”

“yeah? maybe she should.” the older man says, getting up to pace around his friend’s living room.

jack laughs a small laugh as he leans back on his couch, making himself more comfortable. “you don’t believe that, robby. you guys talked, she explained herself and you told me yourself you understood her. what is going on now?”

“she leaves for seven fucking years, you and dana knew all about it and never thought of telling me shit, and now she’s back acting like nothing ever happened, all smiles and joking and flirting around with jesse during traumas.”

jesse. 

jack smiles. 

“is this about her actually being back and trying to live her life normally, without having to get some nonsense redemption arc for doing what she thought was best for her at the time, or are you just jealous of jesse?”

jesse and you started at the PTMC at the same day. a few years your senior, jesse had enrolled in nursing school as an older fellow, graduating around the same time you had started your residency. but your friendship was instant, bonding quickly over shared teenage rebellion stories and poor life choices.

robby stops his pacing with his hand on his hips and the tv glowing behind him, its light casting a colourful halo around his body. “why would i be jealous of jesse?”

jack snorts. “you have always been jealous of her and jesse together.”

“i did not.”

“please.” jack took another sip of his beer and continued. “everyone saw how you acted when they were together. jesse would make her laugh with some stupid joke, and a vein would pop on your forehead and your mood would sour for the rest of the day. everyone at the ED knew you were in love with her, brother.”

robby looked at jack like had grown three heads. “i was with janey at the time. are you listening to yourself?”

“you and i both know your relationship with janey had ended, and that you were still with her because you still cared for her and jake. but that you were in love with your resident, that you were. besides, nothing ever happened between her and jesse, not back then and definitely not now.”

robby was speechless. he knew jack was right, his relationship with janey had lost the romantic love and turned into a platonic one long before he finally had the guts to end it. robby, at that time, also knew that what he felt for you was completely different than what he felt for jack and dana, his best friends, but he was never able to understand or admit it. 

jack takes pity on his friend after an exasperated and panicked look takes over robby’s face, and saves him some grace. “what i’m saying is: it’s okay you’ve missed her and it’s okay to get angry at what happened and that she came back like this, just don’t hold it against her when she’s just trying to live her life. also, don’t hold it against yourself either, understand your feelings, ask her out. you deserve to be happy, robby.”

the conversation with jack had its fruits. after much thinking and a few of his therapy sessions dedicated to it, robby finally understood that he indeed loved you and that he still did, and the fact that his unresolved feelings towards you and how you had somehow changed and was still the same was what was making him angry. 

long gone were the closed off, depressed girl, with family problems that he had met over ten years ago. the shy smiles that were reserved for him, jesse (ugh) and dana have now turned into full blown laughter that could be heard from across the room. the small voice that he would often have to bend down to hear, was now strong and commanding when needed, but never once lost the soft tone that he adores so much. 

the more cheerful demeanour only accentuated your beautiful personality, making all the traits robby loves pop in his face. 

so robby did his work, opened up more, talked to you, brought you your favourite coffee, did all the small and big steps he could to restore what you had before you left. 

almost daily he thinks about the smile and the hug you gave him a couple of weeks ago, when he told you he got green day tickets for their next pittsburgh concert. 

robby approaches dana, who is reviewing charts at the hub. he had been looking all over for you; as a paediatric emergency attending, you would often leave the ER to visit the paediatric wing and see how your recovering patients were doing.

after a couple of taps on the counter, he mentions your name. “have your seen her?”

dana lowers her glasses and looks at him before motioning her head towards where you were. “paeds room with baby anna.”

“thanks.”

this has been another gruesome shift. it was around noon when dana had received the call announcing that an apartment complex had caught fire, and several tenants were injured. 

the ones in the roughest shape were the holsbacks. the family of four, two parents in their early forties, a thirteen year old son and their six months old daughter were the last ones to arrive. robert, the father, was pronounced dead on arrival, with second and third degree burns all over his body. jessica, the mother, and matthew, their son, were slightly better, but the mix of smoke inhalation and crushing injuries took them both, minutes apart. 

for some sick and cruel miracle, anna, the baby, survived without a scratch. 

it had taken a toll on you, and as much as he wanted to follow you and give you some comfort, robby knew better to let you have a moment for yourself. 

robby knocks on the door before he pops his head in, finding you and jesse working on the baby. he sees your tear stricken cheeks and gives you a reassuring smile as he comes in. jesse excuses himself, leaving the two of you and baby anna alone. 

“how is she?” robby asks. 

“she’s perfect. chest image is clean, lung function is normal, carbon monoxide and cyanide levels too. it’s like nothing happened to her.” she threatens to wail and you pick her up to provide her some comfort. “mom’s sister lives two hours away. was able to get in touch with her and she’ll be fostering until they can figure out the adoption.”

“that’s good.” robby murmured. 

“yeah.”

quietness engulfed you, broken only by the soft voice of sufjan stevens singing “death with dignity”. it seems rather morbid, but there was something consoling in the way sufjan describes the loneliness of losing his mother by recounting their estranged relationship when she was alive. 

you are swaying baby anna, muttering along the words of the song when three little unexpected words blurt out from robby’s lips. 

“i love you.”

robby knows it is probably not the best moment, that he probably should have left it for the end of the shift or for another day when he would have asked you out for dinner, or maybe after the green day concert. but after the day you just had? 

“what?” you ask as you set anna down on the tiny hospital bed. 

“awful timing, i know.” robby snorts. “but i couldn’t waste any more after what we saw today. i love you, have loved you for so long and i’m a fucking idiot for just realising it after you came back. i’m sorry i haven’t been the easiest after your return.”

you nod, a little stunned with the sudden confession. 

“i love you too, robby. never stopped loving you, i think. probably why the engagement never worked out.” you laugh and robby smiles.

“so,” he stretches out the word, getting close enough to you to hug you sideways and keep his hand running over your back. “we both have the day off tomorrow, how about we go out for dinner?”

“you asking me on a date, robinavitch?”

“yes, yes i am.”

“i’d love to.”

Jack’s last conversation with Robby hadn’t been great, but it hadn’t felt…immediately concerning. He maybe should have been embarrassed at how long it took him to piece Robby’s behavior together. Everyone else seemed to get there before he had.

Sure, the motorcycle was less than ideal, but people needed their adrenaline inducing hobby—it’s why he joined SWAT. (And maybe his therapist still didn’t know exactly what his hobby was, but it’s not like having a hobby was a bad thing.)

Jack was fine, he just kinda assumed Robby was too. That man had been with him through hell and high water. Robby was his person; no one was more in sync with Jack than Robby. Sometimes Jack could feel when Robby had a bad shift just by the way he leaned against the nurse’s station.

The Pitt had a tendency to suck. It sucked away your brain, your blood, your breath, your heart. It sucked and sucked and sucked until all that remained was a dry husk that only slightly resembled the otherwise healthy medical worker that once walked the halls. It didn’t kill you cleanly, it wilted you.

If it could, The Pitt would take your very soul and not give a receipt.

But Jack was fine, so Robby had to be fine, too.

Yet, two weeks had passed without word and Jack had barely restrained himself from reaching out. All he could think about was a body damaged beyond identification, or Robby trekking into the wilderness to blow his brains out so no one could find him. Would he do that? Would he keep his fate a mystery because he thought it kinder? Jack wouldn’t put it past him.

One sleepless afternoon, fifteen days after Robby left on his sabbatical, Jack couldn't stand it. He called. The phone rang through to voicemail and it was almost a relief. If Robby had killed himself the phone would be dead. If Robby was hanging on by a thread in some hospital room someone would have picked up the phone. So while he didn’t talk to Robby, it felt like a sign of life nonetheless.

What Jack couldn’t wrap his brain around was how Robby could walk down this road, the one filled with self destruction and desolation without waiting for Jack. He had been on the very highway Robby was speeding down. Hell, he wrote the travel guide on it. After he lost his leg, then his wife there were months Jack wasn’t sure if he was going to end it or not, but he came out the other side.

But this was Robby. This was the man that Jack could count on to be by his side, to talk him off the edge. Why didn’t Robby trust him to do the same.

A quiet voice worried that Robby did believe Jack could talk him off the ledge, but that Robby didn’t want to come down the safe way.

On day seventeen, Jack sent his first text. The first text It was simple:

Hey man, hope you’re okay.

The second, on day eighteen, very much mirrored the first:

Checking in.

Texts three through ten, spread out over the next week and half, all said something like:

Hope you’re doing well. Let me know you’re okay when you have a chance.

Considering Jack was the one working fifty hour weeks and going out on SWAT calls and doing everything else he always did, it would stand to reason that if he had time to answer a text, the man on some dumbass, suicidal “find myself” journey could pick up the fucking phone. How busy was Robby riding on his goddamn motorcycle, getting bruises on his scrotum or wind burn on his face that he couldn’t even like a goddamn text message. How exciting was the prairie of North Dakota or the icy forests of Canada that he couldn’t spare a moment to ease Jack’s anxiety.

It was by chance that Jack got his first proof of life. He was walking past Santos and Whitaker gossiping at one of the computer when Whitaker said,

“Robby’s radiator cracked over the weekend and took me an hour to find the right pipe to fix it.”

“He better have paid you back, Huckleberry,” groused Santos.

“He felt bad about it. Venmo’ed me for parts and labor.”

“When was this?” Jack heard himself asking. The pair jumped at his sudden question. Santos eyed him suspiciously.

“Uh…two days ago?” Whitaker said, a little preturbed by Jack’s sudden appearance.

Jack simply nodded and went back to the lockers to put away his bag before his night shift began.

So Robby was alive. He had a phone that worked, but for whatever reason was choosing not to text Jack back.

A little after midnight, he looked at Crus and asked,

“How do you know if someone blocked you?”

“You got a lady we don’t know about Abbot?” He asked, with the same cocky grin that used to make Jack grin in return. Tonight it curdled something sour in his stomach.

“Answer the question, smart ass.”

“Texts are marked undelivered and phone calls go straight to voicemail.”

Well, neither of those things had happened. The next lull, Jack pulled out his phone and sent:

Checking in.

Then a couple seconds later added:

Again.

The text bubbles were marked delivered and when Jack called after his shift, it rang through to voicemail.

“Pick up the damn phone, Robby,” he snapped before hanging up.

Jack half expected his phone to ring in the next few hours. He expected it so much, that when he got off his next shift without so much a text, he felt anger begin to lick at the insides of his ribs. This obnoxious fuck-head was communicated with Dennis Whitaker and not Jack? Not the man who had been there when Janey dumped him, when the thing with Heather blew up, when Jake ignored his calls yet again?

(Oh the irony).

The messages over the next few weeks took on a different tone:

Whitaker said you’re alive. Would have been nice to hear it from the source.

Still waiting to hear from you. Whitaker doesn’t have an update either.

Don’t ignore the kid because you’re ignoring me, dickhead.

I’m not going to stop until I get answer.

Going to start calling if you’re not careful.

Jack was more than happy to follow through on his threat. Along with increasingly irritated text message, he began to call Robby and leave slightly unhinged voicemails. Early messages were simply meant to get a response, but they transitioned quickly:

“Will you pick up the damn phone so I know you’re alive? I’m not asking for your leg, asshole.”

“Got shot at again today. Hell, maybe you did too. I wouldn’t know because you never text me back. Like a fucking message so at least I know you’re alive.”

“Why the fuck is Janey texting me and asking how you’re doing? Use your fucking phone, Mike, Jesus Christ.”

“God man, I’m worried as shit. You’re sending me to an early grave. Rude as hell.”

As the days since Robby’s departure grew bigger, forty-three and counting at this point, Jack’s patience grew smaller. He spent every waking minute at the hospital—The Pitt, sometimes Mercy—, on a SWAT call, or in the presence of whatever military buddy needed a drinking companion. On a particularly rainy Tuesday (day seventy-six since Robby left), he got off shift at Mercy at 8am, drove straight to the SWAT warehouse, worked a shift with them, then met his old army buddy Derek at the bar near his house.

Jack was exhausted, but that was the goal. When he ran his body ragged, he couldn’t toss and turn imagining increasingly unlikely scenarios of Robby’s death. He had gotten creative the last time he spiraled with “fell from a helicopter” and “crashed in the wilderness, eaten by wolves, only evidence he was ever there were bones and a shitty motorcycle.”

The only problem with going on thirty hours of no sleep and also mixing in alcohol, was how little of Jack’s normal discipline and self control still remained. The moment his rideshare dropped him off at his house, he stumbled to bed and immediately hit call on Robby’s contact.

“You sonofabitch,” he slurred. “You spend your last day in Pittsburgh making us all think you’re going to jump off the nearest bridge after you leave, and instead you ignore my fucking text messages and phone calls? That’s a real asshole move, Mike. Oh fuck I think I’m going to puke.”

Jack dry heaved over his trash can, but thankfully managed to hold everything in. Slowly he returned to the phone.

“What the fuck is going on? What did you discover on your fucking sabbatical that made you hate me? I would have follow you to hell and pulled you out but you gotta let me. Wait for me to catch up to you. Don’t run away man,” whispered Jack hoarsely. He took a couple deep breaths, blinking quickly to stop the way his eyes burned. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. I just can’t lose you, okay. Whatever it is, I'll fix it. But don’t…just come back.”

The phone slipped from Jack’s grasp and his foggy brain couldn’t find it. Every part of his body felt too fuzzy and clunky to move, so he slumped on his bed desperately willing the tears not to fall. But then one painful sob let loose and it was like he couldn’t stop.

The anger that seemed to build in his chest was quenched as he grieved his friendship. The uncertainty of Robby’s fate coupled with this crippling sadness at being so blatanly ignored sliced through him like a knife. For the first time in years, he felt raw with emotion. No matter how much he pushed and pushed and pushed, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the one man on the planet who he thought he could rely on, who he thought would rely on him, had dropped him without a word.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered. He scrubbed at his eyes and managed to stumbled from his bed to the kitchen.

After downing two glasses of tepid tap water, Jack felt slightly more human and slightly more sober. He preemptively took some Tylenol and padded back to bed. After removing his prosthesis, he tried to get comfortable, sleep weighing heavy on his body.

There was something hard poking him in the back. He pulled his phone from underneath his body and saw his voicemail to Robby was still recording. Ending the call he distantly hoped being muffled under his body kept his freak out from being heard. Either way, he was too drunk and too tired to care just now.

When Jack finally woke up the next morning (well, afternoon), there was still nothing from Robby. Jack almost hoped his crying breakdown meant that Robby would reach out, make sure his friend was okay, but it seems that whatever Michael Robinavitch had going on in his head, Jack no longer factored into the equation.

Angrily, and yet so full of hurt and grief, Jack sent Robby his final text message, seventy-four days after he left:

You won. I won’t reach out anymore.

Jack knew that his normally sardonic personality had taken on an acidic quality as of late. More than once Crus or Shen had sent him a sharp glare after a harsh correction or ungracious patient interaction. It was becoming harder to care about what they thought—what patients thought.

But Jack wasn’t Robby. He wasn’t going to leave and abandon the people who needed him. At The Pitt, Jack was a teacher, a healer, a rescuer. He was someone that people looked up to and relied on. The rush of each emergency kept him alive. The adrenaline kept him sharp and focused.

It was after the patient was stable and referred out that Jack struggled. Suddenly the tunnel vision faded, his focus ebbed and the smooth flow he found while responding to an emergency no longer guided his actions. He was awkward and clunky and never quite said the right thing at the right time.

More than once his colleagues joked that he was rough around the edges without Robby around, but he didn’t need Robby. He was fine. He had his therapy, his hobby and his nighcrawlers.

With Robby gone he had time to finally take up running. It meant that he was finally exercising his body with more than just hoisting patients and running with heavy protective gear while getting shot at. There wasn’t time to worry or think while he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He was so exhausted every night, he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

By day ninety-two, when Jack finally felt like he almost had his groove back, he overheard Trinity say to Whitaker,

“I wish you were still at Robby’s. I’m tired of you eating my fucking produce.”

“You always let it go bad. If you think about it, I’m saving you money,” he shot back.

“I was letting the bananas brown for banana bread, Fuckleberry.”

If Whitaker had gone back to Trinity’s, that meant Robby was back. (Or dead, but he suspected he’d get a call if he was dead even after everything). He was back and Jack still didn’t get a call. Hate was a strong word, but Jack thought he might hate Robby right now.

The tightness in his jaw only intensified when Baran handed him the month’s schedule.

“Dr. Robinavitch is back next week,” she said briskly. “Though I assume you already knew that.”

He didn’t correct her. Couldn’t without sounding like a crazy, unhinged asshole.

“Nazley needs to rotate on days for a bit, but I can give you Whitaker?” She continued.

“That’s fine. I want her back, though,” Jack said. “She’s bright.”

“I look forward to seeing it myself,” Baran replied.

“Have you spoken to…Dr. Robinavitch?” Jack hesitated to ask.

“Briefly,” she said in an opaque tone. “He called once or twice to check in. And then again last week when he got back. He sounds…better.”

Jack didn’t respond. Couldn’t make his mouth form words. He could barely make his lungs take in air.

“Good,” is all he managed.

Baran sent him another cryptic look and then said, “Ready for turnover?”

“Yes.”

If anyone noticed Jack’s subdued behavior they had the grace to not comment on it. He tried to keep it under lock and key, something to talk about with his therapist at a later date (a much later date, she maybe didn’t know that Robby hadn’t said a single word to him in over three months). He didn’t have time for this.

Before everything, before Robby’s fuck-ass sabbatical, he was fine, good even. Years of painstaking work to keep him stable, to keep himself from jumping off the damn roof of the hospital seemed to crumble the moment Robby drove off on his stupid motorcycle and never took a damn call.

The next week passed like molasses and still couldn’t move slow enough for Jack. The knowledge that he was going to see Robby, finally talk to him when all he wanted was to shake the bastard, demand answers.

“Robby’s name’s on the schedule. Is he finally back?” asked Shen with his eponymous iced coffee despite the frigid temperature.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jack grumbled.

Shen shrugged, ever nonchalant. Jack wondered what, if anything, elicited more from the man. It had been multiple months since he last saw Shen showcase anything stronger than mild disappointment.

Parking himself in front of the ambulance bay, he sat and continued charting. As much as he wanted to be petty and rude by not updating his charts, to make things harder for Robby, that wasn’t fair to his patients. They didn’t deserve to be in the crosshairs of his ire towards the man. But he wanted to be prepared; he wanted to see Robby before Robby saw him.

It’s why he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a familiar voice say,

“Hi Jack.”

“Dr. Robinavitch,” Jack said turning around stiffly. He knew his face betrayed what he was thinking and feeling, but he couldn’t be bothered. “Ready for hand off?”

Without waiting for Robby’s agreement, he began to rattle off patient information. Highlighting a few labs he was waiting on and suggesting he stay on CT to fit Mr. Rodriguez in as soon as possible; they seemed to be dragging their feet.

“Jack,” Robby said when he finished. “It’s good to see you.”

Jack’s jaw clenched and unclenched and clenched again.

“Need anything else before I head out?”

“That’s it?” Robby asked.

Huffing, Jack pushed up from his seat. His leg, that normally just ached a little after shift, was throbbing.

“Seems like it.”

Jack headed to the lockers, ignoring Robby’s lumbering body behind him. The worst part of it all, is that Robby looked so much healthier. The heavy bags under his eyes were smaller, carry on sized instead of checked luggage. The weight he seemed to carry on his shoulders wasn’t dragging him down as heavily.

It turns out Robby didn’t need to rely on Jack.

“Jack, hold on,” Robby said.

“I have to get going,” Jack snapped. It wasn’t even a convincing lie but it’s all Jack had in him.

“Can you not just spare me a single minute?” Robby snapped harshly as they rounded the corner to the lockers.

They were far enough away from the crowds of the Pitt that Jack felt comfortable enough to turn with crossed arms and say,

“Do you want to count how many minutes I spared you over the last three months?” He hissed. “Count the voicemails, the texts, I’ll get back to you on how many fucking minutes I worried about whether you were dead or alive.”

Robby opened his mouth to respond but Jack continued walking to his locker. He needed to leave and leave now, otherwise Robby was going to end up with a black eye, or worse—Jack was going to cry.

“Jack, let me explain,” Robby said jogging after him.

“No.”

“It wasn’t about you,” Robby continued.

Jack leaned his head against the locker, focusing on how the metal cooled his overheated skin.

“It doesn’t have to be about me to affect me,” Jack managed. He yanked the locker open and pulled out his jacket and backpack, donning both quickly.

“I didn’t mean—“ trailed Robby.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack stared up at the angry fluorescents.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I have to go.”

Jack pushed past Robby and sped through the hallways until he was out in the freezing rain of the ambulance bay. He didn’t let himself turn out to see whatever emotion was playing upon Robby’s face.

He wouldn’t cry.

He wouldn’t cry.

The moment the door of his car shut, he cried.

———

the news came in as a shock to you, and jack was ecstatic, very proud of how far you had come. when you told him about the invitation, jack’s first words were “you said yes, right?”, almost having a heart attack when you told him you were still considering, due to not wanting to be apart from him and your cats for three months.

your husband went on a long ass rant about how you had to do it, that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, that your career meant more than him, and that facetime existed for a reason.

facetime was indeed used a lot, but your fingers and vibrator weren’t enough to satisfy you sometimes.

you try to pull back, to untangle from jack’s arms to say a “hello” and “i’ve missed you” but jack keeps bringing you in, laying kisses all over your face. it is a messy one that he presses between the corner of your eyes and your nose that breaks you and makes you giggle.

“hey!” jack says, indignation clear in his voice.

“i’ve missed you, handsome.”

“missed you too, baby. so much.” jack falls back onto the couch, pulling you to straddle him.

you kiss him again, slower this time, tongues lazily intertwining. the hands on your hips hold you tighter, guiding your hips over his awakening hard on, making you moan.

“we’ve got so much to catch up.” jack murmurs, trailing wet kisses down your neck.

“we do, baby. we do.”

the news came in as a shock to you, and jack was ecstatic, very proud of how far you had come. when you told him about the invitation, jack’s first words were “you said yes, right?”, almost having a heart attack when you told him you were still considering, due to not wanting to be apart from him and your cats for three months.

your husband went on a long ass rant about how you had to do it, that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, that your career meant more than him, and that facetime existed for a reason.

facetime was indeed used a lot, but your fingers and vibrator weren’t enough to satisfy you sometimes.

you try to pull back, to untangle from jack’s arms to say a “hello” and “i’ve missed you” but jack keeps bringing you in, laying kisses all over your face. it is a messy one that he presses between the corner of your eyes and your nose that breaks you and makes you giggle.

“hey!” jack says, indignation clear in his voice.

“i’ve missed you, handsome.”

“missed you too, baby. so much.” jack falls back onto the couch, pulling you to straddle him.

you kiss him again, slower this time, tongues lazily intertwining. the hands on your hips hold you tighter, guiding your hips over his awakening hard on, making you moan.

“we’ve got so much to catch up.” jack murmurs, trailing wet kisses down your neck.

“we do, baby. we do.”

BRENDON PARK was confident and self-assured. Some would say he was a bit of a jerk because of it. In the hospital and in the OR, he had to be the smartest person in the room while a patient's limb and life hang in the balance. He warned his residents they had to answer his questions with statements—no stuttering or doubt.

A few of them had yet learn to speak with their diaphragm, but he’d continue to push his thumb in their back until they learned.

Except, Brendon was coming to the realization he had a lot to learn about socializing. Dating, in specific.

It never occurred to him he would find himself out of his depth when it came to dating.

All his previous flings and girlfriends commented on his easy charm. How he seemed intimidating enough from across the bar to hesitate to approach him, but too intrigued by his chiseled jaw and hard eyes to stay away.

He rarely had to put in effort when it came to flirting. For some reason, he never struggled to keep a woman’s attention. In recent years though, he’s been less interested in playing a charade of the typical Ortho bro that attracted the typical women he’d find at the bars and with friends.

So, when his buddy from residency kept pushing about getting back in the dating scene, Brendon Park felt his chest tighten.

His friends would never describe him as the hesitant type. Sure, he was calculated and sometimes reluctant with certain activities the rest of the group would do, but he was always firm in his decision. No one could make him do something he didn’t want to do.

And he was certain a blind date with a woman he had never met would resolve his loneliness. He made that very clear to his buddy through text, but his buddy was persistent—arguing Brendon had to get out there again. He had become like the grumpy attendings they learned from, and his buddy could not have that.

Brendon only came around to the idea when his mother called, reminding him of his lack of personal life to share. No girlfriend. No exciting dates. No inkling of a promising future with retirement and kids.

And after the date, Brendon realizes a lonely future might be the only thing in the cards for him.

The date was nice. You were the nicest thing of the entire date, while Brendon shifted in his seat, feeling like a clown on stage.

Don’t get him wrong; he smiled, complimented you, and asked you meaningful questions, but he felt you didn’t get to know him besides his work.

Because that’s all Brendon Park was: his work.

You, who had cute stories about the books you read, the trips you went on, and your weird fascination with coffee, had to sit and listen to him practically recite his CV.

You, who had sat there with a sweet smile, listened to his professional history without interrupting. And when you continued the conversation to some funny story of you and your co-residents and friends, Brendon thought his buddy must have been playing a joke.

There was no way he thought the two of you were compatible. Either he really hated single Brendon or his buddy's fiancee really hated you—which the longer he sat at the table, he knew couldn’t be the case.

So, Brendon tried putting on a smile, leaning in to seem more interested, and he was! He just didn’t know how to make himself sound more interesting. He kept overthinking his next statements, and before he knew it, the two of you were at the table for four hours.

Maybe he should’ve taken that as a good sign, but the days after the blind date and a dry phone, he convinced himself it was you being polite.

Until he saw your message pop up after a week of radio silence.

Honestly, Brendon thought he had scared you away, and yet, when he read the message, he was the one with a hypertensive body reaction.

He had left you on read, consequently.

It’s not that he didn’t want to respond; it was that he feared you felt obligated to. He got the impression you loved your friends, and if they were as persistent as his buddy, then you were definitely bombarded with messages about the first date and when the second one would follow.

So, Brendon took the initiative to ghost you first. At least if you were doing it because you were forced to, you could excuse yourself with his lack of response.

Your message was left with no reply for two days.

Walking down the hallways of the surgical floor, Brendon glanced down at the message again. It was hard to forget about when the lingering smell of your floral perfume clung to the jacket he used on that date. He let it hang on his coat rack since then.

He thought he was being an idiot. His friend thought the same way too. He tried convincing him that you were more than elated with the date, and your attempt to plan a second one wasn’t a moral obligation to anyone, but, Brendon wasn’t buying it.

Instead, he opted to continue to let the blue message bore holes in him. Another failed attempt at him having a life outside of work.

And he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get any follow-up message either. In the meanwhile, he could dig himself further in his work and forget how lonely he’ll be.

He had his head down when he was walking towards the post-op wing. He had just finished with a consult, and he needed to get some of his charting done. When he tossed his head back, he noticed someone coming in the opposite direction: someone now wearing the mandated scrubs everyone was assigned to use.

Brendon almost asked if they were lost, but when they lifted their head, he caught sight of the cute, wide smile he sat across from at dinner.

He discretely stumbled back on his feet, and you flashed him that same smile. “Dr. Park, what a pleasure to see you again.”

It felt formal. Dr. Park. He immediately disliked how it came from your lips. He shook his head, giving you a crooked smile. “Please, Brendon, is fine.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Brendon drank in your casual appearance. Wool cardigan, white blouse, ironed slacks. You still managed to have some personality with your wardrobe, and Brendon wished there was more of it to see.

He scratched his temple, moving aside from the center of the hallway. “What brings you here?”

“Consult. Checking in on a candidate for an inpatient rehab.” You scrolled on your phone, “Mr. Connor, 68 years-old, hip-replacement.”

“I’m very familiar with his case. He’s my patient.” Brendon responded, hands in his pocket.

“Figured. Saw your name on his chart.” You continued, pocketing your phone. He couldn’t help but map out every curve of your face under the hospital light.

He nervously looked at his shoes. You hadn't even brought up the fact he left you on read. He knew how improper it was, and he could sense you were expectantly waiting for him to say something more before leaving.

"I've been meaning to respond to your text the other day."

"Don't worry." You waved a hand, hiding your face. He could see something ticking in your nervous smile, and he wondered if you regretted sending the message in the first place. "I know you're busy, and I'm sorry if it was presumptuous or too forward."

"No, I appreciate someone forward." He chuckled, and his cheeks were starting to swell more. "Too many people bullshit each other these days. It's refreshing."

You let out something of a giggle, and Brendon could feel his chest warming. It was the same physical reaction he had at dinner, and he wished he could let himself be blindly led by the sentiment. "While you're here, you should let me buy you coffee downstairs. I have some time, and maybe we can plan that second date."

"Oh, you don't have to do any of that."

He jerked his head to the elevator, leaving no room for doubt. "I want to."

And Brendon Park realized he might not be as rusty as he thought. Every time your shoulders brushed, there was a buzz of electricity that was new to Brendon, but then again, he never had met someone so easily entertained by him.

Brendon wondered if you just found something fun to enjoy in everything or if you had been so engrossed in him as he was with you since the date. When he bought your coffee, you were smiling so hard with gratitude, he was tempted to buy you another just to see the reaction again.

He walked you to the main entrance of the hospital, and he didn't attempt to leave until he felt his pager ring. You recognized the tone and told him to go—and he hated how sad you looked at the idea of him leaving.

"How about dinner tonight?" Brendon suggested, holding his coffee in one hand and his pager in the other. You opened your mouth, and he could see the words 'don't worry' ready to spill out. "I know a small Thai restaurant around here. I can text you when I'm off to meet there."

He offered a charming smile, hoping to sell a discrete enthusiasm. He didn't want to seem desperate, but god, he did want it. After seeing you in the hospital, he realized how special you were. The way you stood out in the sea of the hospital staff; the only thing he could notice in the antiseptic, fluorescent hospital walls and he wanted more of it.

Both your hands cradled the iced coffee, and you nodded after a beat. "Sounds like a plan, Dr. Park."

He loved the way you let his name roll on your tongue. Playful, eager, and sweet.

You were comfortable sitting across from him at the table. Outside of his scrubs, he could be civilian Brendon Park, on a humble date with a sweetheart like you. The laces of your shoes were tied into a dainty bow. He memorized every knot as your foot brushed against his leg occasionally as you let it sway from side to side.

He didn't move, but his chest rumbled with newfound excitement from your actions. You were oblivious of the effect you had on him because whenever you'd look away and turn to see him still staring at you, a small chuckle would escape you every time.

"Your patient is sweet." You commented, swirling around your fork on your plate. "He gave me his late wife's secret ingredient's for her banana bread recipe."

Brendon hummed, raising his eyebrows. You crinkled your nose, "Greek yogurt and cinnamon do wonders, allegedly. I will have to try it this weekend."

"You'll have to let me know how that goes." Brendon responded, the corner of his mouth curling upward as he wiped his hands.

"Maybe I can bring you some. At the hospital." You mumbled, head bowed as you brought more food to your mouth.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the wooden chair. "You would do that for me, sweetheart?"

The name triggered a reaction and Brendon would be lying if he said it didn't excite him how flustered your expression made him. Previously, Brendon would consider the action bold, but he was feeling more confident than before. He hadn't even drank any alcohol yet.

"I would love that." Brendon affirmed, and your eyes brighten. He imagined handing you a prized possession with the simple statement.

You both continued talking about whatever came to mind. Music, medicine, and television. Albeit, Brendon wasn't as familiar with your favorites, but with the way he could sit and listen to you talk, he didn't mind it whatsoever.

He'd stare at the movement of your lips and the flutter of your eyes. He had touched muscles, nerves, and bones with meticulous action. He knew a lot about the human body and it's movements and how intentional every moving part was.

While his heart kept beating and his leg kept bouncing, he wondered if you were intentional with your actions. There was no way a sweet, brilliant woman like you hadn't caught anyone's attention before. He figured people had tried, but with the way you shied away from time to time, they didn't put enough effort. How stupid could they have been.

Outside the restaurant, standing by the sidewalk in front of both your cars, Brendon was envious of the way the small breeze would kiss your skin. Would it be too daring to kiss you on just the second date?

"I do apologize for not responding sooner." Brendon mumbled, tossing his keys in his hands. He towered over you with his height, but he liked the view from above. "I don't want you to think I'm too arrogant to take you out on a second date."

"After what I heard at the hospital, I was imagining that was the case." You admitted, both your hands tucked into the cardigan you were sporting, trying to hide from the wind.

Brendon scowled, but the displeasure didn't stay for long. Not with such pleasant company. "I fear I have a reputation that precedes me."

You shrugged, bouncing on your feet with a grin. "Yes, you do, Park the Shark."

He wanted to groan audibly. His pompous attitude got the best of him for once, and he suddenly hated the nickname and its implication. He didn't need you to be afraid of him and if anything, the nickname would do exactly that.

"But, I don't mind it, Brendon. As long as you don't bite."

Brendon grinned, and his hand rubbed the back of his neck casually. "I reserve that for when my residents forget the parts of the nerve compartments."

You laughed, and Brendon grinned harder at how melodic the sound was. It was joyous to his ears and he wondered why it took him so long to find you. The two of you shared mutual friends for years, and he knew he had to scold his buddy for keeping your existence in the dark for so long.

Brendon took a step forward, craning his head further to get a better look of the curvature of your lips. "Well, as long as you don't want me to, sweetheart, I won't. Scouts honor."

You hummed, pulling your hands out of your pockets to brush away the hairs tickling the sides of your face. You carefully glanced down at the small watch on your wrist. He took a glance at your wrist and noticed how late it was.

"I hate to cut the night short—"

"No, I understand." Brendon took a step back, shaking his head with pursed lips.

You reached into your bag, pulling out your keys with the small pearl keychain attached, dangling in your loose grip. "I do like spending time with you, Brendon. I hope you feel the same way."

Brendon could never say 'no.' He was in too deep, but he liked the sensation of letting the waves carry him. Nothing had prepared him for this moment, and all the previous attempts at securing something stable led to now. He was silently grateful nothing had panned out before because he'd hate to miss out on a marvel like you.

So, Brendon promised to plan another date. He didn't kiss you that night, but knowing you wanted more dates, more nights of desirous tension, he could wait a little longer.

The messages came buzzing in after. He hadn't been as attached to his device as before. He waited for your reply with anticipation, and whenever he received a random, innocent photo or recorded voice message, his chest clattered with clamor, yearning for more.

Unfortunately for him, you hadn't swung by the hospital again. The one time you did, he was busy in a surgery, and he cursed the universe for your combative schedules.

The two of you continued planning for a third date, keen on finding a moment in your schedules that allowed enough time for you to just enjoy each other's company.

Another week passed, and Brendon felt himself go stir crazy. He was working later than usual and sleeping barely. The only thing keeping him going was the possibility he was closer to seeing you again, and he had to hope he had better luck the next day.

As Brendon was walking by the nursing station, someone had called out his name. He was handed a rectangular, white box and he took it with both hands. Something about a consulting physician dropping it off for him specifically and he knew exactly what it meant.

He walked to his office, the box tucked in his arm. He could feel the warmth of what was inside from under, and the minute he closed the door to his office, he opened the box on his desk.

Wrapped in a small cloth and tied with rope twine was a small loaf of nutty banana bread. The aroma filled his office and he smiled to himself at how perfect the delicacy was. He knew from the golden brown color you had made it to perfection for him.

On the lid, he found a white, folded paper taped to the inside. With caution, he opened the small letter, the loopy letters written with a blue pen.

Missed you again, but I had to drop off the banana bred as promised. Can't wait to see you again.

Brendon smiled to himself, knowing he needed to see you as soon as possible to thank you.

“You’re just never there, babe,” Richard had said, his voice dripping with that smooth, corporate condescension you had somehow mistaken for maturity when you first met him.

He had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown apartment, not even looking at you. “I need someone who actually shows up for dinner, not someone who prioritizes a bunch of strangers over her own relationship. Look at you. You’re undeniably beautiful, you’re brilliant, you have the whole world handing you whatever you want—but you’re empty. Your job is your real partner. I’m just the guy holding the ring until you realize you don’t have room in your life for a real man.”

That last sentence had been the final, brutal blow—the one that made you slide the engagement ring off your finger, drop it onto the marble kitchen island, and tell him to get the hell out. You weren’t going to let a man who wanted a trophy wife make you feel guilty for saving lives. So, you chose yourself. You chose your career. You chose Pittsburgh.

The memory still tasted like ash, but as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you reminded yourself of who you actually were. You were young, you were an incredibly talented Emergency Medicine attending, and despite Richard’s parting attempts to dismantle your self-esteem, the appreciative glances you’d received in the hospital corridors over the last seven days proved you hadn’t lost an ounce of your charm or your looks.

You were talented, you were charismatic, and you were finally free.

Pushing through the double doors into the main hub of the Emergency Department, you were immediately greeted by the low, constant hum of the pit.

"Morning, superstar," called out Dr. Robby, the Chief of the ED. He was a salt-pepper haired genial man whose eyes always held a paternal warmth. He was leaning against the central tracking board, a tablet balanced on his forearm. "How's the transition treating you? No one’s driven you back to the turnpike yet?"

"Not yet, Chief," you said with an easy, radiant smile that made a passing intern nearly trip over an IV pole. "The pace is good. The staff is sharp. I think I'm actually starting to figure out which elevator leads to the cafeteria without ending up in the morgue."

"That's a victory in week one," Dr. Frank Langdon chimed in, stepping up to the desk. Langdon was a senior resident, highly excellent, effortlessly charming, and currently sporting a grin that suggested he’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think of an excuse to talk to you. "If you ever need a personal guided tour of the city's better culinary establishments, Doc, my schedule is surprisingly flexible for an R4."

"I appreciate the offer, Dr. Langdon," you replied, your tone perfectly balanced between warm collegiality and a gentle, unmistakable boundary. "But I think I'll stick to learning the hospital grid before I venture out into the wild."

Langdon gave a good-natured shrug, his eyes lingering on your smile for just a beat too long before he walked away. He wasn't the first.

Over the past week, a steady stream of eligible bachelors from cardiology, neurology, and general surgery had suddenly found reasons to consult or simply wander down to the ED, all of them eager to introduce themselves to the gorgeous new attending everyone was talking about. You had politely, flawlessly deflected every single dinner invitation. Your heart was under construction, and frankly, you didn't have the bandwidth for more corporate slickness.

"Don't let them hound you," a gravelly voice said from behind the terminal. Dr. Abbot, the night shift attending who was currently finishing up his hand-off notes, looked up with a tired but deeply kind smile. "They're like seagulls when a new ship docks. You've been a breath of fresh air around here, truly. The night shift reports have been immaculate since you took over the swing."

"Thanks, Abbot. Get some sleep. You look like you're walking in a dream."

"More like a nightmare, but I'm heading out now. Good luck today," Abbot said, gathering his things with a grateful nod.

You walked over to the main nurse's station, where Dana Evans, the legendary charge nurse of the PTMC trauma bays, was currently terrorizing a supply representative over a late shipment of rapid infusers. Dana was tough, deeply competent, sarcastic to a fault, and fiercely protective of her clinical space.

She slammed the phone down, took one look at you, and her fierce expression softened into a wry smirk. "Look at you, still looking like a shampoo commercial after five consecutive shifts. What's your secret, Doc? Genetic superiority or just high-quality concealer?"

"Good moisturizer and a complete lack of a personal life, Dana," you joked, leaning against the counter.

"Well, keep that shield up. The vultures are circling," Dana said, gesturing subtly toward a group of internal medicine residents pretending to study a chart nearby. "They aren't used to an attending who can run a level-one trauma without breaking a sweat or looking like they slept in a ditch. Speaking of which, you've got Trinity Santos on your team today. Keep her on a leash."

Right on cue, R2 Trinity Santos marched up to the desk, her jaw set, her eyes burning with the fierce, highly competitive ambition she was already famous for. She was sharp-tongued and possessed a brash confidence that bordered on terrifying for the medical students.

"Hey, Doc," Trinity said, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. "Bay 3 is prepped for the chest tube evaluation. I've already reviewed the films from last night. I can perform the exchange myself, no supervision required."

Before you could answer, R3 Melissa King drifted over. Melissa was empathetic and highly intelligent, possessing an incredible emotional perceptiveness, but she was also humanly, beautifully awkward. She was clutching a cup of tea like a security blanket. "Um, actually, Dr. Santos, the patient in Bay 3 specifically asked for a female doctor who 'doesn't shout at them,' so maybe... maybe we let the attending take the lead? Not that you shout! You just... speak with high velocity."

Trinity rolled her eyes. "It's efficiency, King. If the patient wants a lifestyle chat, they can call a therapist. We need the bed."

"Let's compromise," you said, your calm, cool voice instantly cutting through the resident bickering. "Trinity, you'll perform the procedure, but I will be in the room, and you will speak to the patient at a volume that doesn't suggest an air raid. Melissa, I want you on the ultrasound for the subsequent cardiac window checks. Deal?"

Both residents nodded—Trinity with a tight, respectful click of her jaw, and Melissa with a sigh of relief.

Just then, Dennis Whitaker, an R1 who perpetually looked like he was being hunted by an apex predator, stumbled toward the desk, nearly dropping a handful of specimen tubes. "Uh, Doc? MS4 Victoria Javadi is in the hallway... she's trying to explain the entire coagulation cascade to a patient with a minor laceration, and the patient is crying because they think they have leukemia now."

You let out a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Victoria Javadi was a brilliant medical student, but her social skills were still in the embryonic stage. "Dennis, breathe. Go tell Victoria that the cascade is beautiful, but the patient just needs three standard sutures and a lollipop. Then take over the closure for her."

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!" Dennis scrambled away like a startled rabbit.

Dana Evans shook her head, an amused grin on her face. "You're a saint, Doc. Seriously. If this were the upper floors, they'd have eaten those kids alive by now. Especially if they wandered into the penthouse."

"The penthouse?" you asked, charting a quick note on the computer.

"Ortho," Trinity Santos answered, her voice dropping into a tone that was unusually reverent for her. "Specifically, the Chief of Ortho. Dr. Park. They call him 'The Shark.' He’s a total machine. Aggressive confidence, complete clinical dominance, and if an intern breathes out of rhythm in his OR, he bans them for a month. He’s completely terrifying."

You frowned slightly. Park? The name was common enough, but a strange, distant memory twitched in the back of your mind. No. It couldn't be. The only Park you knew from medical school was someone who couldn't even look a Starbucks barista in the eye without stuttering, let alone terrify an entire Level 1 trauma center.

"He doesn't have emotions," Melissa King added with a slight shudder. "I saw him look at a shattered femur last week like it was a fun puzzle, and when the resident missed a bone fragment on the pre-op, he just stared at them until they started sweating through their scrubs. Literally. He’s like an apex predator."

You smiled slightly, shaking your head at the hospital lore. Every major trauma center had one—the legendary, unyielding surgeon who ruled their department with an iron fist.

"Well, let's hope the Shark stays in his deep water today. We have enough to deal with down here."

The peace didn't last. Forty minutes later, the red courtesy phone at the trauma desk began its shrill, rhythmic wail. Dana picked it up on the first ring, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her expression instantly shifted into high-alert mode.

"Copy that. ETA three minutes. Give us both bays," Dana barked, slamming the receiver down. She looked directly at you. "Multi-vehicle collision on I-376. Inbound are two criticals. First up is a twenty-four-year-old male, unrestrained driver, ejected from the vehicle. Unstable vitals, massive pelvic disruption, obvious open deformities to the lower extremities. Second is a passenger, entrapped for thirty minutes, severe crush injuries."

"Alright, let's move!" you commanded, your voice carrying that effortless, magnetic authority that instantly pulled the chaotic ED into a tight, synchronized orbit. "Trinity, you're with me in Bay 1. Dennis, get the rapid infuser spiked. Melissa, I want you on airway with Dr. Garcia from Trauma Surgery. Victoria!" you called out to the medical student who had just appeared. "Stand back, observe, and do not recite textbooks unless I ask you to. Let's go!"

The doors to the ambulance bay flew open with a violent crash, the sound of rain and roaring sirens flooding the room. The paramedics rolled in, their faces grim, their forearms strained as they kept manual pressure on a mountain of bloody gauze.

"Patient is responsive only to deep pain!" the medic yelled over the din. "Systolic's been hovering in the low seventies. We got two lines of wide-open normal saline going. He’s got an obvious unstable pelvic binder on, but his left leg is practically pointing backward!"

"On my count, over to the trauma gurney," you ordered, stepping into the slot at the head of the bed. "One, two, three, shift!"

The patient was transferred in a flurry of movement. The smell of copper, road rash, and damp earth filled Bay 1.

"Trinity, check breath sounds. Dennis, get those lines hooked up to the blood products now!" your voice was a cool, steady anchor amidst the storm. You ran your hands expertly over the patient's abdomen and pelvis, feeling the terrifying, unhinged crepitus of a shattered pelvic ring. "He's bleeding out into his retroperitoneum. We need an immediate pelvic binder tight, and call the blood bank for a massive transfusion protocol."

Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the attending trauma surgeon, strode into the bay, her eyes taking in the scene in half a second. "He's got a rigid abdomen, Doc. We might need to ex-lap him right here if we can't stabilize this pressure."

"It's the pelvis, Yolanda," you argued, your hands steady as you secured the mechanical binder, pulling it taut until the lock clicked. "Look at the left lower extremity. The femoral artery is compromised from a massive orthopedic distortion. We need an immediate ortho consult for external fixation and vascular exploration. Dana! Who's the on-call ortho attending?"

"It's the Shark's service today," Dana said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Paging him now."

"Tell him to get his ass down here in thirty seconds or he's going to be operating on a corpse!" Trinity Santos yelled, her competitive adrenaline spiking as she tried to maintain an airway window.

"Watch the tone, Santos," you said mildly, not looking up as you began an ultrasound of the patient's heart. "But she's right, Dana. Make it a stat page."

The minutes stretched like taffy. The patient's blood pressure ticked up slightly with the first two units of O-negative, but the left leg was cold, pulseless, and pale—a ticking clock of ischemia.

"Where the hell is Ortho?" Garcia muttered, her hands hovering over her surgical tray.

Suddenly, the automatic doors of the trauma bay didn't just open; they seemed to part out of sheer deference. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark green scrubs and a black surgical cap strode into the room. His presence was immediate, an oppressive wave of absolute focus and aggressive confidence that caused Dennis to instinctively step backward into a corner.

He didn't look at anyone's face. He walked straight to the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the mangled left leg of the patient.

"What do we have?" his voice was deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. It was a voice designed to cut through noise and command absolute obedience.

"Multi-vehicle MVC, severe pelvic ring disruption, open left femur fracture with absent distal pulses," Trinity Santos rattled off, her voice actually trembling slightly as she stood before the legendary surgeon. "We’ve placed a binder, but the limb is ischemic."

The tall surgeon reached down, his large, powerful hands moving with an terrifyingly precise efficiency as he evaluated the injury. "The binder is decent, but the traction is wrong. Who placed this?"

"I did," you said, stepping around the side of the bed to face him directly.

Dr. Brendon Park looked up from the injury, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours for the very first time.

The entire trauma bay seemed to lose its oxygen.

The man standing before you was a towering specimen of clinical perfection. His shoulders were broad enough to fill the doorway, his jawline sharp, his posture commanding and unyielding. He was the epitome of a brilliant, intimidating Chief of Orthopedic Surgery.

But as you stared into those familiar, dark eyes, the hospital room completely vanished.

You weren't looking at "The Shark."

You were looking at Brendon. Your Brendon.

The lanky, socially awkward, intensely brilliant boy from medical school who used to trip over his own shoelaces and hide in the back row of anatomy lectures. The boy whose shoulders used to slouch because he hadn't yet figured out how to carry the weight of his own genius. The boy whose lips had tasted like cheap beer and desperate, beautiful promises under a starry Ohio sky seven years ago.

Brendon froze. The absolute, unshakeable confidence that defined his entire reputation cracked in a fraction of a second. His wide, expressive eyes dilated, his lips parting slightly as a sudden, breathless shock washed over his features.

He whispered your name, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of its gravelly, intimidating edge. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, his hands hovering mid-air above the patient's leg.

"Brendon," you breathed, your cool, professional composure momentarily slipping as a wave of intense, buried yearning slammed into your chest.

For three long seconds, the busiest trauma bay in Pittsburgh was completely silent. The nurses, the residents, and the trauma surgeon stared at the two of you in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment. The terrifying "Shark" was looking at the new ED attending like a man who had just found water in the middle of a desert, and you were looking at him with a vulnerability that none of them had ever witnessed from the unflappable new doctor.

"Uh..." Dennis Whitaker squeaked from the corner, breaking the spell.

Brendon blinked, his wall of clinical steel instantly slamming back into place, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately anchored to yours. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.

"Right," he said, his voice deep again, but there was a subtle tremor in it that only someone who knew him inside out could detect. "The leg needs immediate reduction and an ex-fix in the OR. If we don't restore perfusion in ten minutes, he loses the limb. Is she stable for transport, Doctor?"

He called you Doctor. The professionalism was a shield, but his eyes were pleading with you.

"Vitals are holding after the second unit," you replied, your voice snapping back into its signature, charismatic rhythm, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "He's all yours, Dr. Park. Take him."

"Santos, Whitaker, with me," Brendon commanded, turning on his heel. "We're going straight to OR 4. Move!"

The residents scrambled to unlock the gurney, flying out of the room behind him.

As Brendon reached the threshold of the door, he stopped for a second, turning his head just enough to catch your eye one last time before disappearing into the corridor.

Dana Evans stepped up beside you, her eyes wide as she looked from the doorway back to you. "What the hell was that?"

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for seven years, leaning against the central desk. "That... was an old friend."

By the time your shift wound down to its final hour, the storm outside had broken, a steady, rhythmic rain drumming against the frosted glass of the emergency department.

The adrenaline of the trauma had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching hollow in your chest that you hadn't felt since you left medical school.

You sat in the quiet doctors' lounge, a lukewarm cup of terrible coffee cradled between your hands, your mind entirely hijacked by the past.

You had met him during your second year of medical school at Ohio State.

You had been one of the "cool girls" in your class—undeniably brilliant, managing to effortlessly ace your pathology exams while still maintaining a vibrant social life, going out to bars, and living your early twenties to the absolute fullest. You had a status to uphold. You were charming, pretty, and effortlessly popular.

Then came the infamous mid-semester house party.

You had gone because you desperately needed to unwind, to forget the crushing weight of textbooks and clinical rotations for just a few hours. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and loud music.

And that’s where you first saw him.

Brendon had been dragged there by his roommate, he was sitting in the corner of a crowded kitchen, looking completely miserable, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that practically swallowed his lanky, six-foot-two frame. He was fumbling with a red solo cup, staring intensely at the floor, praying to whatever deity was listening that no one would try to talk to him. He was painfully shy, socially awkward, and completely out of his depth.

You had found him absolutely adorable.

Later in the night, a rowdy group of drunken surgery track students forced everyone into a circle for a classic, juvenile game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven." The beer bottle spun on the carpet, slowly losing speed, until the neck pointed straight at you.

The crowd cheered. You smiled, tossing your hair back, ready for whoever it was.

Then, they spun the bottle for the guy.

It landed on Brendon.

The room erupted into groans and laughter. Brendon looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He clumsily stood up, his long limbs awkwardly adjusting as he was pushed into the small, dark coat closet under the stairs with you.

“Good luck, babe, he might faint if you touch him!” your friend had yelled.

The door clicked shut, plunging both of you into darkness, save for the faint sliver of light beneath the door.

"Um... hi," Brendon had squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed his back firmly against the wall of the closet, as far away from you as physically possible.

"Hi," you had laughed softly, stepping closer to him. The scent of his clean laundry and nervous sweat filled the small space. "You know," you said, your tone light, cool, and teasing, "you don't look like you're in heaven, Brendon. You look like you're on death row."

"I... I don't really do parties," he stammered, staring at the ceiling. "And I... I really don't think we should do this."

You blinked, surprised. "Do what? Kiss?"

"Yeah," Brendon muttered, his face burning hot even in the dark. "I mean, you're... you're you. You're popular, and you're really pretty, and everyone knows you. And I’m... I’ve only ever kissed my high school girlfriend, okay? Once. And it was bad. I'll just embarrass myself. So... we don't have to. Let’s just stay on opposite sides of the closet.”

You had been surprised. Most guys in med school were arrogant, overflowing with unearned ego. You had found his honesty incredibly endearing. You actually wanted to kiss him. You had wanted to see what those nervous lips felt like.

But you respected his boundaries, and more importantly, you had a reputation to uphold. If you walked out of that closet and told everyone that the awkward, lanky guy had rejected kissing the coolest girl in the class, your ego would never recover.

"Alright," you had said, a mischievous spark igniting in your chest. "We won't kiss. But we have to make them think we did. Otherwise, they'll never let us live it down."

Brendon looked relieved. "How do we do that?"

"Mess up your hair," you commanded smoothly. You reached up, your fingers running through his thick, messy dark hair, intentionally rumpling it. Brendon went entirely rigid, his breath hitching as your fingers brushed his scalp. You grabbed the lapels of his oversized hoodie, shaking them, making a rustling noise, while you loudly sighed and threw your back against the closet wall, making a soft thud. You even let out a breathless, fake moan that made Brendon exhale a strangled, terrified gasp.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, his face burning in the dark.

“Shh, they’re listening,” you giggled.

"Perfect," you smirked. "But listen, Park. I'm saving your reputation out there, and I'm protecting my own. So, you owe me. Big time."

Brendon blinked in confusion. "A debt?"

"A debt of absolute servitude," you had declared dramatically. "From now on, you buy my late night coffee. You are going to be my personal driver when it rains. And you are going to be my mandatory study buddy, because I know you're secretly a genius who makes perfect flashcards. Deal?”

Brendon had stared at you through the dark, a slow, incredibly endearing smile finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Deal."

That silly party game had been the catalyst for the most beautiful, chaotic friendship of your life.

Brendon had kept his word with terrifying precision. He became your shadow, your defender, and your personal assistant. The hospital staff at your school clinic used to laugh watching the two of you. You would sit at the library tables, completely exhausted, and bark orders at him like a spoiled queen, and he would just grin and fulfill them.

“Park! I need a venti iced caramel macchiato with exactly two pumps of vanilla, and if it’s warm, I’m giving you the most complicated cases on our next quiz,” you’d yell across the student lounge. And twenty minutes later, he’d return, breathless, holding the perfect cup.

“Park, my car is making a noise like a dying cat. I need a ride to my 4:00 AM shift,” you’d text him at midnight. And at 3:45 AM, his beat-up Honda Civic would be idling outside your apartment, the heater already blasting because he knew you hated the cold.

The peak of your comedic tyranny had occurred during your internal medicine rotation. You had unexpectedly started your period during a twelve-hour shift, and the hospital supply closet was completely bare of anything useful. You had called him in a panic.

“Brendon. I need you to go to the pharmacy right now. Get me a box of Tampax Pearl. Regular absorbency. Do not get the generic brand, or I will end our friendship.”

An hour later, Brendon had sneaked into the back of the ward, his face bright red, holding a brown paper bag like it contained active explosives. He had handed it to you, coughing nervously. “I... I didn't know what absorbency meant, so I bought one of every box they had. The cashier looked at me like I was a pervert.” You had laughed so hard you almost cried, pulling him into a fierce hug right there in the hallway.

But slowly, beautifully, the surface-level banter had faded into something deeper. You began to see the brilliant mind beneath his awkward exterior. He was the only one who understood the crushing, suffocating anxiety of trying to be perfect in a field that demanded infallibility. You would sit on the floor of his messy apartment, surrounded by open textbooks, talking until the sun came up—not about medicine, but about your fears, your childhoods, the things that kept you awake at night.

He became your anchor.

Slowly, under your warmth and confidence, Brendon began to bloom. His lanky frame filled out as he started lifting weights to handle the physical demands of orthopedic surgery interest. He grew taller, his shoulders broader, his confidence slowly blooming under your constant, fierce encouragement. You had built him up. You had told him every single day that he was going to be the greatest surgeon this country had ever seen.

And then, during the final week before graduation, the tension had finally snapped.

You had been sitting on the hood of his car, looking out over the city lights. He had turned to you, his new, broad frame towering over you, his eyes burning with a confidence he had stolen directly from your belief in him. He had reached out, his large hands cupping your face, and he had kissed you.

It wasn't the awkward kiss of a boy. It was a kiss full of 2 years of unsaid words, full of desperation, yearning, and promises that tore at your soul. You had clung to him, your cheeks wet with tears, knowing that you had fell completely, deeply in love with him, and he was completely, utterly devoted to you.

But medical school is a meat grinder. By your final year, the pressure reached a boiling point. You were placed in different clinical rotations at entirely different hospitals across the city. You were working eighty-hour weeks, collapsing into sleep the moment you got home. The coffee dates stopped. The late-night study sessions vanished.

The final, crushing blow came on Match Day. You opened your envelope to find you had matched into an ultra-competitive emergency medicine residency in New York. Brendon opened his to find he had matched into an elite orthopedic surgery residency in California.

The distance, the exhaustion, the terrifying reality of residency loomed over you both. And on that rainy day at the airport, unable to face the agony of a long-distance relationship while drowning in intern year, you had mutually, heartbreakingly let each other go.

You remembered the tear-stained cheeks. The hugs that felt like they were trying to fuse your ribs together. And the kisses—god, the kisses—that were full of promises you both desperately wanted to keep, but ultimately couldn't. “We’ll find each other,” he had whispered into your hair. “I’ll come find you, baby.”

And then, life happened. Years passed. You met your douchebag ex-fiancé.

And Brendon became the "Shark."

The doors to the doctors' lounge flew open, shattering your reverie.

Dennis sinks against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Oh my god. I thought he was going to murder me for leaving the drill bits.”

"He's a psycho," Trinity Santos huffs, straightening her lab coat defensively. "He thinks he owns this entire hospital just because he’s a prodigy. Did you see the way he looked at everyone? He’s completely heartless."

You stand there, quietly hooking your stethoscope around your neck, a brilliant, knowing smirk playing on your lips.

Heartless? If only they knew.

Over the next few weeks, a massive, utterly baffling phenomenon takes over the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The entire hospital fears Dr. Brendon Park. The nurses warn new interns not to look him directly in the eye. The residents tremble when his pager number flashes on their screens. He is an unstoppable, ruthless force of surgical perfection.

Except when it comes to you.

It starts on a chaotic Tuesday morning. The ED is overflowing, and Brendon has been down in the bays for three hours helping reduce a complex posterior hip dislocation. He is standing at the central nursing station, looking absolutely exhausted but radiating pure, unadulterated venom as he berates Zach Torres, the senior Cardiology resident.

"If your department can't clear this patient for the OR within the next ten minutes, Torres, I will personally wheel him up myself and write the clearance under your name," Brendon growls, his broad chest looming over the senior resident. "Don't waste my time with unnecessary echoes."

Zach, usually highly excellent and charismatic, is sweating through his white coat. "Dr. Park, we just need to ensure—"

Suddenly, you stroll up to the desk, looking radiant and completely relaxed. Without saying a word, you reach out, snatch the tall, steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee right out of Brendon’s hand, and take a long, satisfied sip.

The entire nursing station goes dead silent. Dana Evans stops typing, her jaw literally dropping. Victoria Javadi, who was standing nearby carrying charts, gasps softly, grabbing Dennis Whitaker’s arm in sheer terror. They are all waiting for the "Shark" to turn around and rip your head off.

Instead, Brendon stops mid-sentence. He slowly turns his head to look down at you.

The terrifying, icy glare completely evaporates, replaced by an expression of pure, exasperated fondness that none of the staff has ever witnessed.

"You're drinking my coffee," Brendon says, his voice dropping from a roar to a quiet, familiar rumble. "Again."

"You order too much espresso, Park. It’s making you cranky," you say smoothly, handing him back the half-empty cup. You reach out, your hand casually pressing against his broad chest, physically pushing the feared Chief of Orthopedic Surgery back half a step. "And stop bullying the cardiologists. Zach is doing his job. You’re being an ass."

Zach Torres stares at you like you are a goddess descended from the heavens.

Brendon sighs, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like a ruthless surgeon and more like a tired boy. "He's taking too long."

"Go sit down in your office and rest for twenty minutes before your next case," you order him playfully, tapping your clipboard against his arm. "Doctor’s orders. Move it, or I'll make you buy me tampons again."

Brendon’s ears turn a violent shade of pink. He clears his throat, glances at the stunned residents, and mutters, "Fine. Ten minutes."

He turns and walks away toward the elevator, completely submissive to your command.

Langdon blinks, utterly bewildered. "What... what just happened? Did you just hypnotize the Shark?"

You laugh, taking another sip of your own water. "No, Frank. He just needs a Snickers bar and a nap."

Dana Evans leans over the counter, staring at you with intense, analytical eyes. "Doc... what kind of voodoo magic do you possess? Nobody talks to Park like that. Nobody. Last month a general surgery attending tried to tell him he was being an ass, and Park almost threw him into a linen cart."

"We just have a history, Dana," you say with a wink, walking away to check on a patient.

But it doesn't stop there. The teasing and the dynamic between you two becomes the primary source of entertainment and gossip for the entire medical center.

A week later, you are up in the main OR tracking a trauma patient. Brendon is in OR 3, finishing up a grueling, six-hour spinal reconstruction. He is furious because the equipment tech brought the wrong size pedicle screws, and his booming voice can be heard echoing through the sterile hallway, terrifying the scrub nurses.

You walk straight into the scrub room, pop the door open with your elbow, and look inside. "Park! Shut up!"

The entire OR freezes.

"You're vibrating at a frequency that's giving me a headache from across the hall," you call out, completely unfazed by the sterile environment. "Use the alternative screws and stop throwing a tantrum. You're a big boy."

Brendon looks up through his surgical loupes. The entire room holds its breath, expecting him to banish you from the surgical floor. Instead, he just lets out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "The alternative screws have a wider thread pitch, Doc."

"Then adjust your torque and stop crying about it," you reply cheerfully. "I’ll see you at hand-offs."

"Unbelievable," Brendon mutters under his breath, but the anger completely leaves his voice. He looks at his scrub nurse, his tone entirely calm now. "Let's get the alternative tray, please."

The staff is utterly flabbergasted.

Later that evening, the Pittlings are sitting in the cafeteria, desperately trying to deconstruct the mystery.

"I'm telling you, she must have dirt on him," Trinity insists, stabbing a fork into her salad with fierce competitiveness. "She probably knows about a malpractice suit, or she caught him doing something illegal. There is no logical reason why a brutal chief of surgery lets a newly transferred ED attending push him around like a puppy."

"No, it's not dirt," King says softly, her highly perceptive nature taking over. She smiles, staring into her soup. "Did you see his face when she took his coffee? He didn't look mad at all. He looked... happy. Like he was finally breathing. I think they knew each other before. Like, way before."

"Before?" Victoria asks. "Like... before residency? Back when he was a nobody? But Dr. Park was never a nobody, he's a prodigy!"

"Everyone was unknown once, Victoria," Melissa points out wisely.

The bubble popped on a chaotic Friday night.

The weather had turned violent, a severe thunderstorm rolling over Pittsburgh, causing a massive pile-up on the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The ED was under siege. Every single trauma bay was full, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of antiseptic.

You were in Bay 2, dealing with a twenty-two-year-old female patient who had been crushed in the driver’s seat of her compact car. Her status was critical, deteriorating by the second.

“Vitals are dropping!” Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. “BP is 60 over 30! Heart rate is spiking to 160! She’s slipping into profound hemorrhagic shock!”

You were standing at the patient’s side, your mind racing through the differentials. She had massive internal bleeding, but her abdomen was firm, and her pelvic X-ray showed a severe, unstable "open-book" pelvic fracture. The blood was pooling in her retroperitoneal space.

“We need to bind this pelvis, now!” you shouted over the noise. “Dennis, get the binder!”

“We’re out of binders!” Dennis yelled back, his voice cracking as he rummaged through the supply cart. “The previous traumas took the last ones from central supply, they’re fabricating more now!”

“Fuck!” you cursed. The patient’s monitor began to beep erratically.

“She’s going into PEA!” Trinity Santos called out, her hand flying to the patient’s carotid artery. “No pulse! Starting compressions!”

You looked at the monitor, then at the patient’s pale face. You were out of options. The blood transfusion wasn't keeping up. The pelvis was wide open, acting like a massive, bleeding cavern that was draining her life force. If you didn't close that pelvic ring immediately, she would die on this table within two minutes. You couldn't wait for surgery. You couldn't wait for a binder.

A reckless, insane, completely unorthodox idea flared in your mind. It was a technique you had read about once in a military medicine journal—a desperate, high-risk field maneuver used in combat zones when standard equipment was unavailable. It was highly reckless, completely unauthorized by hospital protocol, and could permanently damage the patient’s internal organs or nerves if done wrong.

But it was the only chance she had.

“Trinity, stop compressions,” you commanded, your voice turning to absolute ice.

“What? Doc, we need to keep perfusion—”

“STOP. COMPRESSIONS!” you roared, a rare flash of raw, commanding power echoing through the bay. Trinity instantly froze, pulling her hands away.

You stepped onto the step-stool at the side of the bed. You looked down at the patient’s fractured, unstable hips. Without a binder, you had to use manual, extreme counter-traction and internal fixation using whatever you had.

You grabbed a heavy, thick cotton hospital sheet from the bottom shelf. You quickly threaded it under the patient’s lower back, aligning it with the greater trochanters.

“Dennis, grab that end of the sheet,” you ordered. “When I say go, I want you to pull with everything you have. We are going to manually crush this pelvic ring back together using the sheet, and then I am going to lock it down using a surgical clamp from the chest tray.”

“Doctor, that’s... that’s completely non-standard!” Mel stammered, her eyes wide with terror. “The sheer force could transect the femoral nerve if the bone fragments shift wrong! It’s too dangerous!”

“She’s already dead!” you snapped. “Pull, Dennis! Go!”

You and Dennis pulled the sheet with brutal, immense physical force, twisting the heavy fabric against each other, forcing the patient’s shattered pelvic bones to slam back together by sheer tension. You felt the sickening crunch of bone shifting beneath the flesh.

The patient’s body jolted. Holding the immense tension of the sheet with one white-knuckled hand, you reached for a massive, heavy-duty Kocher forceps from the emergency thoracotomy tray and clamped the twisted sheet tightly against the patient’s skin, locking the makeshift binder under extreme, crushing pressure.

“Resume compressions!” you shouted.

Trinity jumped back on the chest. Within three cycles, the monitor beeped.

A rhythm emerged. Weak, thready, but stable.

“Pulses are back,” Victoria breathed, looking at you like you were either a god or a lunatic. “BP is... 90 over 50. It’s holding.”

You stepped down from the stool, your hands shaking from the sheer physical exertion, your scrubs soaked in sweat. You had done it. The reckless, insane technique had closed the space and stopped the catastrophic bleeding. You had saved her life.

The automatic doors slammed open.

Brendon strode into the bay, flanked by two orthopedic residents. He had received the page for an unstable pelvic fracture and had rushed down from the OR. He took one look at the patient, then his eyes dropped to the makeshift sheet-and-clamp setup crushed around her hips.

He froze. His face went entirely pale, then flushed into a deep, terrifying crimson. The "Shark" didn't just return; he exploded.

“What the hell is this?” Brendon’s voice thundered, vibrating the glass walls of the trauma bay. The residents shrank back.

“It’s a makeshift binder, Dr. Park,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the adrenaline was still pumping through your system. “We were out of standard binders, she lost pulses from hemorrhagic shock, and I had to close the ring.”

“With a sheet and a chest clamp?” Brendon marched up to the bed, his eyes flashing with a raw, furious brilliance. He looked at you, his voice dripping with venomous, professional outrage. “Are you completely out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you just did? You could have severed her internal iliac artery! You could have shredded her sacral plexus! You took a blind, reckless gamble with a patient’s life!”

The room went dead silent. The residents didn't dare breathe. It was the first time the hospital had ever seen the Shark turn his teeth on you.

“She was in PEA, Brendon!” you shot back, using his name, your own temper flaring. “She was dead! I didn't have time to wait for your department to fabricate a piece of plastic! It worked. Her vitals are holding.”

“It was luck!” Brendon snarled, stepping into your personal space, his imposing height towering over you, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “It was a reckless, arrogant, cowboys-and-indians piece of medicine that violates every standard of care in this institute. You didn't save her; you got lucky that you didn't paralyze her. Get out of my way. Move.”

He shoved past you, his movements aggressive and sharp as he immediately began to assess the damage, barking orders to his residents to get her to the OR for a proper external fixator.

You stood there, your heart pounding against your ribs. The insult stung—not just because he criticized your medicine, but because he had done it in front of the entire department, stripping away the mutual respect you had built over the last few weeks. He looked at you like you were a liability. An incompetent child.

“Fine,” you said, your voice dropping into a cold, lethal whisper that cut through his shouting. “She’s your patient now, Chief.”

You turned on your heel and walked out of the trauma bay, your face a mask of absolute, icy calm, leaving a stunned, silent room behind you.

The fallout was immediate and devastating.

The playful, legendary dynamic between the ED’s star attending and the Chief of Ortho vanished overnight. In its place was a terrifying, suffocating ice age that gripped the entire hospital.

For three weeks, there were no more stolen coffees. There were no more playful shoves at the scrub sink. There were no more private smiles or late-night laughs.

When Brendon came down to the ED for a consult, the atmosphere turned to absolute glass. You handled hand-offs with an icy, flawless professionalism that was completely devoid of emotion.

“Patient in Bed 4 has a displaced bimalleolar fracture,” you would say, your voice flat, your eyes fixed strictly on the computer monitor, never looking at his face. “Films are on the system. Ortho is consulted.”

“Understood,” Brendon would reply, his voice deep, hollow, and equally cold. He would take the chart, his eyes lingering on you for a desperate, painful second, hoping for a spark, a glance, anything. But you gave him nothing. You were a wall of ice.

The hospital staff was miserable.

“I hate this,” Dennis Whitaker whimpered in the breakroom, putting his head in his hands. “When they were flirting, the hospital was safe. Now? Dr. Park looked at my cast yesterday and told me a toddler with a crayon could have done a better job. He’s meaner than he’s ever been.”

“She isn't doing well either,” Dana Evans sighed, leaning against the counter. “She’s quiet. She’s brilliant as always, but that light she brought with her? It’s dimmed. They’re both miserable, stubborn idiots.”

You were miserable. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fury in his eyes in that trauma bay. The words “reckless, arrogant gamble” burned in your chest. You had thought he, of all people, would understand. He knew how you operated; he knew you would never do something unless it was the absolute last resort. But he had judged you. He had put his professional arrogance above the reality of the situation.

And worse, it felt like your ex-fiancé all over again—someone telling you that your passion, your instinct, your identity as a doctor was flawed, dangerous, or empty.

You threw yourself into your work, pulling extra shifts, running yourself ragged just to keep your mind from thinking about the giant, dark-eyed surgeon who occupied the upper floors.

It was a rainy Thursday night, nearly four weeks after the argument. The storm outside was a mirror of the mood inside the hospital.

You just visited a pediatric patient on one of the top floors of the hospital. You had promised the kid that you’d visit her after her CRPP. Your shift had just ended, and you were thoroughly exhausted. Your feet ached, your eyes burned, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed in Shadyside and sleep for a week.

You walked toward the main elevator bank in the central pavilion, waiting for the car to arrive. The bell chimed. The doors slid open.

You stepped inside. You reached out to press the button for the ground floor, but stopped.

Sitting in the corner of the elevator, leaning heavily against the handrail with his eyes closed, was Brendon. He looked absolutely destroyed. His scrubs were wrinkled, dark bags hung under his eyes, and his broad shoulders were slumped in a state of profound, total physical exhaustion.

You froze. Your first instinct was to step back out, to wait for the next car. But before you could move, the automatic doors slid shut behind you.

The elevator began its smooth, silent descent from the twelfth floor.

You stood near the control panel, your back rigid, your eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as it changed. 11... 10... 9...

The silence inside the small metal box was heavy, suffocating, and charged with four weeks of unspoken agony. You could hear his breathing—slow, deep, and tired.

8...

Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent, sharp lurch.

A loud, mechanical screech echoed from the shaft above. The lights flickered violently once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the car into absolute darkness. A second later, the emergency red backup lights kicked in, casting a dim, crimson glow over the small space.

The elevator ground to a dead halt.

You blinked, gripping your bag tighter. You reached out and pressed the emergency call button. Nothing happened. The system was completely dead.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just perfect.”

From the back of the car, you heard a long, heavy sigh. Brendon shifted his weight, his large frame moving through the red light. He looked up at the digital indicator.

The indicator was stuck on a single digit.

7.

The irony hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Floor 7.

Seven years ago, you were trapped in a dark closet for seven minutes. And now, seven years later, you were trapped in a dark elevator on the seventh floor with the exact same man.

Neither of you spoke for a long minute. The red light painted the space in a surreal, intimate warmth, cutting off the rest of the hospital, the rest of the world. There were no residents here. No nurses. No watchful eyes. Just the two of you.

“Are you okay?” Brendon’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of the Shark. It wasn't the voice of the angry Chief of Ortho. It was soft, hesitant, and carrying a deep, raw ache that made your chest tighten.

“I’m fine,” you said coldly, keeping your eyes fixed on the closed doors. “Just tired. I’d like to go home.”

“Baby... please.”

The use of the old nickname sent a violent tremor through your defenses. You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to turn around.

“Don’t call me that, Dr. Park,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. “I think you made your thoughts on my identity quite clear four weeks ago.”

Hear a rustle of movement behind you. Brendon stood up. He walked across the small car, his massive, imposing presence closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smelling the faint, familiar scent of cedar wood and soap that had always been him.

“I was wrong,” he whispered.

You bit your lip, refusing to look at him. “You think?”

“I was wrong about why I was angry,” he corrected himself, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your shoulder, before he gently, tentatively placed it there. The touch was electric, burning through your scrubs. “I wasn't angry because your decision was bad. I knew the technique. I knew it was a battlefield maneuver. I knew she was in PEA.”

You finally turned around, snapping your eyes up to meet his. In the dim red light, his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears, his expression completely broken, stripped of all pride.

“Then why did you humiliate me in front of my team?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger and hurt finally spilling over. “Why did you call me reckless and arrogant? Do you know what that felt like? After everything I went through, after my ex told me I was empty and that my career was a disease—you stood there and told me I was a liability!”

Brendon looked like he’d been stabbed. He took a sharp breath, his hands coming up to gently grip both of your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin.

“Because I was terrified!” he shouted softly, his voice thick with raw passion. “I walked into that bay and saw you covered in blood, pulling a stunt that could have ended your career if it went wrong. If that patient had died, if you had cut that artery, the board would have stripped your license before the sun came up. They would have destroyed you.”

He stepped closer, his chest pressing against yours, forcing you back slightly against the elevator wall. He looked down at you, his eyes wild with a desperate, consuming love.

“I didn't care about the protocol, baby. I cared about you. The thought of you losing your license, the thought of this hospital breaking you, the thought of you being taken away from me again before I even got the chance to tell you... I couldn't handle it. The Shark? That’s an act. It’s an act I put on so I don't break. But when it comes to you, I have no skin. I am completely raw. I saw you risking everything, and I panicked.”

You stared up at him, your breath hitching in your throat. The anger in your chest melted away, replaced by the profound, crushing realization of his true intent. He hadn't been attacking your competence; he had been trying to protect you from the system that had almost broken him.

“Brendon...” you breathed, your voice softening, your eyes searching his face.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Seven years, baby. Seven years of working eighty hours a week, looking at bone scans, moving up the ladder, but every single night, I woke up wishing I was back on that floor in med school sharing Chinese food with you. I wished I could turn back time. To when things were simple. To when I was just the awkward kid who was lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world look at him.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the red light. “I wished for it too,” you confessed quietly. “Every single day.”

“I love you,” he said, the confession raw, heavy, and absolute. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”

The final wall of ice inside you shattered into dust.

You reached up, your hands flying to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his dark hair, and pulled him down.

The kiss wasn't like the ones from seven years ago—it wasn't full of tragic promises and impending goodbye. It was a violent, passionate, territorial reclamation. It was the release of seven years of pining, of loneliness, of misery.

Brendon groaned deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist like bands of steel, lifting you slightly off the floor as he crushed his lips against yours. He kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue parting your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

You gasped into his mouth, your body melting completely into his broad, massive frame. You locked your legs around his waist, your back pressing hard against the cold metal wall of the elevator as he held you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs with a fierce, possessive intensity.

The red light flickered around you, creating a private, chaotic heaven. He moved his mouth down your jawline, his lips burning against the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and let out a soft, breathless moan that echoed off the metal walls—the exact same sound you had faked seven years ago in that closet, but this time, it was entirely, beautifully real.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding under your scrub top, his warm palms mapping the curves of your waist, making your skin tingle with an electric fire.

You pulled his head back up, your eyes meeting his dark, blown-out pupils in the crimson dusk. “Don’t stop,” you whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn't. He kissed you until your lips were bruised, until your lungs burned, until the seven years of separation felt like nothing more than a bad dream.

CLUNK.

The elevator gave a sudden, violent jolt.

The mechanical screech returned, and suddenly, the bright, harsh fluorescent white lights of the car snapped back on. The digital indicator flickered and changed to G. The elevator began to move again smoothly.

You both froze. You quickly slid down his body, your feet hitting the floor, your hands frantically smoothing down your wrinkled scrubs and fixing your hair as Brendon stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild.

A second later, the chime echoed. The doors slid open smoothly to the main lobby.

Standing right outside the doors, waiting to board, were Langdon and Santos.

The two of them looked into the elevator. They took in the scene: you, standing near the back, your lips visibly swollen, your hair slightly disheveled, but your face wearing a cool, utterly unbothered expression. And beside you stood the Chief of Ortho, Dr. Brendon Park, his scrubs wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and a look of profound, dazed distraction on his face.

Trinity’s eyes went wide. Langdon blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you.

“Uh... evening, Doctors,” Frank stammered. “Is... is the elevator working?”

You flicked your hair over your shoulder, stepped past them with an elegant and utterly effortless charisma, and gave them a sweet smile.

“It’s working perfectly,” you said smoothly. “Have a good night, everyone.”

You walked out into the rainy Pittsburgh night, your heart soaring higher than it ever had in your entire life. Behind you, you heard Brendon’s heavy footsteps rushing to catch up.

The rain had stopped by the time the sun began to peek over the Monongahela River, casting a pale pink and gold glow over the brick buildings of Shadyside.

Inside your bedroom, the air was warm, quiet, and peaceful. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner didn't look like an unfinished chore anymore; they looked like a beginning.

In the center of the bed, tangled deep within the white cotton sheets, lay the two of you.

After the elevator doors had opened, there had been no more talking, no more hesitation. You had driven back to your apartment in a blur of rain and neon lights. The moment the front door had clicked shut, the clothes had been shed, the barriers broken down completely.

The sex had been profound—an intense, passionate, and deeply emotional consummation that carried the weight of seven years of waiting. It hadn't just been physical; it was the reclamation of your souls. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered confession against the skin had been a promise rewritten. He had loved you with a fierce, worshipful intensity that made you realize you were anything but empty. You were his entire world.

You slowly opened your eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the broad, muscular expanse of Brendon’s back. He was sleeping on his side, his large frame taking up most of the mattress. One of his massive arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand resting possessively against your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest even in his sleep.

You smiled, turning around slowly within his grip so you could look at him.

Without the mask of the Shark, his face was peaceful, handsome, and remarkably soft. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent now, smoothed out by the deep, restorative sleep he’d been deprived of for weeks.

You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving up to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.

Brendon stirred. His long eyelashes fluttered open, his dark eyes cloudy with sleep. The moment his gaze focused on your face, a slow, incredibly beautiful smile spread across his lips—a smile that was reserved strictly for you.

“Good morning, baby,” he rumbled, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Good morning, Shark,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against his lips.

He groaned happily, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Don’t make me go to work today,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll page out. I’ll tell them I broke my arm.”

You let out a melodic, genuine laugh, running your hands through his hair. “You’re the Chief of Ortho, Brendon. You can't page out for a broken arm. That’s bad for your brand.”

“My brand is entirely yours,” he whispered, kissing the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “Let them handle the bones today. I’m staying right here.”

You smiled, closing your eyes as you held him tight, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

The past was gone. The cruel words of your ex-fiancé were nothing more than ash. You were here, in a new city, running a world-class department, and waking up in the arms of the man who had loved you through a lifetime of separation.

You gave your resident a few final quick instructions and grabbed your white coat from the back of the door. The walk from the clinic to the emergency trauma center was a short journey through two different worlds. The quiet carpeted hallways gave way to the bright linoleum-lined arteries of the main hospital—the air growing sharper with the scent of bleach and urgency. Pushing through the double doors into the trauma unit, the chaotic atmosphere hit you.

Your eyes found Dr. Abbot (who was so fucking hot) and Dr. Robby leaning against a counter, looking equal parts exhausted and exasperated. Dr. Abbot was here too at 4:17 PM? He was a creature of the night shift—his natural habitat, and his presence here during the late afternoon was unusual. But then, Dr. Abbot was the definition of a workaholic; it was entirely possible (no, probable) that he'd come in hours early, unable to stay away from the gravitational pull of the Pitt. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to confirm the theory. However, he was still very hot.

Jack spotted you and straightened, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "We've got a refusal of discharge in bay three."

Robby gave you a tired nod. "It's a wound on the left cheekbone. We closed it with adhesive. Textbook. No underlying damage, vitals are perfect. There is no medical reason for her to still be here."

"She wants a plastics consult." Jack finished.

You offered them both a brief, acknowledging nod and moved past them toward the curtained bay. Pushing the pale blue fabric aside, you entered the smaller space. The patient was sitting upright on the gurney, her posture rigid with a tension that seemed to vibrate in the air. A small square bandage was placed neatly over her left cheekbone. She was young, mid-twenties perhaps, with striking features that were currently pinched with anxiety. There was a flicker of recognition, a nagging sense that you had seen her somewhere before, but you couldn't place it. You picked up the digital chart from the slot at the foot of the bed, scrolling through the notes and the single clinical photograph taken before closure. You introduced yourself and used that calm measured tone you used for all consultations.

"I understand you have some concerns about the closure of your laceration."

"Yes."

 You set the tablet down and approached her. "May I?"

At her stiff nod, you gently peeled back the edge of the adhesive bandage. The wound beneath was exactly as described: a clean, linear incision, but your initial assumption of its depth had been an underestimation. This wasn't superficial. The laceration was a good 10 centimeters in length and, more critically, deep. However, the trauma team had done an admirable job pulling such a deep wound together.

"I know you've had a dramatic day with the accident, and the trauma team has done excellent work here under the circumstances. The priority was stopping the bleeding and closing the wound to prevent infection, which they've achieved perfectly—"

"I'm going to have a scar." She cut you off, slicing through your words.

"Yes. With a laceration of this depth and length, scarring is an inevitable part of the healing process. The glue is providing optimal conditions for the scar to be as narrow and flat as possible, but it cannot prevent the body from forming scar tissue."

She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the sheet on the gurney.

"I can't have a scar," she whispered, her fingers suddenly stopped their restless tracing. "I want a revision."

"A surgical revision now, on a fresh wound, is aggressive and risky. It could make things worse."

"Fuck that," she seethed, her voice low and venomous. "What's the point of you then if you can't fix this? Plastic surgeons are supposed to make things disappear."

The disregard she had for the miracle of her situation (you know…being alive, intact, and with a functioning brain) was starting to irritate you.

"Listen. You were in a car accident. You could have died. You could have shattered that cheekbone, severed a nerve, and lost an eye. You walked away with a laceration. That's incredibly lucky."

She rolled her eyes, a swift, dismissive motion that was pure unadulterated contempt for your perspective.

"I'm about to sign a 5 million-dollar contract with La Mer skincare," she yelled. "A global face campaign, and I can't fucking do that if I have a scar on my face."

The pieces snapped into place with an almost audible click. You had seen her face before—not in person, but on the sides of buses, in sleek magazine spreads for designers, and in those moody cinematic fragrance clips online. She wasn't just a model; she was that model. The one Vogue was calling the next big thing.

"It will heal clean," you said. "You are absolutely stunning. A scar is not going to change that."

"Are you serious? Are you about to tell me beauty is only skin deep next? What's really important is the sort of person I am?" she spat out, her voice low and trembling with rage. "Do you have any idea how this industry works? The contract isn't signed yet. All they need is one rumor, one bad Polaroid from a fitting, and they'll drop me so fast my head will spin. They'll find another face." Her eyes flashed. "And it won't just be them," she said, each word sharp and precise. "It'll be my agent, 'suggesting' I take a break. It'll be the casting directors who suddenly don't have anything 'in my look.' The magazines that 'go another direction.' It'll be fucking domino effect."

You were at a loss for words. Navigating the world as a woman was challenging enough; you couldn't begin to imagine what life as a model must have been like in an even more superficial world.

"You have to get it, though. I mean... look at you. You're hot." Her gaze was a slow, deliberate sweep. It started at your eyes, lingered on the line of your jaw, drifted down to where the collar of your scrubs met your throat, then traced the shape of your shoulders and the faint outline of your torso beneath the loose polyester. "So, tell me honestly," she swallowed hard. "If something happened... if tomorrow there was a line, a burn, something permanent right across your face... how would you feel? Really."

The directness pinned you. You felt a faint, unfamiliar heat on your skin. The truth was…you never paid close attention to your own physical appearance, which was a quiet irony given your career. You spent your days meticulously restoring the aesthetic of others, but you viewed your own face as a tool for expression and communication, nothing more. You barely wore makeup; the last tube of mascara in your bathroom drawer was probably fossilized. Did you sometimes wish you spent more time getting cute in the mornings? Sure. The fleeting fantasy of being admired for your looks sounded nice. But that person, the one who lingered over eyeliner and who saw clothes as fashion instead of fabric? That just was never going to be you.

"I would be happy to be alive," you said honestly.

"Look," she mumbled. "I know you think I'm just a vain bitch in a crisis. That I should be grateful I'm alive. And I am. I am grateful. But you have to understand... this?" She gestured weakly at her face. "This is my job. It pays the bills, and I love it. And I'm good at it. Plus… being able to send that check back to Iowa every month, knowing my mom can finally breathe, knowing my sister can think about art school without a mountain of debt... that doesn't make me resent the work. It makes me want to work harder. It makes every early call time, every brutal fitting, every fucking meaningless talk show interview matter. So this scar?" Her voice cracked. "It will ruin everything."

The irritation you felt a moment ago evaporated. She was right. Who the hell were you to judge her? Your hands, your knowledge, your ability to cut and stitch—that was your instrument. Your identity. It was what made you happy and paid the rent. What if someone told you tomorrow that a tremor had developed, and that you could never operate again?

"When does the filming start? What's the exact schedule they've given you?"

She blinked, the sudden shift in your demeanor cutting through her panic. If there was a decent gap between now and the principal photography, there were aggressive protocols you could consider. Intense pulsed light to reduce early redness immediately after suture removal, if you revised it. Fractional lasers on a hyper-accelerated schedule to remodel collagen before it fully set.

"The official campaign shoot isn't for 8 weeks," she said, a flicker of fragile hope in her voice.

"Listen, I could do a revision. However, I need to be very clear: this is not something I would usually recommend, especially not this soon. It's an additional trauma to the tissue. But if the only acceptable outcome is a near-invisible line for you… this would be the most direct path. However, it would still be a gamble. The choice is yours."

"Do it," she said, her voice devoid of its earlier tremor. "Book the revision. Today, if you can. What do you need from me?"

"Consent forms," you said, turning to the computer on the wall. "We'll revise the existing paperwork to include the excisional revision. I'll need you to list any medications and supplements. Everything. We'll run a fresh panel to ensure there's no hidden clotting or healing issue missed." Your fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the OR schedule. "I have a cancellation later today. We can do it in three hours. That gives us time to get you prepped, hydrated, and for the local anesthetic to be perfectly effective." You looked back at her. "I need to speak with Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot to transfer the case.

Stepping out of the treatment area, you let the two men know what had been discussed with the patient.

"An elective revision on a fresh traumatic laceration?" Robby's voice escalated. "For cosmetic purposes?"

Robby's face was tight with disapproval, while Jack was shifting his weight, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"It's not just cosmetic purposes," you countered. "The primary closure is sound, but the location guarantees a hypertrophic scar. We have the opportunity to optimize the outcome now. On our terms. In a controlled environment, rather than having her seek some revision elsewhere in a few weeks out of desperation."

Robby scoffed. "The standard of care is to allow primary healing. You're proposing to inflict a second surgical injury on a healthy young woman for what? A fucking photo shoot?"

Jack ran a hand over his mouth, sighing. He looked from your determined face to his friend's rigid posture.

"It's her face. And ultimately, it's her choice," you stood your ground. "My role is to present all her options, including the best possible medical one. She has chosen the revision. She's consented to the risks."

"Her choice?" Robby's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.  She's in shock! She's not thinking clearly. Our job is to protect patients from bad choices, not enable them!"

"Robby," Jack stepped slightly between the two of you. "She's not entirely wrong about the location," he said, pointing to you. "The tension on that cheek... it's a prime candidate for poor scarring. But," he turned to you, "Robby has a point about jumping the gun. It is an aggressive approach."

"Aggressive, yes," you had to force your expression to remain impassive. "But I've performed this specific excisional revision on fresh traumatic lacerations dozens of times. The outcomes are consistently superior to secondary revisions."

Your plastics residency had been 7 long years. Longer than any general surgery program in the country. You had helped your mentors reconstruct faces shattered beyond recognition. You may have joined PTMC as an attending only six months ago, but you didn't forget how to do your job.

"Fine. Do it." Robby's face flushed a deep red. "But when she ends up with a nerve palsy because you got fancy, don't come crying to me. You can explain to her why her smile is crooked while you're polishing your 'Patient Advocate of the Year' award."

The air in the corridor instantly froze. Jack's head snapped toward Robby, his hazel eyes widening in genuine shock, then narrowing with a flash of anger.

"You're just a glorified makeup artist for rich people who don't like what they look like," Robby sneered.

"Robby," Jack said, his voice dangerously low. "What the fuck?"

You didn't react to the insult—you simply let the ugly words hang there. He had cheapened the entire purpose of your specialty, but you didn't have time to care. A memory (sharp and visceral) cut through the haze of his ignorance: the hushed agony of the burn unit. You worked with Robby a few months ago performing the meticulous grueling work of a tangential excision on a girl's ravaged neck and jaw, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, fighting to save tissue, to grant her any future possibility of a face. Were you a 'makeup artist' when you were trying to give her back a chin that could move? When you were fighting just so she could one day sip from a fucking straw without pain? The urge to go off on him was a white-hot wire in your chest. But you let it fuse and go dark.

So... instead, you looked past both of them, your gaze fixed on the nursing station.

"I don't need your permission, Dr. Robby. I have the patient's informed consent and a sound clinical rationale." You turned your head, making direct eye contact with Dana, who had been listening subtly.

"Dana? Book OR three. Excisional revision of a complex facial laceration."

As you spoke to Dana, Robby opened his mouth, a fresh protest forming on his lips. "Now, wait just a goddamn minute—"

You didn't even turn your head back toward him. Your hand came up, a sharp, silencing gesture aimed in his general direction, and your focus remaining entirely on Dana at the nurses' station.

"I am the attending of record on this case as of now. I will dictate the transfer note and assume full responsibility." You finally glanced back, not at Robby, but at Jack, with a slight flare of your nostrils, and a tight press of your lips. Then, you turned and walked away, and decided the conversation was definitively over.

The apartment was dark when you keyed in. You dropped your bag by the door with a thud that seemed too loud in the stillness.

The procedure was a success, and you asked the young woman to come back in two weeks for a follow-up. You'd even managed to receive a rare and what felt like a genuine smile from her in post-op. A deep bone-weary exhaustion settled into your joints. You shrugged out of your coat, the scent of the hospital clinging to the wool. You went into the kitchen but didn't turn on the light, and just stood at the sink, staring out at the pinpricks of light in the other high-rises, one hand braced on the cool granite.

Thank God you had the next couple of days off, the thought surfaced, a lone buoy in the mental fog. There would be no rounds, no consults, and no potential run-ins with Michael Robinavich's icy glare. On autopilot, you moved through your apartment. In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was brutally bright. You washed your face with methodical, tired motions, the familiar routine of cleanser, toner, and moisturizer—a mindless ritual. You then brushed your teeth, the mint a sharp, clean contrast to the stale coffee and hospital air you'd been breathing. You didn't bother with pajamas. You simply shucked off your scrubs, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor, and pulled on a soft t-shirt and panties.

You crawled into the cold sheets of your bed, and curled onto your side, pulling the blankets up to your chin, and passed the fuck out.

You woke slowly, consciousness seeping in through a pleasant warm haze. The first thing you registered was the heat. A solid, living warmth pressed against your back. Then, the scent—your own jasmine and sandalwood shampoo, but layered with the distinct, clean-musky smell of him. His nose was tucked into the curve of your neck. His breath was a soft steady rhythm against your skin. One of his arms was draped heavily, possessively, over your waist, his hand splayed open on your stomach.

He must have come in after his night shift. You were so deeply asleep you didn't hear him, a testament to your exhaustion. He'd used your spare key. The one you exchanged recently. He'd showered—you could picture him in your bathroom, using the shower chair you bought him. The one that made this, him staying over, a practical reality.

For a long moment, you didn't move. His fingers flexed slightly against your stomach, a sleepy, unconscious motion. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through his chest pressed to your spine. Finally, you shifted, just a little, turning your head on the pillow. Your temple brushed against his lips. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. He let out a soft, sleep-roughened sigh against your neck.

"Jack," you whispered into the morning quiet, your voice husky with sleep.

"Mmm," he hummed, the vibration tingling against your skin. His lips pressed a feather-light kiss just below your ear.

"Robby was an asshole yesterday," you said softly.

He didn't deny it. He just nuzzled deeper into your neck, his breath huffing out in a sigh that ruffled your hair. "I know," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "I told him."

He finally shifted, rolling you gently onto your back so he could look down at you. His hair was sleep-mussed, his eyes soft and shadowed from his shift, but his gaze was intensely focused.

"You were brilliant, by the way. I checked the post-op notes before I left."

You looked up at him, the morning light painting soft gold across the freckled planes of his face. The earnestness in his eyes disarmed you completely. The professional praise, coming from him, meant more than any other accolade you ever received.

"Brilliant, huh?" you asked, a small, tired smile finally touching your lips. You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Just doing my job."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Jack's face, and his thumb traced the lines of your jaw, his touch reverent. The memory flooded his mind…

Jack sat on the exam table, a wad of gauze held to his cheek. The adrenaline from the scuffle with a drunk patient in the bay had drained away, leaving behind a throbbing, sharp sting and a foul mood. Gloria had practically shoved him in here, declaring that a 'face like that' was a 'plastics problem.'

The door hissed open. You entered, and for a split second, the sterile, angry fog in Jack's mind simply evaporated. He forgot about the throbbing in his cheek, the lingering fury at the situation. He just stared when he saw an absolutely beautiful woman enter the room. He hadn't felt a jolt of pure, visceral attraction like this—a punch to the gut followed by a slow, deep heat—since he was a young man looking at his late wife across a crowded room.

You introduced yourself and the recognition hit him a second later, a delayed click in his adrenaline-fogged brain. You were the new plastics attending that started a few weeks ago. He'd heard the gossip. Some hotshot got recruited from a prestigious program out west. The name had been mentioned in passing, but he'd never bothered to put a face to it. Your gaze went straight to the injury. You didn't offer a sympathetic smile or ask what happened—so clearly Gloria had briefed you.

"Let's take a look at it, Dr. Abbot," you said, your voice calm and devoid of unnecessary inflection.

He removed the gauze with a jerky motion. The cut was clean but deep, running diagonally from just below his right eye toward his ear. It oozed a slow trickle of blood. Your gloved hands were firm as you tilted his head toward the light, your touch impersonal, yet he felt every point of contact like a brand.

You started preparing a syringe, and he was utterly transfixed. He watched, mesmerized, as you worked with a quiet devastating efficiency. The way you prepared the local anesthetic, your fingers sure and steady. The faint, almost imperceptible frown of concentration between your brows as you injected it, your voice a low, calm murmur—"Small pinch"—that was somehow more reassuring than any effusive comfort would have been. He didn't feel the pinch. He was too busy feeling everything else: the heat of your body close to his, the incredible focus you directed at the task, the absolute mastery in your hands. Each pass of the needle and suture was a tiny precise miracle. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. You patched him up like he was something valuable, something worth perfect care. It was the most intimate thing a stranger had ever done to him.

When you finally leaned back, snipping the last thread, you surveyed your work with a critical satisfied eye. You placed a fresh piece of sterile tape over the sutures, your fingers brushing his skin one last time.

"You know the drill. Keep it clean and dry," you instructed, peeling off your gloves. "Come back in 10 days for suture removal."

He slid off the table, his movements slow, and walked to the small mirror mounted on the wall by the sink. He leaned in, tilting his head. The angry, bleeding line was gone. In its place was a neat, almost invisible row of tiny perfect sutures, the edges of the skin aligned flawlessly. The sterile tape was a crisp clean square. He'd had stitches before—clumsy, functional things in an Army field clinic, a few hasty ones in a busy ER. This was different. This was… art. The swelling was minimal, the bruising already starting to look like it would follow a tidy contained pattern. He stared, a slow sense of awe cutting through his earlier agitation.

He turned from the mirror to look at your back as you washed your hands at the sink. "Holy shit," he breathed, the words full of genuine, unvarnished admiration. He gestured toward his reflection. "I've seen senior attendings—department heads, people with thirty years of experience leave messier closures."

You finished drying your hands, turning to face him fully. You seemed to assess his reaction with a flicker of confusion. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of your mouth, and it was there and gone in a heartbeat.

You gave a slight one-shouldered shrug. "Just doing my job."

"Right," he finally managed, the word sounding stupid to his own ears. "Well... I'll see you in 10 days."

The rain tapping on your window jolted him back to the present. He kissed you then, not with passion, but with a profound tenderness—a slow, deep meeting of lips that tasted like sleep and love. He broke it just enough to murmur the words against your mouth, his breath warm on your skin.

"I told Robby about us," he said. "After I punched him in the face."

Your entire body went rigid beneath him. A cold splash of pure adrenaline shot through your veins, and your heart hammered against your ribs like a frantic trapped bird.

"What?!" The word burst from you, sharp and too loud in your room. You pulled back just enough to search his face, your own eyes wide with a panic you couldn't conceal. Even though you and Jack weren't in the same department and he wasn't technically your superior… you were a brand new attending. You were scared it could look bad for you, so you two had been keeping it quiet…even from Robby. And Jack wasn't just any surgeon. He was a legend at PMTC. The trauma god everyone loved—the patients, the nurses, the residents, the admin.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice strained, and your hands coming up to press against his chest. "Why?"

His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones.

"Because he was being disrespectful," Jack said, his voice low but edged with a steel you rarely heard. "Not just to another attending. To my girlfriend."

"Well, I don't want him to think you did this because we're together," you muttered, chewing on your bottom lip.

"He's going to think whatever the hell he wants to think. That's his problem. Look, I'm all for disagreeing over patient care. Hell, I thrive on it. A good, heated debate about a treatment plan? That's how we all get better." The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, usually from laughter, deepened with a different intensity. A small, tight furrow appeared between his brows. "But what he said... It was petty, it was cruel, and it was aimed at you. I couldn't let it stand. Not for a second."

He could tell your initial shock was fading, replaced by a flutter of nervous amusement at his serious expression. The tension in your shoulders eased a fraction, and a soft, incredulous giggle escaped you.

"I think you're too old to have a girlfriend," you murmured.

"Okay, fine," he conceded, his tone softening into a warm tease. "You're right. 'Girlfriend' does sound a little… juvenile."

"Especially for a man who needs reading glasses to review a CT scan," you added, the words slipping out before you could stop them, and a slightly braver smirk tugging at your lips.

His eyes narrowed playfully. Jack shifted his hand from your cheek to your side, his fingers finding the sensitive spot just above your hip. He gave a firm, deliberate pinch through the thin material of your (his) t-shirt.

You yelped, a sharp surprised sound that dissolved into another breathless giggle, squirming against him. He didn't let you go. Instead, he used your momentary distraction to lean in, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His next words a warm intimate vow against your skin:

"My person. He was disrespectful to my person."

A slow deep heat began to uncoil low in your belly. It wasn't just the physical closeness, the familiar scent of his skin, or the solid warmth of his body against yours. It was the raw, unapologetic possession in his voice. My person. He'd claimed you, publicly, to the Chief Attending of Surgery. In a couple of days, you knew you'd have to sit in a sterile HR office, fill out disclosure forms, and navigate the bullshit. The thought was a cold stone in your gut. But beneath that professional dread, a thrilling, secret fire ignited. The hiding was over. You could finally, finally be open. You could walk into the cafeteria and sit with Jack. You could meet his eyes during a consult without calculating who might be watching.

You didn't answer with words. Your hands, which had been braced against his chest, slid up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. The thick, soft curls were longer than usual, and you fucking loved it—and were going to beg him not to get a haircut for a very long time. You pulled his mouth down to yours, but this kiss was nothing like the tender one from before. This was all claiming, all heat, a desperate, open-mouthed clash of tongues that tasted like defiance and pure, unadulterated want. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. He responded instantly, one arm banding around your waist to crush you against him, the other hand sliding down from your hip to grip the back of your thigh, hiking your leg over his hip. The thin barrier of his t-shirt you wore was maddening. You could feel the hard insistent press of his erection against your core, and you rocked against it, a sharp, gasping moan escaping you.

"I love being your person," you breathed against his lips.

"Mine," he growled back; the single word was a raw, guttural vibration against your mouth. "All mine," he repeated. His voice was a dark velvet rumble that went straight to your core.

"I love you," you whispered hoarsely.

"I love you, too."

He rocked his hips, a slow, grinding roll that had you seeing stars. He didn't give you time to think. His hands slid under the hem of his own t-shirt you were wearing, palms hot and rough as they dragged up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he yanked the shirt over your head and tossed it somewhere behind you. Cool air hit your bare skin, but the heat rolling off him was immediate. His hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. The fabric was already damp, clinging to you, and when he tugged, the sound of tearing cotton filled the quiet room. He pulled the ruined fabric away, his fingers immediately finding the slick heat between your legs.

A soft pleased sound escaped him.

"Oh, sweetheart… you're so wet for me."

His fingers, now slick with your arousal, slid through your folds with a possessive familiarity that stole your breath.

"Jack," you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the hard freckled muscles there. "Please..."

"Please what?" he demanded, his voice rough with need. He pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. "Use your words, baby."

"You," you sobbed, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand. "I need you. Now."

"That's my girl," he praised, his eyes almost looking green with desire. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips and sucking them clean with a filthy, deliberate slowness that made you whimper. "So sweet."

In one powerful motion, he switched places with you. Jack pulled you up his body, guiding you until you were straddling his chest. His hands held your ass firmly, his gaze locked on yours, blazing with a desperate hungry intensity. Jack's breath came in hot, ragged gusts against your inner thighs. His patience shattered. The sound that ripped from his chest was pure feral need. He yanked you down, hard, shoving your dripping cunt fully onto his waiting mouth. There was no tentative lick, no gentle exploration. He took you, claiming you with a hungry open-mouthed kiss that sealed his lips over your entire slit. A choked, startled cry tore from your throat as his tongue delved deep, fucking into you with immediate, relentless strokes. The vibrations of his desperate groan against your clit made your vision blur.

His hands were iron clamps on your ass, holding you there, grinding you against his face as he feasted. You could feel the desperate scrape of his stubble, the slick, obscene sounds of his worship, the hot puff of his frantic breaths. He was drowning in you, and he was pulling you under with him.

"F-fuck, yes," you sobbed, your body bowing, your hands fisting in his hair, holding his face deeper into you as your thighs trembled around his head. "Just like that... don't stop..."

He couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. He was a man possessed, his tongue lashing and circling your clit before plunging deep again. The world narrowed to the searing heat of his mouth. The brutal perfect pressure of his tongue and the raw wet sounds of his devotion. You were riding his face in earnest now, your hips moving in helpless, grinding circles, fucking yourself against his mouth as he held you pinned. His groans of pleasure were a constant hungry vibration against your clit, pushing you higher…and faster. You felt the coil in your belly tighten to a screaming point.

"Jack, I'm gonna—" you tried to warn, your voice a broken, high-pitched thing. He understood. His hands slid from your ass to your thighs, his grip bruising as he pulled you even harder against him. His tongue focused into a rapid, insistent flutter right on that swollen aching bud. The only sound was the wet frantic rhythm of his mouth on your cunt and your own shattered gasping breaths. Words were beyond him now…replaced by a consuming singular focus. As your orgasm began to crest, your body trembling on the precipice, his hand left your thigh and the sharp stinging crack of his palm against your ass cheek echoed in the room. It was a bright burst of pain that melted instantly into molten pleasure.

The orgasm detonated through you with a violent blinding wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your body seized, convulsing around his tongue as you gushed against his lips, your thighs shaking violently around his head. He drank you in, swallowing every pulse, and every shudder. Jack’s own groans of satisfaction were vibrating through your core, prolonging the shocks pulsing out until your fingers and toes tingled. The last tremors of your orgasm were still echoing through your spent body, leaving you weak and boneless. He gently guided you off his face, your slick coating his chin and lips. You slid down his body and your own movements were sluggish. He watched you, his chest heaving, as your trembling fingers hooked into the waistband of his black boxers. His abs clenched tight, a stark ripple of muscle under his skin as you pulled them down. The thick, heavy length of his cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a soft, wet sound.

He let out a ragged punched-out breath as your hand wrapped around him. Your fingers were barely meeting, and you gave him one slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip, spreading the slickness there.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back. His hips jerked involuntarily into your touch. A raw, unthinking thrust. The head of his cock, nudged against your palm as you stroked him again, a little faster this time, your thumb swirling over the sensitive slit. With a guttural sound that was more animal than man, he pulled your hand away from his cock. The loss of contact made him shudder, but his need for your cunt right now was a sharper, more demanding ache.

"Turn over," he rasped, his voice utterly wrecked. "On your stomach. Now."

You obeyed, your limbs heavy as you rolled onto your belly, burying your face in the pillow that still smelled like him. He settled over you, his weight a comforting, anchoring pressure. The heat of his chest pressed against your back, and you could feel the frantic beat of his heart through your skin. He nudged your legs apart with his knee, and you felt the thick, blunt head of his cock press against you…teasing you.

"Please fuck me," you whined. It was you blatantly telling him you felt the same desperate ache, that you needed the stretch and the weight of him just as badly. He let out a low gratified hum, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back.

"I've got you, baby," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. "I'll fuck your pretty little pussy," And with that whispered promise, he pushed inside of you. The stretch was exquisite, a deep, filling burn that made you gasp into the pillow. He sank inside your perfect cunt with a shuddering groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You arched your back, pushing yourself against him to take him even deeper, a moan tearing from your throat.

"So deep," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the sheets. He groaned, the sound ragged and full of raw pleasure, his hips flush against your ass.

"You're so tight," he rasped, his breath hot on your neck. "Always so fucking tight." He began to move, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in with a slow, powerful thrust that made you see stars. The deep rhythm was torture of the sweetest kind. Each withdrawal left you feeling empty only for the subsequent invasion to be that much more profound, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"J-Jack," you whimpered, your voice breaking on his name. "More. I need more."

"You need more? Tell me what you need, baby," he urged, his own breath coming in ragged pants. He shifted his weight, angling his hips slightly, and the next thrust brushed directly over that deep, aching spot. A shocked cry was ripped from you.

"H-harder. Right t-there! Oh, fuck, right there, please!" you sobbed, your body trembling violently beneath him.

A dark possessive growl rumbled from his chest.

"Good girl," he muttered, his control fraying. He hooked an arm under your hip, lifting you just enough to change the angle, and then he gave you exactly what you begged for. His thrusts lost their measured pace, becoming deep, pounding drives that pushed you up the bed with their force. The wet, filthy sound of him plunging into your soaked cunt echoed around you. The new angle was devastating. Each deep pounding drive of his hips slammed his cock directly into the most sensitive part of you. It was a relentless assault on your senses that had tears of overwhelming pleasure springing to your eyes. Your cries were no longer words. They just became a continuous high-pitched stream of desperate sounds muffled by the pillow.

"Shit, baby," he snarled, "You always take it so fucking good, don't you? Just look so good taking this cock."

You could hear the smirk in his voice.

All you could manage was a frantic sobbing nod. Your body seized up, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight. You were right on the edge, teetering, every nerve ending screaming for release.

"Gonna make me come in this perfect pussy," he groaned, his pace becoming erratic, his own climax clawing its way up his spine.

It happened too fast for words. One second you were teetering on the edge, the next you were flung over it. Your entire body locked. A breathless gasp was the only sound as an intense shuddering spasm gripped you from the inside out. Your cunt clenched around his cock in a series of frantic fluttering pulses. Your fingers, which had been clawing the sheets, went slack, and then clenched into fists again as the pleasure radiated out in blinding pulses, short-circuiting every thought.

"Oh, fuck," he grunted, his hips driving deep one final time before you felt the hot, thick pulse of his release flooding your core. He shuddered violently against you, his large frame trembling with the force of his orgasm. Jack’s forehead dropped to rest between your shoulder blades. For a long moment, the only sounds were your mingled ragged breaths and his kisses on your back. His arm, still hooked under your hip, held you close, keeping him nestled deep as the aftershocks subsided. Finally, with a slow, deliberate slide, he pulled out. He collapsed heavily onto the bed beside you, turning you gently to face him. His thumb brushed a stray sweat-damp strand of hair from your cheek.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice gravelly with exertion.

You gave a breathless nod. You body was still humming. It was a thing you found endlessly endearing, this immediate, almost reflexive check-in Jack always did after sex. It didn't matter if the round had been a slow, tender exploration or a frantic, sweat-slicked collision that left you both gasping. The moment the storm passed, his first conscious thought was always for you. His touch would shift from demanding to soothing, his voice from a commanding growl to this concerned murmur.

"Yeah," you said, smiling and leaning in to press a tender, lingering kiss to his mouth. He hummed against your lips, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, returning the kiss with a gentle sweetness. When you finally pulled back, he let out a long contented sigh.

"Gonna clean up," you whispered, already slipping from his embrace and the tangle of sheets. You moved quickly to your bathroom before he could force you to stay in bed and clean you up himself. You didn't want him to think about moving right now. His prosthetic leg was resting against your nightstand, and you wanted to keep it that way. The warm water from the cloth felt soothing as you quickly cleaned yourself up at the sink. You could hear the rustle of sheets from the bedroom.

You heard Jack say your name, his voice carrying from the bed with a low, petulant grumble.

"Got nothing to hold on to."

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics (that was your job), tossed the cloth into the hamper, and hurried back. He was propped up on one elbow, the sheets pooled around his waist. His brow was furrowed in a mock pout.

"You left me," he said, the words a childish accusation.

"It's been ninety seconds," you chuckled, slipping back under the covers. You moved close, your body curving instinctively into the heat of his. You pressed a soft, quick kiss to his shoulder. "Better?"

He grunted, but his arm immediately snaked around you, pulling you firmly against his side.

"S'okay," he muttered, his face nuzzling into your hair. Here was Jack—all hard lines and coiled strength. A man who spoke in grunts and carried the weight of the world in the set of his shoulders and the quiet focused look in his eyes. Yet, in the soft aftermath of sex…he became vulnerable. There was a part of him that should have been mortified by his need to touch you. The clinginess. But that part of him had been burned away in the hell he'd lived through. He'd seen how fast things could be taken from him. It taught him a brutal, singular truth: when you find something good, something real, you hold onto it with everything you have.

"Let's go back to sleep," he grumbled.

As you settled against him, your eyes drifted to the glowing red numbers on the nightstand: 9:31 AM. You were still so fucking tired. You couldn't even fathom how Jack must have felt, considering he had probably gotten to your place an hour ago. Maybe less.

A soft, almost sympathetic sound escaped you as you curled tighter into him.

"God, yes," you breathed, the words slurring against the skin of his chest. "Sleep. For a year."

His low hum of agreement shifted into a rough, sleep-thickened chuckle. He didn't open his eyes, but his hold on you tightened just a fraction, his fingers flexing against your back.

"A year?" he mumbled, the words vibrating against your temple. "Fuck no. That'd put a serious dent in our schedule."

"Our schedule?"

"Yeah. The important one." He finally cracked one eye open. "The one where I fuck the shit out of you on a semi-regular basis. Can't have a year-long intermission. Just... give me like 4 hours. Tops."

He said it with such deadpan certainty that a quiet laugh shook your shoulders.

"4 hours?"

"Mmhm." He closed his eye again, nuzzling his face back into your hair with a contented sigh, as if the matter were settled. "Gonna recharge. Then I intend to wake you up the best way I know how. So get your rest now. You're gonna need it."

His voice was already fading, the threat (or promise) laced with such genuine drowsy affection that it made your chest ache. You didn't argue. You just let your own eyes close, a faint, anticipatory shiver running through you as you surrendered to sleep.

You were checking charts when you felt a presence beside you. You looked up to see Robby (in the plastics department of all places) favoring his left side slightly, and a faint, yellowish-purple bruise was blooming on his jaw. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his usual bravado replaced by an uncomfortable, shuffling posture.

"Hey," Robby said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He cleared his throat. "Listen, I... I owe you an apology. For what I said the other day. It was out of line. I was way out of line. I'm sorry."

It was stilted and awkward, but it seemed genuine.

"Apology accepted, Robby," you said, your tone even. Then you tilted your head, your eyes flicking pointedly to his jaw. "And I still don't think Jack should have hit you. I'm sorry about that. He shouldn't have gotten involved. It was unprofessional."

"Yeah, well... let's just say my best friend made his point. Very... persuasively." He managed a shaky grin.

You gave him a simple nod, and he scurried off, looking relieved.

The formal HR disclosure with Jack had been surprisingly smooth. He'd been all business, standing beside you with his arms crossed. The paperwork was filed. It was done. The door clicked shut behind you, and before he could say a word or check if you were alright, you rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was a brief, soft press of your lips against his. He blinked, the mask melting away into something warm and profoundly relieved. A slow easy smile spread across his face. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, not caring that some curious eyes were watching. His eyes held yours, sparkling with a familiar mischief that had been absent all morning. He gave you a deliberate soft wink.

"I'll see you later," he said, his voice low and intimate in the busy corridor. "Love you."

A quiet smile touched your own lips.

"Love you," you said back, the phrase feeling both wonderfully ordinary and deeply significant.

He nodded, that sexy smile still playing on his lips, then turned and walked down the hall towards the exit to go home and sleep.

Then, a few weeks later, the buzz rippled through the entire hospital. An anonymous donation of $1 million had been made specifically to the Plastics and Reconstructive Surgery department. The news was met with stunned silence, then erupting chatter. Later that same day, a large, elegant package arrived at the nurses' station with your name on it. Inside was what felt like a year's supply of La Mer skincare products, each jar and bottle nestled in pristine navy blue packaging. Tucked between them was a simple thick cream card. On it, in elegant handwriting were just two words:

Thank you.

No name. No return address. But you knew who it was from—and now you suspected the donation was from her as well. You ran your fingers over the embossed letters on the card. This, you thought, was a perfect kind of way to start your day.