after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
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You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.
You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.
He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.
“John?” you try, his back is to you now.
“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”
“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”
“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”
“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”
You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
You’ve never seen him like this.
He’s never like this — frantic.
“Then what is it, J—,”
“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”
You don’t.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”
“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”
“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.
“There’s always a way.”
“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”
Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.
What he’s done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.
He doesn’t answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”
You’re starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.
“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
“Say it back to me.”
“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”
“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.
“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”
“Good.”
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
“John! Please! John!”
But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
a/n: after writing this i decided to turn these two into a series of vignettes called ‘all we ever do is say goodbye’ 🧡
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Series m.list Zia’s lucky number! Yippie! Robby returns. This chapter almost had an L word bomb but it felt too soon. Oops.
There wasn’t exactly a formal second date after that.
After that… things just kinda went back to normal.
But with kisses and hugs and caresses and head scratches and arms around shoulders and waists.
They still went for dinner when they had appointments with the lawyer or doctor, or brunch depending on the time. Brendon still came over to watch a movie. Brendon still did all the driving. They still paused the movie to talk about anything and nothing at all. Still texted eachother random commentary on PTMC.
But, you know.
Now Brendon held Emma’s hand at their appointments of both kinds. To Dr Songs sweet understanding expression, Like she was happy with this development for them. Now when they watched movies they cuddled- and damn did Emma love that revelation, Brendon Park was a real cuddler. A certified clinger. And a good cuddler. Kissed soft and slow, rubbed Emma’s head now that she’d taught him how to play with her kind of hair, rubbed her lower back. The biggest change of all was probably those late night phone calls they shared from time to time. Which Emma enjoyed very much.
It was kind of nice, how nothing really changed. They’d been so comfortably domestic before, Emma now realized only now. So nothing really changed besides freely given affection.
It was a little nerve wracking sometimes, going out, risking people from the hospital seeing them, sure. But Brendon liked it generally. Liked people knowing Emma was his. Liked the feeling of it. Of being an obvious… family. How they looked just like any other normal expecting couple.
People knew, now. Some people. Brendon’s family knew, to their delight. Emma’s family did too, to their expectation, and lack of surprise. Dr Song, and Brian Washington had picked up on the changes in their demeanor with each other- how comfortable and casually they touched now. Physical comforts and reassurance. But in their professional life, things were no different.
For Brendon’s part, no one knew. Not Emery or Yolanda. Who were increasingly convinced something was “up” with him, which he wouldn’t admit to.
Brendon wondered what Joy knew. But how the fuck was he supposed to ask that without giving himself away? She was like the tell tale heart of his OR.
Emma’s friends and colleagues knew she was seeing the dad now, but that was all there was to it.
The were not satisfied with that.
For a moment, they enjoyed it.
New gossip.
New gossip that did reach the OR, Virgin Mary and the dad are now dating. Do you think she gave it up? I mean it would be stupid not to, you’re already pregnant. What do you think he’s thinking?
But besides gross callousness was normal gossip. Victoria grinning ear to ear as Emma talked about their romantic first date and their steamy makeout session and how he just… stopped, and how hot that was.
Dana interrogating her that he was treating her good enough. Now that something was happening between them, she really wanted to vet him herself.
One time, Dr Santos decided Emma should fill some college girls in on her situation while they underwent the time tedious procedure of removing a billion little pieces of gravel from a leg in a gnarly case of road rash.
It was a good idea. Kept them distracted. And petrified. Then her and Trinity had to spend another 20 minutes emphasizing the importance of having your routine Pap smears despite Emma’s horror story. They learned not to do that again. And NOT to tell an attending. So you win some you loose some.
So the last two weeks have been pretty nice.
Perlah’s old scrubs were great so far. The boat neck was actually pretty comfy. Stylish. And then hers came in, with their cute little scrunch ties on the sides and their v neck. Brendon thought they were fucking adorable. The tops were still big, with room to grow. But the bottoms were a lifesaver.
It was Robby’s big first day back.
It had been the talk of the hospital all week. Robby was coming back today. Sound the trumpets. The prodigal son returns. Odysseus returns to Ithaca, Hamlet to Denmark. Whatever you wanna call it, Robby’s coming back.
Emma had, what she learned was, the privilege of only meeting the guy once.
Everyone, Brendon included, swore that was for the best. That he was an asshole. A good doctor usually, but an Asshole. More than a spotty track record of weird behavior with female subordinates of color.
But now he was coming back.
Brendon kissed Emma goodbye sweetly form his car, and she set out for her day.
Like most of the nurses did the doctors, she beat Robby in.
“Hey, he gives you a hard time today I’ll smack him straight” Dana promised her.
She heard the horror stories but maybe he wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this… trip made him better. Time would tell.
Emma was so busy. She missed the big entrance.
She only saw the chief face to face at about 9.
“Oh! Welcome back Dr Robby” Emma smiled with a polite little wave when she did catch his sight.
It appeared in the time Robby was away, Emma Nolan was now, very clearly pregnant. Well, not like, very pregnant but. You know. Pregnant.
4 months, maybe 5 he’ll gamble.
Huh.
Didn’t expect that one.
She’s as big as a fucking house.
Well. That was rude. She wasn’t. But she was definitely knocked up. Even if she wasn’t that far along.
He just thought she wasn’t that kind of girl. Looks can be deceiving, huh?
“Hi Emma. Congratulations.” He smiled with a tight mouth.
Emma half tripped over herself at that.
“Oh! Thank you.”
And then she was gone, walking off about as fast as she stopped.
Robby turned back to Dana, eyebrows raised. “That’s new.”
Dana pressed her lips together, shaking her head.
“You missed a lot Robby.”
Robby looked around, confidently out of anyone’s earshot.
“A lot? I missed some new grad nurse getting herself knocked up. That’s not groundbreaking. Didn’t see it coming with her, but.”
He shrugged.
“There’s a lot more to the story” Dana insisted. “So shut your mouth before you hear it. Or you’ll feel real bad.”
“That so?”
“Oh yeah. Give it about an hour I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. It’s the talk of the fuckin’ town around here.”
Robby looked unamused.
“How interesting can it be? Who’s the dad? He work here or something?”
“He does.”
“Ok who?”
Dana nodded. “She won’t tell us.”
“Why the hell not? That’s the drama? What he’s married for something?”
“She said he’s no, but it’s only an inch of it. It’s a very long story.”
Robby rolls his eyes. “Dana I don’t have the time for theatrics.”
Dana stared him down. Unamused. Hands on her hips firmly. If that’s how he wants to do this.
“Accidental artificial insemination.”
Robby blinked.
“What?”
He knew what all those words meant separately, but together?
Nope.
How the fuck?
“How does that even happen?”
“Gross malpractice.”
“No shit. So. Somehow that happened, which is still frying my head, but the dads-“
“The dad and her are, apparnelty, seeing eachother now. Which is pretty new. She says he’s very nice to her. But for the sake of their privacy they want to keep his identity between them for now.”
“That’s fucking stupid”
“That’s her choice.”
“Why the hell is she even having the kid?”
“Because that’s also her choice. She doesn’t believe in abortion for herself, she’s religious. Robby. This ain’t your business, and you’re late to the party. We’re all pretty settled into this now.”
“Well this is news to me.”
Dana huffed.
“You gotta just get in line about this. You’ll shoot yourself in the foot some way or another. Mind your own business. It’s the best option. Act like nothings happening.”
Brendon and Emma were pretty settled into seeing eachother in the ED now. It was actually a relief for Brendon in a way, knowing Emma was on a case. He usually trusted most nurses, but none quite like Emma. And sweet Emma always looked forward to seeing Brendon’s dumb mug these days. Even in that set unhappy face he wore at work, his face was a relief and brief glimpse of peace.
Brendon was, however, caught off guard when he entered the room to see Robby today.
“Robby. Welcome back.”
Brendon’s surprise at the presence of the attending was clear. Robby had been living with it all day.
Robby did one of those fake little smiles and nodded, attention focusing back to the patient at hand.
9 year old boy. School accident, staircase incident, akin to a stampede. Three patients brought in. One young girl, one teacher, and him. Thankfully, no injuries were remotely critical. Dislocated shoulder on the girl, deep laceration from a crappy handrail on the teacher, and this poor kiddo who got the brunt of it on his foot.
“Hi there, I’m Dr Park.” Brendon greeted to the kid.
“What’s wrong with my leg?”
His voice was wet and wobbly, like he was desperately trying to be brave.
Oh, poor kiddo.
“I’m not too sure, buddy, I just got here myself. What’s wrong with his leg, Dr- Mohan.” He decided, picking the victim least likely to piss him off.
“Displaced fracture of the third, fourth, and fifth metatarsals” Dr Mohan supplied, handing Brendon the x ray.
Brendon saw in the corner of his eye Emma’s hand in the boys.
His chest pulled tight.
Emma caught his sight and moved to let go but Brendon shook his head firmly.
She understood. He approved.
“Where’s his parents?” Brendon asked.
“Grandparents are in route.” Emma supplied, to which Brendon nodded.
“Good. You guys live far?”
Aiden- as his chart read- shook his head. “No. My grandpa comes here for his foot doctor. We live close.”
Brendon nodded, happy with that.
Good.
“Yeah I can work with this.” Brendon decided, nodding. It was a little messy in there, sure, but nothing complex, just tedious. Routine day in the mines. “I’ll be in and out, easy. He’ll be just fine.” He agreed.
Emma couldn’t hide her surprise.
“When can you take him?”
Brendon gestured loosely.
“We’ve got a few open ORs. We expected more for this. But there’s no rush. Well wait for grandma and grandpa to get here-“
“We got consent over the phone-“ Robby began.
Brendon’s face went steely. A face that demanded silence.
“We’re waiting. There’s no rush for this and you know it. I’ll hold an OR. I want him to see his family before he goes under. He’s a baby, Robby.”
A kid this young needs to see the people he loves before he goes under. It’s just right.
If this was his kid-
Brendon breathed in and out.
If some ER doctor tried to rush his and Emma’s kid into surgery before they got to a hospital he’d burn the place to the ground.
The room went still, a stand off between two alpha predators at play.
“It’s not your call once he’s my patient. We’re waiting.” Brendon decided.
His attention quickly shifted from Robby’s idiocy when he heard Emma, suddenly, fast and desperate, soft whispers.
“You’re okay Aiden, it’s okay, don’t be scared.” He heard her whisper.
Looking over, tears were silently falling down Aiden’s face.
Watched Emma scramble for a tissue to dry his face. Gentle pats to his cheek.
His little hand was white knuckle gripping Emma, holding on to her hand like a lifeline.
Brendon knew the feeling.
“Hey.”
Brendon crouched down, right next to the kids face.
“Hey, buddy. Do you understand what we’re talking about?”
Aiden shook his head.
“Yeah I didn’t think so. It’s a lot of really big science words isn’t it. Can you feel any pain in your foot right now?”
Aiden shook his head, eyes panicked. “Is that bad?”
“No, no not at all. That means the painkillers we gave you are helping. That’s good.” Emma quickly answered.
Brendon nodded.
“Yeah, Nurse Emma’s right. And it’s good that it doesn’t hurt, hurting can actually make stuff worse. You wanna see your X Ray so I can tell you what happened to you?”
He nodded.
He held out his hand, waiting wordlessly.
A med student scrambled and handed it over.
“Okay. So this is your foot, right? And these are your toes. The metatarsals- we keep saying that-“
“Sounds like a dinosaur.”
“It does, totally. So those are just the bones that become your toes. Do you see where they’re broken?”
Aiden nodded, pointing to the screen.
“Yeah, you get it. So you’ve got a couple broken bones in your foot, but the bones moved out of place. Sometimes when you break a bone and everything’s where it’s supposed to be, you just need a cast and you can go right home. That ever happen to you?”
He nodded.
“I broke my arm playing soccer when I was 6.”
Brendon nodded.
“Yeah, that stuff happens. So what happened on your foot, is that the bones are in weird places so I need to go in there and put them back so they’ll heal right. Like a puzzle.” Brendon explained.
He saw the little boy come to terms with understanding.
Surgery.
“You scared?”
He nodded.
“I get it. Surgery is scary. Anesthesia is really scary, yeah? But there’s nothing to be scared of.” Brendon promised.
“You don’t know this, but I’m a really, really good doctor. I make, soooo much money it’s crazy. because I’m the best bone doctor in the state.”
Aiden giggled softly at the dramatized head movements Brendon made as he spoke, and his playful face.
“I’m really good. I’m the freakin’ best. And nothing bad happens to my patients, okay? I don’t let anything bad happen to them.” Brendon promised.
Aiden nodded.
Unsure, but brave.
“And we’re not gonna do anything until grandma and grandpa get here, okay? I promise you that. I know this is scary, and it’s even scarier being all alone. But you’re being so brave, and I’m so proud of you.”
“Dr Park-!”
Walking towards the elevator, Brendon stopped, looking behind him.
Emma.
Emma was jogging towards him across the Pitt, stopping short a foot away.
“Everything okay with Aiden?” He worried, looking past her towards the room for a commotion. Nope.
Emma shook her head.
“Sorry, no, he’s fine.”
Brendon nodded only slightly eased.
“I just. You were great in there. Thank you.”
“Of corse.”
Fuck did Brendon feel like Nixon under the spotlight right now.
“you- you’re gonna be a really good dad. That’s all.”
Emma added, voice far quieter than before.
Oh.
Fuck.
Oh.
It hit Brendon like a punch to the chest.
“Oh. Thank you.”
Emma’s eyes were so expressive now that he knew them so well.
Knew how hard she was fighting to reach out for him.
He felt the exact same.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her face. Tell her she was going to be a perfect mother.
“I felt the same way watching you with him.” He replied, voice soft and eyes suspicious of everyone around them.
No one gave a shit. He just had a guilty conscious.
Emma’s face burned.
Brendon wanted to cup it, kiss it, make it confident.
He couldn’t.
“I have to go but um. Later.”
“Later.” Brendon agreed. “Come over tonight.” He requested. “I missed you.”
Emma tried to stifle her expression. “Sure.”
“I have to go check on things- page me when the families here okay? I want to talk to them.”
“Of corse.”
“I just paged Dr Park, the orthopedic surgeon who’s going to do the procedure. He’ll be down in a minute. he wanted to speak to you, too.” Emma insisted.
Maureen seemed settled by that.
“Thank you.”
“Of corse.”
“We thought he was going to go straight into surgery.” Tom questioned, rubbing Aiden’s head.
“Dr Park wanted to wait for you to get here. He thought it would be better for Aiden” Emma supplied.
When Brendon did arrive 5 minutes later, Emma and Robby left the room.
Brendon’s explanation to Mr and Mrs Warner, Tom and Maureen as they insisted, was not all too different than what he said to Aiden. Straightforward language, length of the surgery, time of recovery, limitations in such time. Soft spoken and compassionate.
“The nurse said you wanted to wait for us to do the surgery?”
Brendon nodded.
“Yeah. There’s really little rush with things like this, and Aiden said you weren’t far. A half hour wasn’t going to make a difference. If it was my child- I’m just treating you the way I’d want my child treated.” Brendon chose to rephrase. “The consideration I’d want.”
“Do you have kids, Dr Park?”
Brendon smiled softly.
“Not yet. Baby on the way.” He supplied.
“Congratulations.” Maureen smiled brightly. “That’s so exciting. Your wife must be over the moon.”
“We’re not married yet, but she is. It was a surprise but we’re very happy.”
Understatement of the century.
“My team prepped the OR already, so we can take Aiden in… I’d say 30 minutes.” Brendon assessed.
“Stay comfy, sit tight, and we’ll get you when we’re ready. Any last questions for me?”
“No. Thank you, Dr Park.” Answered Tom.
Maureen hesitated.
“Actually- I don’t know who to ask this-“
“Try me.”
“I don’t know if all hospitals do this. But on Facebook I heard about some… daisy award thing?”
“Oh. Absolutely we do.”
“Do you know how I… I don’t know, recommend a nurse for that? Aiden just went on and on about that Nurse Emma, and she was a real dear.”
Pride bloomed in Brendon’s chest.
“Emma is absolutely fantastic. She’s young, she’s green but she’s the real deal for sure.”
Something curious shined in Maureen’s eye. Understanding. Pieces connected.
These old ladies need to stop catching him.
“Let me, uh- here.”
He found the brochure in a drawer.
“You just scan this code and fill out the paperwork. Emma Nolan. N-O-L-A-N”
Even Tom picked it up at that one.
“Shooting a little below your weight huh, slugger?”
“Tom!”
Brendon just chuckled.
“He’s not wrong, I’m a lucky guy. But uh- do us a favor-“
He made a zipping gesture.
“We’re keeping things on a low until we can’t anymore.”
“You don’t got long.”
“No we don’t. So we’re enjoying the peace.”
“Of corse. Right Tom?”
With the look of death Tom nodded.
“I’ll keep your secret” piped in Aiden form his bed.
Oh, Aiden.
Their baby could turn out a lot worse than sweet little Aiden.
“Thank you, buddy. I’ll see you in my OR in a few minutes.”
In the time Brendon was with the Warners, Emma and Robby were outside the door.
“Since when are you and the Shark so friendly?” Robby asked, standing next to Emma outside the room.
Emma froze like a deer in headlights.
“Huh?”
“By the elevator earlier. I saw you talking.”
“Oh! We were talking about Aiden, that’s all. I guess we’re friendly.”
“He seems to really like you. That’s impressive, he hates everything.”
So not true, Emma thought to herself. Brendon’s a sweetheart to the core. A loving son and brother, an adoring boyfriend, a devoted dad to be. A good friend, a compassionate doctor.
Robby sure is back.
“He’s just always been nice to me I guess. I dunno.” Emma deflected, desperately.
She didn’t need Robby of all fucking people sussing them out.
Robby chuckled low in his chest.
“Makes sense. Probably a pity thing.”
“Sorry?”
“You know. Your situation. He probably feels bad.”
Emma’s heart throbbed.
Oh.
“Excuse me?”
The words didn’t come from Emma. No. Emma was far too shy to do that, to say that. They came from a familiar, deep voice. An angry voice she seldom heard.
Emma’s head whipped up, as the door slammed closed.
“Park-“
“It’s your first day back and you’re already being an asshole again?”.
Emma tensed.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry-“
“Do me a favor, Robby, and don’t tell people how I feel about them on my behalf. Here in the civilized world some men still feel a little chivalry over women and children.”
Brendon made a dismissive sound, his face still portraying just how pissed he was.
“It’s your first day back, man. You missed a lot. Try to keep your head down maybe.”
Brendon tongued his cheek, looking at Emma.
His eyes briefly betraying something hurt and soft. His hands flexing like he was fucking Mr Darcy, an urge to pull Emma into his arms and insist none of it was true.
“My people will come down for Aiden in… thirty minutes. Try not to fuck up irreversibly in that time.-“
He turned to leave.
Turned back.
“By the way. Everyone else in this fucking department knows Emma and the kids father are suing this hospital for all it’s worth. Maybe don’t get yourself named in the suit too.”
And then he left again. For good.
“I’m sorry.”
Too little too late, Robby. As per usual.
Emma just walked away, back into Aiden’s room.
“Told you to shut your mouth Robby.” Dana grumbled, shaking her head.
“You missed a lot. What happened to her was a fucking lighting strike though this place and everyone’s in her corner. You should shut your mouth.”
Robby didn’t answer.
Emma took off to see her other patients, heart heavy and chest tight. Old insecurity and fear sneaking up, old worries about how Brendon felt she should be past.
Emma looked down at her phone which had just buzzed in her pocket.
I’m sorry. You know that’s not true. I’ve got a scrub in, I’ll see you later?
I know. Thanks. See u later.
Staring at Emma’s reply, Brendon was far from satisfied.
Don’t let him get to you. No one needs to understand us but us. This is real. I don’t pity you. I’ll see you tonight.
Okay. That was- more. A little more satisfying. She swallowed.
Once you start noticing how the incapacity to handle discomfort affects how people live their lives it's actually pretty shocking how it ruins pretty much every conceivable aspect of existence. Interpersonal relationships, romantic and platonic. Career and education opportunities. Your politics Your willingness to go anywhere. The kind of food you eat. The kind of art you expose yourself to and your ability to read it. It's never just one thing, it touches everything, and once you notice it it's like suddenly being able to see germs or something. Just this horrific catastrophe people look at you askance for screaming about. As I grow older and see what became of my friends and peers who could not learn to handle discomfort, the more I'm like. This is a genuine societal issue
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Simon Riley with his weird ass acts of love and bizarre concept of boundaries
You’ll be waking up confused in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling at your feet, only to glance down and see your boyfriend has thrown the covers off and is attempting to clip your toenails for you
“What in the actual f-”
“I’m tired o’ your talons diggin’ into my legs every nigh’. This is for both o’ us, love.” He’ll grumble in that tone of his that leaves no room for argument, only the sound of nail clippers echoing in the room as your roll your eyes before shutting them again
Every so often when you’re on your period, you’ll be stepping out of the shower, bewildered to find that the night time pad and underwear you’d set aside with your pyjamas on the bathroom counter top, have been put together for you?
“Simon- you saved me all of two steps at most? Opening the wrapper and sticking it on?”
“And you’re welcome.” He’ll mutter casually with a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s off to brush his teeth
“I’m so confused. I might be losing it, Si.” You’ll mention one time, coming home after work with bags of greasy takeout food in hand, his brow only raising in question. “This is maybe the third time now I’ve noticed that the petrol was nearing a quarter tank, so I’d plan to fill up the next day. But next time I get in the car- the tank is fucking full! The first time I thought I had dreamt it, second time I thought I was hallucinating a little bit, but now-”
“Love, I’ve been filling up your car.”
“…what?”
“That’s me. Every time I’ve heard you say you need petrol- I’ve filled up the car.” Simon shrugs as though he’s simply telling you what the weather is for today, not that he’s been sneaking out in the middle of the night with your car keys to run a quick errand for you as you sleep
“I don’t know if I want to ask how or why first.”
“Well petrol’s fuckin’ expensive now, that’s why. You don’t need to be payin’ tha’.”
“You could have just … asked me?”
“… righ’. Noted.” He’ll nod in quick agreement before moving on to take the bags from you, no intention whatsoever of changing his habits
imo dick pics are okayyy… i’m not really moved by them..
but bulge pics when ur doing something casual or at work but you still want me to see how heavy ur packing for me is so slutty of you and i’m immediately pregnant looking at you thank you
my five year plan? read a lot of books. visit museums. walk through woods. stand in a river. adopt a little kitty. drink lemonade while sitting in a rocking chair on my porch.
The whine she gives him is genuinely pitiful. Emma has spent considerable time perfecting it, the slow brim of tears, lashes gone dark and stuck together, bottom lip caught between her teeth before releasing just enough to tremble. Her thighs are shaking where they bracket his hips. Barely a minute. She knows it's been barely a minute, and she lets her eyes go very wide and very wet anyway.
"Brendon, please." Her voice fractures on the please, crumbling at the edges. "'M too tired. I can't."
Park doesn't answer.
What he does instead is click his tongue, one sharp, dry sound against the roof of his mouth, and the noise alone is enough to make her whine crack down the middle into something smaller and more wretched. Pitiful.
His hand finds the back of her neck, fingers pressing into the muscle there, into the soft place where her neck meets her shoulder, and Emma barely has time to register the grip before the world tilts. Mattress bouncing up to meet her spine. The startled sound she makes is undignified, a short breathless squeak, and she's still trying to catch her breath when he's already got her thighs pushed open, already pressing back inside, stretching her all the way back to that aching, overwhelming fullness that makes her brain go gooey.
He fucks her hard enough that the headboard bangs again the wall. Bangs it, and bangs it again, and again.
Emma moans. She can't help it, the sound dragged out of her low and involuntary and satisfied, and somewhere in the haze of it she thinks, dimly, this is what I wanted, I got what I wanted.
Right until Park drops his mouth near her ear.
"There she is," he says, voice easy, almost fond, cooing. A particular sweetness that means anything but. "Since you're so exhausted." He rolls his hips and she gasps, fingers scrabbling. "I've been thinking about a new way to build your stamina."
Emma moans in response.
"You're going to ride me." A pause, timed perfectly against the drag of his hips. "Morning. Noon. Night. Any time I decide those pretty thighs need the work." Another thrust, slow, mean, making sure she feels every inch. "We'll keep at it until you stop shaking after a minute like your legs have never done anything harder than walk to the kitchen."
Emma's breath stutters.
"Build up the muscle," Park continues, conversational. "Until you can bounce on my cock for as long as I decide. Without whining. Without the big eyes." Punches the breath from her lungs with the force of his thrust. "Without behaving like a spoiled little thing who thinks crying gets her out of things."
Oh, she thinks distantly and with great displeasure, she did not get what she wanted.
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Thinking about drunkenly making out with Jack Abbot at a work night out, then having to go back to work a few days later without a text from him - embarassed and stupidly in love.
banner by the lovely @uzmacchiato
The thing about working in an emergency department is that you become very good, very quickly, at compartmentalising.
You learn to file things away mid-shift, the hard cases, the losses, the moments that would floor you if you let them, and save them for later, for the car ride home or the shower or the specific hour of three in the morning when everything you've been holding at a professional distance comes and finds you anyway. One night, you spent an hour in the shower with a whole bottle of wine to help deal with a particularly difficult shift. It is a survival skill. It is, arguably, the survival skill, the one that lets you come back the next day and the day after that and keep being useful to people who need you to be.
You are very good at it.
You are, it turns out, completely incapable of applying it to Jack Abbott.
This is inconvenient for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which is that Jack Abbott works in the same emergency department as you, approximately fifteen feet away from you on any given shift, and has done for the better part of a year. You have tried, on multiple occasions, to file him under colleague and boss and leave him there, and your brain has rejected the filing every single time with the cheerful persistence of a system update you keep postponing.
You haven't told anyone this.
Except Santos, who found out by accident four months ago when she caught you watching Jack cross the floor from the nurses' station and said, completely unprompted, oh, you've got it bad, in a tone of such serene satisfaction that you'd wanted to dissolve into the linoleum.
And Dennis, who hadn't said anything directly but had handed you a coffee one morning right after Jack walked past and said, you okay? with such gentle and transparent knowing that the effect had been essentially identical. Dennis sees a lot of himself in you, falling in love with superiors at a distance.
So: Santos and Dennis know.
Dana, you suspect, has always known, but Dana Evans knows everything and has the particular grace never to weaponise it, so you've decided she doesn't count.
Jack himself does not know.
Or if he does, he has given absolutely no indication of it, which is its own particular kind of torment, because Jack Abbott is the most unreadable person you have ever met in your life and you have been trying to read him for eleven months.
This is, more or less, the situation as it stands.
Or was, anyway.
Before the work night out.
Before everything got considerably more complicated.
It had been Dana's idea, which meant it had been non-negotiable.
Charge Nurse Dana Evans did not suggest things. She identified them as necessary and then made them happen through the sheer force of her own certainty, and so when she had looked at the assembled staff of the Pitt at the end of a particularly brutal Friday and said, drinks. tonight. all of you, there had not been a great deal of discussion.
You had gone, obviously. You'd changed in the locker room and met Santos at the entrance and walked the four blocks to the bar that the Pitt crowd tended to migrate toward, which was loud and warm and had cheap cocktails and a bartender who knew Dennis by name.
"Is he coming?" Santos asked, with a studied casualness that you recognised as the exact opposite of casual.
"I don't know who you mean," you said.
"I mean Abbott."
"I assumed he'd skip it."
"He's not going to skip it."
"He hates these things."
"He'll come," Santos said, with the absolute certainty of someone who had already checked, and you elected not to ask how she knew that, or if it was one of those 'speak it out into the world and it will happen' manifestation rituals she often talked about.
The bar was already half full of Pitt people when you arrived, nurses clustered at one end, Robby nursing a beer in the corner with the expression of a man who had shown up entirely for Dennis, which was accurate. Dana was at the bar with a glass of wine, somehow managing to look completely at ease and slightly supervisory at the same time.
You got a drink. You let the evening settle around you. You talked to people you genuinely liked, which was one of the better things about the Pitt, that beneath the fluorescent lights and the impossible hours and the particular weight of the work, it had given you people. Real ones. The kind that showed up.
You were midway through a conversation with one of the ER nurses about something you'd later be unable to recall when the door opened and Jack walked in.
He was late, fashionably so, and he was still in the particular clothes that Jack wore when he was not at work, dark and unremarkable and somehow still doing everything, and he stood for a moment at the entrance doing the thing he always did, the quiet sweep of the room, cataloguing before committing.
His eyes found you and stayed for a couple of seconds. Your neck grew warm under his gaze, and you turned your head so that he couldn't see the effect he had on you.
"Oh," Trinity said, from beside you, very quietly, in a tone of immense personal satisfaction.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"I can hear you thinking it."
"I'm thinking many things," she agreed pleasantly, and went to get another drink.
He found his way to the bar eventually, the way he always found his way to the edge of things (ie the morning you found him on the rooftop literally right at the edge and ran back down the stairs), and you ended up beside him because the bar was crowded and the space beside him was the available one and you were not going to rearrange your entire evening to avoid standing next to a colleague.
"You came," you said, because something had to be said.
"I was told to."
"By Dana?"
"By Dana."
"She has that effect."
"Mm." He glanced at you, briefly, and smirked. "You're loud."
You turned to look at him fully. "I am not loud."
"You were laughing from across the room."
"That's called having fun. You should try it."
"I have fun."
"You actively avoid fun."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
You considered this. "Fair point. Barely."
He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh but lived in the same neighbourhood, and took a sip of whatever he was drinking, and you stood beside him at the bar and felt your heart doing its familiar and inconvenient thing.
"Why do you always do that?" you asked.
"Do what?"
"The sweep. When you walk into a room. You always check the whole room before you do anything."
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't fully parse. "Habit."
"From what?"
A pause. "Just habit."
You looked at him for a second, this man who gave so little away so consistently, and felt the familiar frustration and the familiar fondness in equal measure, which was, you had come to understand, simply what it felt like to know Jack Abbott.
"Depends who's asking," you said, after a moment.
He blinked. "What?"
"You said earlier, when Dana tells you things, you said it depends who's asking." You looked at your drink. "I was just, I noticed."
A beat.
When you looked up he was watching you with something careful and very still in his expression.
"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I did say that."
Neither of you said anything else.
But you didn't move away from him.
The outside part happened later, which was the thing you kept returning to, the fact that it hadn't been impulsive exactly, that there had been an hour of standing beside him at the bar and talking in the particular way the two of you talked, which was always slightly combative and somehow always entirely easy. The night air when you both drifted outside was cool and quiet and a complete relief after the noise.
You didn't remember who moved first.
You were fairly certain, in your more confident moments, that it had been mutual, one of those things that happened in the space between two people before either of them had consciously decided to do it.
What you remembered was his hand at your jaw, warm and deliberate.
The way your breath had caught before his mouth reached yours.
And then the kiss itself, which was, not what you'd imagined, which was remarkable given how many times you had accidentally imagined it. Not tentative. Not gentle in the careful way of someone uncertain. It was the kiss of someone who had thought about this and was finally, with complete intention, doing it. His hand was steady against your jaw and you had grabbed a fistful of his jacket without thinking and kissed him back with approximately eleven months of accumulated feeling and thought, distantly, oh, this is a problem. His hands had wandered a bit too low and when he grabbed your ass with one of his strong hands, he cockily smirked at the gasp you let out against his mouth. It was messy, and unpredictable, and hot.
When it ended you were both quiet for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, breathing slightly uneven.
"Okay," you said, because your brain had apparently died a massive death during that kiss and you needed anything to fill the silence between you.
"Okay," he said back.
And that — catastrophically, humiliatingly — was it.
He didn't text.
Not that night, not the next morning, not at any point in the following forty-eight hours, and you did not text either, because you had convinced yourself with increasing conviction that you had somehow misread the entire thing, that he had simply, been in a moment, and the moment had passed, and the look on his face afterward had been polite rather than significant, and you had made it deeply weird by meaning it so much.
By the time your next shared shift arrived you had constructed a complete and airtight narrative of your own humiliation and were wearing it like a second set of scrubs.
Trinity found you at the nurses' station six minutes into the shift.
"Why is your face doing that?" she said.
"My face isn't doing anything."
"It's doing something."
"I'm fine."
"You just tried to hand me a chart and said here you go, buddy."
You closed your eyes briefly. "I'm tired."
"You're not tired."
"Trin—"
"Is this about Abbott?"
"No."
"It's about Abbott."
"It is genuinely not—"
"You're lying, and you're bad at it, and I say that with love." She leaned on the counter, dropping her voice. "Did something happen?"
You opened your mouth. And closed it again.
"Nothing happened," you said.
"Y/N."
"Something happened," you said.
Santos's eyes went wide with the specific delight of someone receiving exactly the information they have been waiting months for. She grabbed your arm. "Tell me everything, right now, immediately—"
"Not here," you hissed, because Jack had just walked through the bay doors.
He looked exactly the same.
This was deeply unfair. You had spent forty-eight hours in varying states of internal crisis and he looked exactly the same, calm, composed, the steady particular presence of him filling whatever room he was in without him seeming to try. He did the sweep. His eyes moved across the floor, checking, cataloguing.
They landed on you for just a moment.
Something shifted in them, briefly, and then he moved on.
"Morning," he said, to the room in general.
"Morning," you said, to the middle distance, in a voice that was perfectly fine and completely normal, and then slapped a hand against your forehead and turned away. Hard to get was not your thing.
Santos, beside you, made a sound only you could hear.
You told her at the vending machine at eleven-fifteen, in a rapid whispered account that she listened to with the focused intensity of someone watching a very good television programme.
When you finished, she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"He kissed you," she said.
"Yes."
"And then said okay."
"We both said okay."
"And then neither of you texted."
"Correct."
Another pause.
"You are both," Santos said, with great care, "absolutely unbelievable."
"I know."
"Like genuinely — two supposedly intelligent medical professionals—"
"I know, Trinity—"
"Not a single text between you—"
"I was scared he regretted it!"
"Did he look like he regretted it?"
You thought about his hand at your jaw. The intention of it. The way it had not been uncertain at all. The low groan that came out of him when you seperated - how he pulled you back by the belt loop in your jeans.
"No," you admitted, quietly.
Santos pointed a pretzel at you. "Then what are you doing."
"I don't know," you said, honestly, which was the most accurate thing you'd said all day.
The supply room was where it finally happened, which was not exactly the setting you would have chosen, but you were learning that with Jack Abbott the setting was never quite what you'd have chosen and somehow it never seemed to matter.
You had gone in for gloves and he had followed you in, because of course he had, and the door had swung shut behind him and the supply room was not a large space and you were suddenly very aware of both of those things.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," you said, to the glove shelf.
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm getting gloves."
"You've been getting gloves for four minutes."
You turned around. He was closer than you'd accounted for, which did not help anything.
"I'm not avoiding you."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You haven't looked at me properly all shift."
"That's not—"
"You just looked at the shelf behind my head."
You had, in fact, just looked at the shelf behind his head.
"It's a very organised shelf," you said.
Jack looked at you with the expression he sometimes had that you'd privately categorised as deeply unimpressed but paying close attention, which was somehow worse than actual displeasure.
"Did I do something?" he asked.
"What? No."
"You're acting like I did."
"You didn't do anything, Jack."
"Then why—"
"Because you didn't text," you said, and it came out louder than you'd intended, and then it was in the room and there was absolutely nothing to do about it.
Jack looked at you.
"I didn't—" he started, then stopped. Something shifted in his expression. "You didn't text."
"I thought you didn't want me to!"
"I thought you didn't want me to."
You stared at him. "What?"
"You said okay and then you were just — gone, and I thought—"
"I didn't leave, I was standing right there—"
"You said okay," he said, with the emphasis of a man who had apparently been sitting on this for forty-eight hours. "What was I supposed to do with okay?"
"I didn't know what else to say! You kissed me and then you said okay back—"
"Because you said it first—"
"Because I was nervous—"
"So was I—"
You both stopped.
The supply room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked at you. The air between you had the particular quality of something that has been wound too tight for too long and has just, finally, released.
"You were nervous," you said, slowly.
"Yes."
"You." You pointed at him. "Jack Abbott. Nervous."
"I'm capable of being nervous."
"I've never seen you nervous."
"You've also apparently never seen me looking at you across a room for eleven months, so your observational skills are not at their peak today."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"Dennis told you," you said.
"Dennis told me nothing. I told you." His jaw shifted. "Did you mean it? The kiss."
The question landed like it always did with him, direct, undecorated, asking for the real thing and nothing else.
"Yes," you said. "I meant it."
"Okay."
"Jack, if you say okay again I'm going to—"
"Did you mean more than the kiss?" he said, and his voice had dropped into the quieter register, the one that meant he was not managing what he was saying anymore, just saying it.
You looked at him.
At the careful, open, slightly-wrecked quality of his face, which you had never quite seen before and which was going to live in you for a very long time.
"I'm kind of in love with you," you said, which was not how you had intended to say it, but was, you supposed, accurate. "I've been — it's been a while. And I know that's a lot, and if you don't—"
"I'm there too," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"I'm there too."
"You—" You searched his face. "For how long?"
He looked at you with an expression that might, on someone else, have been sheepish. "A while."
"A while," you repeated. "That's all I get."
"You're not subtle," he said. "I noticed you a long time ago."
"I confessed that I love you and you're telling me I'm not subtle—"
"You called me pretty once. In front of Dana."
"I was delirious, I had a twenty-hour shift—"
"You told Whitaker my hands were nice."
"They are nice, that was an objective observation—"
"Y/N."
"What."
"Come here," he said.
And this time you didn't say okay.
This time you closed the distance yourself, and when his hands found your face they were warm and certain and exactly where they were always going to end up, and you kissed him in the supply room of the Pitt under the fluorescent lights with gloves in your hand and eleven months of accumulated feeling finally, completely, nowhere left to go but here.
He kissed you like he meant it.
He kissed you like he'd been thinking about it.
And when you finally pulled back, foreheads together, both of you a little unsteady in the best possible way, you looked at him and he looked at you and neither of you said okay.
"For the record," you said, quietly, "your hands really are nice."
Jack Abbott closed his eyes briefly in the manner of a man exercising considerable restraint.
"Yeah?" he said.
You laughed, and he made that sound — quiet, low, tucked away — and the supply room was small and the lights were terrible and it was, somehow, exactly right.
Santos was waiting outside the supply room door.
She was not even pretending she hadn't been.
"Well?" she said.
You looked at her.
Your face did something you had absolutely no control over.
Her eyes went wide. She pointed at you. She turned to find Dennis, who was approaching from the other end of the corridor with two coffees and the expression of a man who had timed his arrival extremely deliberately.
"Hey" he said.
He held out a coffee. His face did the warm slow thing. He said nothing, because Dennis never needed to say anything, and somehow that made it the best response in the room.
Santos, however, was not Dennis.
"I need every single detail," she said, "immediately, right now, starting from the beginning—"
"There are patients," you said.
"The patients can wait—"
"They cannot—"
"Five minutes—"
"Trinity—"
"Three minutes, I just need the highlights—"
Jack appeared in the supply room doorway behind you.
Santos looked at him.
"There are patients," he said, mildly, and walked past both of you back toward the floor.
Santos stared after him.
Then at you.
"I cannot believe," she said, "that you are in love with that man."
You watched him go, steady and unhurried, and felt your whole chest do its thing.
Emma Nolan/Brendon "the Shark" Park
Warnings/Tags: Soft Brendon being absolutely in love with Emma Nolan
She left them on again. The lights.
Brendon wondered where she landed tonight as he toed off his shoes and placed them on the rack by the front door. He moved slowly. Making each moment last in an effort to decompress from the emergency surgery that pushed his 12 hour shift to an eighteen hour one.
It was a motorcycle wreck. The biker was hit on the left side and their leg was crushed by the impact. In a rare show of intelligence, the biker was wearing all of the necessary protective gear resulting in a salvageable limb. Still, the surgery was long and so would the recovery. But they had their life, and that counted for something.
Brendon placed the thoughts of the case in the bin with his dirty scrubs. Effectively cutting off any more before he moved further into the house. Pushing past the barrier of outside and settled into the warmth of his home.
Barefoot, he padded gently to his source of light. He came up behind the couch and found his girl sprawled on the couch sleeping. Her mouth was parted slightly as soft snores filtered into his ears. A soft smile made its way to Brendon’s face as he recalled the comment he had made weeks ago about how she snored. Of course his Emma went to apologize until she had seen the smirk on his lips and let out an annoyed huff of laughter and burrowed deeper into his sheets at his teasing.
“It’s cute,” Brendon said as she drew her hands up to cover her face in an attempt to hide from him.
“It’s not,” came out muffled between her hands.
“It is,” and before Emma could deny his claim again, he stretched his left hand towards her and gently clasped both of her wrists in his hand. He gave her a chance to resist him, but when there was none he moved her hands away from her beautiful flushed face. “It’s cute because it’s you.” Brendon said it with such finality that the gentle flush that had creeped up Emma’s cheeks had spread all the way down her neck. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought the room was on fire.
This time Emma’s hands came up to his face to cover both his mouth and his eyes. He was too much. Sometimes Emma wondered if she would combust on account of not being able to handle the way Brendon looked at her. Let alone the way he looked at and spoke of her. Unfortunately, her hands were too small to smother the intensity that seemed to pour out of him whenever he looked at her. That, and the fact that he laughed so hard at her sudden bashfulness as if they hadn’t done wicked things to each other.
Cute he thought.
He hadn’t noticed it then. Her habit of leaving the lights on while she slept. But after multiple late night shifts and the path of a soft yellow glow leading him to where she slept, he took notice of this quirk of hers.
Brendon rounded the couch and squatted down so he was only slightly above his sleepy girl. The soft light of the lamp made her brown skin glow, almost as if the light was coming from deep within her. A short amused huff of laughter escaped Brendon at the curls that managed to fight their way out of the bun Emma had placed them in before she fell asleep on the couch. Brendon moved them out of the way. Tucking them behind her ears before he began stroking her face.
“Emma. Time to wake up love,” Brendon rumbled as he watched her eyes move beneath her lids before she blinked awake groggily.
Sleepily she smiled at her giant man as she leaned into the hand that was caressing her face.
“Hey baby,” Emma rasped out. Her voice was thick with her French Creole accent he only discovered months into their relationship. It wasn’t often he got to hear her speak in her native language, but if she was tired enough or on the phone with her family back home, he would listen to the lilting speech as she spoke.
“Did you just get in?” Emma questioned softly as her big doe eyes locked onto Brendon. He was only in boxers after having stripped every other layer off before he moved further into the house. A habit he had never been able to kick after Covid.
“Yea baby. I was gonna go up for a shower, but I couldn’t go without seeing my favorite girl.” Brendon’s trademark boyish grin split his face showing off those sharp shark-like teeth that many flinched away from. Not Emma. She loved his pointed teeth, especially seeing that they could easily leave evidence of his love all over her skin.
“I was waiting for you,” Emma said as she sat up.
“I know.” Brendon’s response was met with a confused furrow between Emma’s brows that he moved to smooth out as he began speaking again. “You leave the lights on to stop yourself from falling asleep. It doesn’t really work because I always find you sleeping, but I find it incredibly endearing.”
He was met with that beautiful flush again. His Emma could never hide what she was feeling. Not with those big eyes and her penchant for getting so bashful. He loved it. He loved her.
“Come on Bambi,” Brendon uttered as he scooped her up from the couch. Emma squealed in turn, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he secured an arm under her. “Let’s get ready for bed.”
He carried them away from the couch and towards the bottom of the stairs. But not before he stopped at the lamp and turned the light off, immersing them in darkness. That was okay, seeing as he was holding all the light he would ever need in his hands.
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