“You're a dickhead”

Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.

He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you. 

Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.

You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.

Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.

Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.

The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.

The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.

You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself. 

You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?

You walked directly into his chest. 

When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him." 

But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly. 

What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.

He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"

You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said. 

He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face. 

Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up." 

You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER. 

So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times. 

That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity. 

You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.

You : Colles. You free?

You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.

You didn't look at the screen.

You should have looked at the screen.

Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"

You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"

"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs." 

You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."

Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture." 

"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it. 

Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him. 

You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back. 

He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day. 

Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"

"Did you get my text?"

"What — what text?"

The floor dropped out from under you. 

"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —

Dr. Park Ortho.

No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity. 

Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.

Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.

Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.

Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.

The third though. 

You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display. 

It's you. 

The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it. 

Until now. 

Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.

Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.

You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here. 

Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.

A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness. 

"Present the case, doctor." 

"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.

"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice. 

Without any other choice, you followed him. 

When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once. 

Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face. 

"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."

Transferring was the only option left for you now. 

"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it." 

Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'. 

That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you. 

You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious. 

Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.

Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"

Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal. 

You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly. 

Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.

"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you. 

"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure. 

He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."

Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator. 

Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet. 

Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.

"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.

"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" 

If only he knew. 

The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing. 

By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.

Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.

Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time. 

Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.

"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."

With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in. 

Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.

"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"

"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."

That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"

"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."

"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.

Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show. 

"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."

"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."

Park the shark? Coming down to see you? 

You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one. 

You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then. 

His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side. 

There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.

A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.

He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place. 

"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."

You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest. 

The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back. 

But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely. 

Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.

You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.

You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.

Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.

When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.

"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.

"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at. 

"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him. 

He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.

You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had. 

A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.

He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"

Smug fucking bastard. 

"Shut up."

He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."

"People sigh."

"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."

"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago." 

"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."

Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you. 

The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.

Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.

Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."

When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."

You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"

Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"

Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.

You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.

The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."

Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.

He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"

"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.

He looked up. "What was that?"

"N-nothing."

"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?" 

You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"

"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"

"What?"

"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."

"I do not."

"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee.  "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."

"W-what?" 

A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating. 

"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand… 

"Don't say adorable."

"Why not?"

"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"

"Mhmm."

"— medical professional."

"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument. 

The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel. 

"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"

Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.

Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"

It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?

Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.

"W-what?"

"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"

You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically. 

Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.

Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."

"That's not what I asked, was it?"

"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."

You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.

"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl." 

Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.

Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him. 

As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants. 

There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now. 

Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it. 

It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison. 

His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.

One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl. 

Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan. 

Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."

The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers. 

Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.

"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.

His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about. 

Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.

When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste. 

Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud. 

"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that. 

One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips. 

The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him. 

His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.

"Brendon —"

He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.

He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."

Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought. 

With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips. 

The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment. 

When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop. 

He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.

A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.

"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"

"Stop it."

"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.

"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.

His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.

"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.

His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.

"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after. 

The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.

This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.

By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice. 

When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.

"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.

"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.

"You're ticklish."

"I'm not ticklish."

"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."

"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"

Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.

He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"

That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"

"At the hospital. People look at you."

"They do not."

"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."

Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things." 

You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention. 

He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."

"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.

"Sure you don't."

"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome. 

"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest. 

Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open. 

He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.

"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower. 

"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.

You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it. 

Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.

He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?" 

A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.

He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."

"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly. 

Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.

"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."

"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."

"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"

It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for. 

The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him. 

Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.

"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.

"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.

"Words, baby."

"Move, Brendon."

The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.

Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.

It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.

His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip. 

"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"

"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you. 

The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.

He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.

On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.

A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.

"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.

"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else. 

"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart? 

You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words. 

His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.

Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —

Oh. 

Oh. 

The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."

Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."

Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that. 

Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.

You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.

If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."

Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."

You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.

He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him. 

The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.

"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.

You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.

Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone. 

Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.

So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced. 

This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep. 

"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."

"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."

"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.

Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.

He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip. 

You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.

Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.

"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.

"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."

"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were. 

"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.

You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."

His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"

"Well. He is my attending."

"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant. 

"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."

"I'm not."

"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."

His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."

A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.

"Watch it."

You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it. 

Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding." 

"I'm not hiding anything."

"You're smiling. I can feel it."

"Shut up, Brendon."

--- --- ---

Jack was asleep in the bedroom. Deeply asleep to be precise. That kind of sleep that only happened after a brutal night shift where he came home looking vaguely haunted, kissed your forehead on autopilot, checked on Lizzie, muttered something about loving you very much before collapsing into bed.

This time he had thought about taking his prosthetic off before falling asleep.

Progress.

You sat in the living room with a cup of coffee - and Robby, who stood on your doorstep twenty minutes ago with coffee and pastries. And immediately had taken over baby duty once you let him in. Now he sat on the living room floor with Lizzie in his lap while he helped her stack blocks with concerning levels of commitment.

“Okay” he said gravely, adding another block. “This feels structurally unsound but if you insist…”

Lizzie shrieked delighted. “RARA!” Then slapped the whole tower sideways.

You smiled. 

Robby stared at the blocks then sighed deeply. “Uncle Rara loves you so much.” He cuddled her against his chest, kissing her hair. “I can’t be mad at you, kid.”

Lizzie squealed, then jumped up and down, laughing hysterically.

“You see - I’m the godfather so this child and I have a sacred bond” he said towards you.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m serious.” He shrugged. “I hope there is any kind of legal document just in case you idiots die one day.”

You stared at him in horror for a moment, before laughing. “Can you not say it like that?”

“What?” He rolled his eyes. “I just like being prepared.”

“Okay.” You still chuckled softly when you took another sip. “Oh, by the way - did Jack tell you we booked the flights for her birthday?”

“Flights?” he asked, already frowning.

“I told you.” You gave him a stern look. “We’re flying out to see my family.”

“Ah. Yes. You mentioned that.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna stay for a week.”

“Excuse me?” He sat up straighter, pulling Lizzie - who wanted to crawl away - back into his lap. “So let me get this straight. You’re taking my goddaughter across the country and have the audacity to leave me out of her very first birthday?”

You could only blink. “Um-”

“No.” He shook his head once. “Absolutely not.”

“Robby-”

“No.” He gestured at Lizzie. “This child? She’s like my own daughter so, no, thank you very much, I’m not missing her birthday.”

You started to laugh. “Robby, we’re visiting my family.”

“And?”

You blinked. “My family” you repeated, slower this time.

“Yeah, I heard you. So I’m coming.”

“Um - what?”

“I’m coming with you.”

The laughter stuck in your throat. “Um, no, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Michael, you can’t just invite yourself to our family gathering.”

“Oh, watch me.” He looked genuinely offended now. “I’m her godfather. I’m important.”

“Yes but you see her nearly on a daily basis.”

“She gets one first birthday. No way I’m missing it.”

“Robby, she won’t remember!”

“But I will remember” Robby shot back, then went silent. He looked down at Lizzie for a second, brushing hair back from her forehead automatically. Then shrugged like he hadn’t gotten emotional. “I just don’t want to miss this.” He narrowed his eyes. “Also Jack’s meeting your family for the first time. He needs all the backup support he can get.”

You snorted. “He served in the army. I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Robby looked deeply unconvinced. “Big family birthday in a rural town? That man’s gotta get emotionally overwhelmed in like ten seconds.”

You tried to look offended. “That’s my family you’re talking about.”

“And you moved hundreds of miles away from them, so you’re just proving my point.”

You laughed despite yourself. 

A floorboard creaked in the hallway and both of you looked up instinctively. Jack’s sleep-rough voice drifted over.

“Why do I hear Michael fucking Robinavitch in my apartment?”

Robby started grinning while Lizzie let out a delighted shriek. “Good morning heartthrob!”

You cackled.

There was a moment of silence. Then - “Get out of my apartment, you psycho.”

“Watch your language, Abbot, your daughter is here” he shot back without missing a beat.

Jack appeared in the doorway looking devastatingly exhausted - his hair a mess, his shirt wrinkled, still half-asleep. He stopped and looked at Robby. Then at Lizzie, who was trying to wrestle herself free from Robby's embrace.

“Why are you here?”

Robby raised his eyebrows. “I want to spend time with my goddaughter on one of my rare days off.”

“DADDA DADDA DADDA!” Lizzie made grabby hands in Jack’s direction and his face softened immediately.

“Hey Bean.” He blew her a kiss.

She giggled delighted.

Robby snuggled her a little closer. “By the way we just decided I’m coming to her birthday.”

Jack blinked once, glancing over to you. You held up your hands. “I’m innocent. He decided this. There was no we in that decision.”

“Traitor” Robby muttered under his breath, then added louder: “No way I’m missing my goddaughters first birthday.”

Jack looked horrified for a moment, then something else crossed his face. Immediate defeat. He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his face. “We created a monster” he mumbled.

Robby shrugged. “Yep. It’s your fault. Now let’s talk logistics…”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

Lunch breaks in the emergency department were practically non-existent. Between the hustle and bustle of trauma and patients cycling in and out, it was hard to find a moment to breathe, let alone to eat.

Today was a rare day.

Robby had practically ushered the four of you out of the ED the moment things settled down, arms crossed like a proactive dad who ensures his children eat their supper. He promised to page if a rush happened or if the med students screwed something up.

It wasn’t slow, but it was the closest thing the ED would ever see.

You sat down at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria with Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi, finally excited to eat.

The second the food hit the table, the conversation that was once flowing slowly turned into a debate.

“This is insane,” Whitaker said, staring at his receipt like it had offended him. “Why is a sandwich seven dollars? In a hospital, of all places.”

Javadi leaned over to look. “It’s literally bread and ham. That’s it.”

“Don’t forget disappointment,” Santos added, already halfway through hers like she had accepted defeat.

Whitaker huffed, leaning back in his chair. “How are residents supposed to survive on this? My salary barely covers my loans.”

“They expect you to run on spite and caffeine,” you said calmly, taking a bite of your sandwich.

Whitaker leaned back in the plastic chair. “And don’t even get me started on families. People sitting here stressed and grieving, trying to eat, and it costs this much?”

Javadi scoffed lightly. “Sorry, your father has heart failure, but would you like to buy a six-dollar coffee to cope?”

“Hospital capitalism is its own disease,” Santos muttered.

A round of tired agreement followed, chairs creaking, and wrappers crinkling as the exhaustion lingered over the table.

Santos turned to you. “Okay, but you're weirdly calm about this. Don’t you care about our wallets?”

Three pairs of eyes landed on you at once.

You blinked, then shrugged slightly. “I don’t really think about it.”

Whitaker frowned. “How do you not think about it?”

You took another bite, unbothered. “I just charged it to my husband’s account.”

There was silence.

You couldn’t tell whose jaw dropped first, Santos or Javadi's, but for two people who never stopped talking, they went completely quiet.

Whitaker looked between the two, trying to process exactly what you had just said. “Did she just–”

At the same time, Santos blurted, “You're what?”

“My husband’s account,” you repeated casually. You hadn’t paid for your lunch since you started working here.

Javadi blinked.  “You have a husband?”

“Yeah,” 

Whitaker slowly sat forward in his chair, as if the world had shifted slightly. “Since when?”

“A couple of years now.”

Santos was still in a state of shock. “We work with you every day.”

“I know,” 

“And you never mentioned a husband?”

You tilted your head. “You guys have also never asked.”

Whitaker let out a short laugh. “You don’t even wear a ring.”

You lifted your hand briefly. “Work hazard.”

Javadi leaned in now, curiosity fully activated. “So your husband just pays for everything?”

“Well, no,” you corrected. “I just forget my card sometimes, so it’s easier. He’ll handle it.”

Santos slowly leaned back in her chair, processing. “Okay. I need context.”

You hesitated just a fraction too long, and that was enough.

Santos narrowed her eyes. “Oh, my god. Don’t tell me it’s someone here.”

“No freaking way,” Whitaker shook his head. “We would totally know if it was someone here.”

Javadi frowned slightly. “Would we though?”

Whitaker opened his mouth, then paused, glancing around the cafeteria like he was suddenly reconsidering the entire staff list. “I mean… There are tons of doctors who work here.”

“Exactly,” Javadi said. “Half of them barely come down to the ED. We wouldn’t know.”

Santos, however, didn’t look convinced.

She was staring at you now, like really staring, as if she was trying to piece something together in her mind. “Oh no”

You tried very hard to keep your expression straight, but you couldn't help but the small smirk that crept on your face.

Santos leaned forward, pointing her fork at you. “Oh, we definitely know him.”

Whitaker blinked. “What?”

“I’ve seen that face before,” she continued, gesturing vaguely at you. “That little—” she squinted, mimicking it poorly, “smirk you do when you’re hiding something.”

Javadi’s eyes widened.  “She’s right.”

Santos didn't take her eyes off you. “Who is it?”

You hesitated, glancing between the three of them, already knowing exactly how this was about to go. It’s not like you haven't heard them complain about him before.

“...Promise you won’t hate me?”

Javadi leaned in. “Please don’t say, Robby.”

Santos made a face. “Oh my god, if it’s Robby, I’m transferring.”

You snorted. “It’s not Robby.”

Whitaker let out a breath. “Okay, good.”

Santos waved her fork at you. “Alright, then who is it?”

You exhaled, already bracing for impact. You looked between them.

“...Brendon Park.”

The table went silent.

Whitaker froze. “No.”

Javadi blinked. “Oh, my god.”

Santos didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “You’re married to Dr. Park.”

You nodded.

Whitaker ran a hand over his face. “The ortho surgeon who hates everyone?”

“Not everyone,” you teased.

They all stared at you.

“He’s not like that all the time. That’s just work.”

Santos blinked. “A work thing?”

You nodded. “He’s like an ortho god here. At home, he's just Brendon.”

Whitaker shook his head. “That man barely tolerates people.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well. He tolerates me.”

There was a moment where you searched for the right words, something that might help them understand. They only knew one side of him. You knew both. Normally, you didn’t feel the need to explain it, but here it felt necessary.

“‘Park the Shark’ is for here,” you said lightly. “That’s him in the OR, in the hospital, doing all that intense surgical work.”

Santos snorted. “Park the Shark is insane, by the way.”

You smiled. “Well, yeah, he got his name somehow.”

Whitaker leaned forward slightly. “And at home?”

You shrugged, but your voice softened just a little.

“He’s just Brendon,” you said, “He’s normal. He lives on coffee and reality television and steals my food even when he is not hungry. He’s there for anything that I need.”

Javadi tilted her head. “That sounds like a different person.”

“It’s not,” you said simply. “I just get the better version.”

Santos studied you for a second. “So you’re telling me Dr. ‘I intimidate half the hospital’ Park is just completely different at home.”

You shrugged again, but there was a small, fond smile you couldn’t quite hide.

Whitaker was staring at you like he was trying to rewrite everything he thought he knew.

Javadi’s brows were slightly furrowed, like she was mentally replaying every interaction she’d ever had with him.

Santos just leaned back, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”

You only smiled.

Before anyone could say anything else—

All of your pagers went off.

The moment shattered.

Whitaker groaned, already pushing his chair back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Break’s over,” Javadi muttered, grabbing her things.

The ED had settled back into its usual rhythm of controlled chaos.

Lunch break seemed far behind in your mind as you went from treatment room to treatment room.

You were at the nurses' station, finishing up a chart while Santos, Whitaker, and Javai lingered nearby, pretending to be busy while the conversation from lunch was still very much alive in the air.

Santos was mid-sentence when she suddenly stopped.

Her eyes shifted past you.

“..Oh?”

Whitaker frowned. “What?”

Javadi followed her line of sight in the elevator and immediately went quiet.

You didn't even look up; their reaction had said it all.

Brendon Park walked in like he owned the place, his cold and controlled composure completely unaffected by the noise around him.

He stepped up to the station. “Room?” he asked.

One of the nurses answered, pointing down the hall to one of the trauma rooms.

He gave a short nod and continued without another glance.

Whitaker leaned in slightly. “Yeah… she’s really married to that guy.”

Santos shook her head. “Still don’t get why.”

You just kept typing.

The hallway was less chaotic than the rest of the ED.

Still, staff were walking through, and patients were waiting on beds, but it settled enough that you could relax momentarily.

You leaned back against the wall, chart in hand, exhaling slowly.

A door opened.

Brendon stepped out, already pulling off his gloves, attention still half on the patient he’d just seen.

He was focused. Clearly thinking ahead of the upcoming surgery, he was about to perform.

He started walking, but when he noticed you, he slowed his pace until he was next to you.

You pushed off the wall, a smile already forming. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw three heads pop up.

“Hey.”

Everything about his demeanour shifted.

“Hey,” he said, lighter, just for you.

He stepped closer, close enough that your hands brushed.

“You okay?” he asked, scanning your face.

You nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t fully convince him.

“Just a long shift.”

His gaze lingered, reading you like a chart.

“Did you eat?”

You huffed. “Yes.”

He didn’t believe you.

You rolled your eyes a little, reaching up without thinking to fix the collar of his scrub top as it had folded in on itself. “I had a sandwich."

His brows lifted slightly.

“I promise,” you added.

Brendon held out his pinky.

“Are you serious?” You couldn't get over the ridiculousness of your husband wanting to pinky promise over a sandwich.

You laughed under your breath, hooking your finger with his. “My friends are watching.”

He leaned in just slightly, voice low.

“Oh, I know,” he murmured. “I can feel them staring.”

And sure enough, when you turned three heads, you immediately ducked out of sight down the hall.

You smiled.

And just like that, “Park the Shark” was gone.

“Okay, what about him?” you say, turning the screen towards them. Two equally disturbed looks are sent your way and you wordlessly swipe left. “I’m never getting laid at this point,” you whine, letting John take your phone as he starts swiping for you.

Parker sighs, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her arms, giving you a confused look– like it's your fault nothing is happening in the romance sector of your life.

“Quit moaning– see, this is why you should date women,” she shrugs, as if you hadn’t thought of that either.

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you retort, feeling less hopeful with each piece of advice given to you by your colleagues. 

Parker raises her hands in defeat, though you don’t miss the amused smirk on her face, clearly finding entertainment in your despair.

“Yeah, these guys ain't it– everyone is either a republican or holding a fish in their pictures–” John finally speaks up, grimacing in disgust,  “Also, this guy is thirty, who can’t use ‘there, their and they're’ at that age?

Just as he’s about to hand your phone back, someone intercepts the action.

“Is there a reason three of my residents are huddled around like a football team instead of, you know, actually working?”

Jack quirks an eyebrow, looking between the three of you– looking like you were caught with your hands in the cookie jar. 

Squinting down at the screen of the phone, he’s confused when he’s met with the picture of a man, standing shirtless on what seems to be a fishing boat.

He glances up at John, before humming in surprise.

“Didn’t know you swung that way Shen– but hey, all the power to you. I’m, uh– what’s it called? Right– an ally!””

“It’s not mine!” John exclaims, though you suspect he’s more offended over the fact that Jack thought he was into guys that fish, rather than assuming he's gay. 

You hold back a laugh, shaking your head as you stretch your hand out towards Jack.

“It’s mine,” you say weakly, embarrassed that your boss caught you in such a vulnerable, degrading state.

Actively trying to score a date.

Jack’s expression shifts, not in a dramatic way, but you catch it– that flicker of surprise that later turns to interest.

“Oh,” he says, looking back down at the phone in his hand, then back at you. “Didn’t peg you for the fishing-boat type,”

“I’m not,” you deadpan, reaching a little more insistently for your phone. “That’s why he was getting rejected,”

He doesn’t hand it back right away, instead tilting the screen again, eyes darting across like he’s assessing injuries on a patient.

You can feel the judgement radiating off him.

“Okay, enough about my non-existent love life– can I have that back?”

“Doesn’t seem that non-existent from here,” Jack mutters, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek as he turns to show you the DM section– filled with messages you hadn’t bothered replying to.

Oh, so he can’t figure out how to lower the brightness on his phone, but he can work the Hinge DM’s?

“Hey, that’s private!” you blurt, making another grab for it, but Jack just lifts it slightly out of reach, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Give it back, Abbot–”

“No, I think I’ll be keeping this actually,” he muses, promptly putting your phone into his pocket.

You blink, looking at Parker and John for help, but when you turn around, their chairs are empty.

Traitors.

Whirling back, you turn around just in time to see his retreating figure making its way towards the medicine dispenser.

“Are you serious right now?” you call after him, already moving to follow.

Jack doesn’t even slow down, only stopping to press his pincode into the tiny screen on the automated medicine cabinet. 

“You can’t be tindering’ while on the clock–”

“It was Hinge, and I’m on my break!” you counter, annoyance growing at the way he won’t even look at you. Stepping between the cabinet and his frame, you cross your arms, hardening your gaze as much as you possibly could. “Do you want me to end up alone forever?”

Jack rolls his eyes at your hyperbole before glancing back at you. You’re close– close enough that he can see the leftover from your lunch on the side of your mouth. Without thinking, he reaches up, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb, then stepping back as if nothing had happened.

“I doubt that’s going to happen.” he mutters dryly, his large hands landing on your shoulders as he gently pulls you out of the way. “You can have it back once you’ve assessed at least three patients in triage,”

Your brain short-circuits as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, the stroke quick, almost absentminded, followed by the warmth of his hands touching your body– and fuck, you just realized how touch starved you actually are– because your boss being…well, himself, should not have this effect on you.

“Three patients?” you confirm, breaking out of your spiraling thoughts.

You’d rather run the entire ER completely by yourself on Christmas, than to try and figure out why you were having fanny flutters after a glorified shove from your attending.

02:45 AM

Jack stands in the breakroom, pouring himself his third cup of coffee for the night when it vibrates again.

He tries to ignore, he really does– that insistent buzzing in the right pocket of his scrubs. It’s almost 3 AM– who in their right mind is texting at this time?

He knows it’s not his phone, no one texts him. Well, besides Robby, his psychologist, and at times, the pharmacy with a reminder for him to pick up his prescriptions.

Still, his curiosity gets the best of him, and before he knows it, he’s making sure the coast is clear and quickly digging your phone out of his pocket.

Just as he expected– several messages on your lock screen and all of them from Hinge. Jack’s eyes dart across the screen, each message sending him reeling further.

“R u up?”

“Ur sooo hot,”

“Did it hurt when you–”

Yeah, okay, that's enough. Jesus, who are these douchebags in your phone?

Jack shakes his head, going to stuff your phone back into his pocket and try to ignore the weird pit that formed in his stomach at the thought of you actually giving any of these guys a chance.

Or anyone in general, his mind echoes, but he shakes the thoughts before they can take any actual form.

Instead, he’s staring at the influx of shitty pickup-lines and decides to do you a favor. His thumb swipes over the screen, deleting the first message. Deciding that he liked the feeling of “helping” you, he keeps going and only stops when he’s content– which coincidentally happens when your lockscreen is clear again. Holding back a smug grin, he takes a long sip of his coffee leaning back against the countertop.

Oops.

03:18 AM

Parker Ellis does a double take when she finds you ducking behind the counter in the hub. She leans over the counter, peering down at you suspiciously.

“…Why are you crouching on the floor?”

You jump, only relaxing when you look up and see that it’s just her.

“Shit, you scared me. I…” you huff,  hesitating as you look over your shoulder before answering. “I’m hiding from a patient,”

Parker hums, not as fazed as you expected her to be at the revelation.

“Yeah, been there, done that,” she reminisces, before looking at you incredulously. “But you don’t do that, so spill,”

Deciding against having to pay orthopedics a visit, you stand up straight again, still eyeing the surrounding area warily.

“Well…there’s this one patient that–”

“There you are, doc!”

In an almost comedic timing, a voice loudly interrupts.

You stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend not to hear him he’ll leave you alone?

“Doc!” the voice calls again, closer this time. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere!”

That clearly did not work. You inhale slowly through your nose, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto your face as you turn around. 

“Mr. Williams–”

“Hey, I told you to just call me Henry,” he smirks, sauntering up to the counter and leaning against it– awfully confident for a man currently dressed in a hospital gown. “Anyways– you left before we could pick a day that works for you,”

You laugh awkwardly, briefly glancing at Parker, as to signal help with your gaze. 

“Uh– I would, I just– I think Dr. Ellis here needed a second opinion–”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. By all means, go ahead and finish up here!” she chirps, stifling a delighted grin, as she looks between you and Henry expectantly.

You make a mental note of her betrayal, vowing to never cover her shifts again.

Henry perks up immediately, sending you what you can only assume is meant to be a sexy smolder. 

…It’s not.

Henry leans in a little more, like he’s expecting you to meet him halfway.

“I’m pretty flexible,” he adds, lowering his voice like it’s supposed to be charming. “You just tell me when you’re free, and I’ll make it work”

You laugh again and it comes out strained this time.

Fuck, is this the life you’re doomed to live? At this rate you’re going to end up alone. Maybe you should just suck it up and say yes–

“Is there a problem here?” 

Your saving grace appears in the form of Jack Abbot, and you have never been more relieved to hear his voice.

Parker, the snake, chooses right now as her moment to chime in, placing a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Come on, Mr. Williams, let me take you back to your bed,”

“Wait a minute, I still need to–”

Henry’s protests fade away as Parker leads him back to his room, thankfully in the west and furthest wing of the department.

Sighing in relief, you turn to Jack with a bright smile, right up until he speaks up.

“Seriously? I take your phone and you pounce on the first patient your age?”

Your smile drops instantly, an offended expression forming.

 “What? I was not–”

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t shut it down, did you?” he grunts, eyebrows raised and a cynical look in his eyes.

Your mouth snaps shut, a sheepish look crossing your face, because yes, you did have a slight moment of weakness and debated hooking up with a patient. 

A girl’s gotta eat, though!

“Robby’s always nagging about patient satisfaction scores anyways,” you joke, but it falls flat, Jack’s unamused face making you have second thoughts. “That was a joke,” you clarify, thinking it was just the late hour getting to him.

“It wasn’t very funny,” he counters, rolling his eyes.

Jesus Christ, he's sassy tonight– 

Sighing, you dig the heel of your palms into your eyes while you speak up, voice laced in exasperation. You’d fight this battle another time. “Sure, whatever– I’ve cleared three patients, can I have my phone back now?”

Jack purses his lips, and you’re confused about what the hold up is about. When he still doesn’t reach into his pocket, you speak up again.

“Okay, have I done something?” you ask, eyes flitting across his hardened face and closed off body language. Everything screams annoyed and you have no clue why he would be angry with you.

“No, I just think you have terrible taste in men” Jack mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze.

“Really?” you scoff, face twisting in disbelief. “This is about my dating choices?”

“It’s about you bringing it into work when you should be clearing beds–”

“We have like, five rooms empty–” you retort easily, which only seems to further agitate Jack. 

“Well, we should have more– we would have more, if you would just focus and get to work!” he barks, before turning away and storming off.

You stand in the middle of the ER, mouth slightly ajar as you try to understand what just happened. And despite everything that had just transpired, you still haven’t gotten your phone back. 

03:36 AM

Jack regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's too late by then– he’s already stormed off and turning back and apologizing would probably reveal what he’s doing a terrible job of trying to hide. 

He doesn’t understand it, why someone as brilliant, beautiful and kind as you would settle for those…disappointments. 

You needed someone who would take care of you–  to make sure you ate something proper during work, an actual hearty meal, instead of those protein bars you claimed sustained you.

Someone who could understand where you were coming from when you complained about work and your patients– not an insecure idiot who would whine about the late hours you worked.

You definitely needed someone who would spoil you. Maybe pick you up and drop you off at work, someone to wine and dine you, run you baths after a particularly grueling shift, to sit by the tub and rub your damp shoulders and neck, before slipping further and–

Jack shakes his head, swallowing hard. Fuck, he was getting out of hand. 

“Get it together, man” he mutters under his breath. A passing nurse gives him a quick glance, and Jack quickly sends her a charming smile, like he wasn’t just staring into nothing, thinking about you.

04:30 AM

You stretch your arms up, suppressing a yawn as you settle down in front of an available computer, tapping your ID badge on the card reader and logging in to finally start charting. The screen flickers alive and you momentarily just stare at the blank page, thinking about the events that had unfolded.

Jack took your phone. Then he cockblocked a potential hookup. Then he yelled at you, and even though you’d cleared more than three patients, you still hadn't gotten your phone back, which was throwing you completely off your game.

You hadn’t even been able to do your five-minute doomscroll while on the toilet earlier.

A cup lands on your desk, stopping your train of thoughts. Blinking, your eyes snap towards the culprit.

Jack is already looking at you, before his gaze shifts to the empty screen in front of you.

“...You looked like you needed some caffeine,” he mumbles and lingers, despite his action being finished. 

A snort slips past your lips, and you cover your mouth in horror.

Jack’s eyebrows raise in surprise, unable to resist the smile forming on his face.

“What was that?” he wheezes out through breathy laughter.

“What was what–” you say, voice unusually high pitched as you feign ignorance, though the way your cheeks turn red betray your words.

“That– you just– did you just snort?” 

It’s not loud, he’s clearly trying to keep it contained for your sake, but it breaks through anyway–  a sharp, surprised laugh that he clearly didn’t plan on letting out.

Your cheeks redden further and you huff, standing up and quickly logging out of the computer.

“I’m leaving!”

Jack moves before his mind registers what he's doing, his hand shooting out and grabbing your wrist. You freeze at the touch, stiffening just a bit.

He’s not too bothered about it, having a sudden surge of confidence, which was evident in the way he tugs you closer to him.

“Hey– it was cute,” he says softly, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes your heart pound faster in your chest and your hands grow clammy. 

“You’re just making fun of me,” you shake your head, muttering weakly, though a bashful expression still sweeps over your face.

“I’m not,” he says and it comes out too fast. Then, like he hears himself and doesn’t like how insincere it sounded, he tries to soften it. “I’m not making fun of you,”

Reluctantly, Jack lets go of your wrist and grabs the coffee cup he brought you earlier. He easily identifies the look on your face as hesitation, motioning towards the cup in his hand with his chin.

“You laugh at everything when you’re tired,” he reasons and only relaxes once your fingers wrap around it. 

“Good girl,” he says, and turns around at the sound of his name being called, leaving you to overthink every decision you’ve ever made in your life that's led you here, tonight.

To a reality where Jack Abbot flirts with you, then leaves like it’s nothing.

06:00 AM

You’ve spent the last hour and a half of your shift avoiding Jack, going as far to write your charts on the other end of the ER.

It’s your own fault, really. Clearly being deprived of love and affection has left you overthinking everything– as if there’s any actual chance that Jack Abbot has been flirting with you.

No– there’s no way. 

If you knew, you’d have done something about it way sooner, not wasted your time on dating apps, entertaining guys that eventually end up calling their exes when wasted, and ruining any chance they had with you. 

All the good guys were either deceased or taken– and the only exception to that could not be your boss. 

Because if there was something there– anything real, anything intentional– you would’ve seen it. You’re not oblivious, you’ve dated enough, survived enough disappointments to know what interest looks like.

And Jack?

Jack is just…

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because the list that comes to mind doesn’t help your argument.

He’s attentive. Annoyingly so, at times.

Well, he has to be, he’s the attending, you reason.

But then you think back to the coffee he brought you, exactly the way you liked it and the pretense in which he had brought it over. He noticed that you were tired– that you laugh at things that aren’t even funny, when that’s the case.

Also, your phone. When he eventually gave it back, you had no notifications. Not that you’re that popular anywhere, but you specifically remember there being some texts you were purposefully ignoring, from some sleazy guys on Hinge. 

Did he delete them because he…

You sit up straighter, now racking your brain for every interaction you’ve ever had with the older male.

When he first realized it was your phone, the one opened and active on dating apps.

Henry– the way he was unreasonably upset after that whole fiasco, snapping at you then storming off like a petulant child, throwing a temper tantrum.

The brief, casual touches, like it’s second nature to him to take care of you.

The final nail in the coffin is when you decide to look up, searching for him– just to end this once and for all, to convince yourself that the sleep deprivation was getting to you– when you lock eyes with him from across the department.

He blushes, before fumbling with the ipad in his hands, and then just…takes off, leaving you to stare at the spot he had just occupied.

Holy shit.

Jack Abbot liked you.

06:57 AM

The last few minutes of a shift are always the worst ones. It’s like time moves in slow motion, wanting to prolong the suffering for as long as possible.

Your phone buzzes, and you don’t think about it when you dig it out of your pocket, blinking sluggishly as you try to read the notice.

Huh, guess there’s a warning for heavy rain–

“Are you serious right now?” 

You flinch at the sharp tone of voice that’s suddenly directed at you.

Jack stands at the opening of the locker room, jaw clenched and hands on his hips as he takes in the sight of you on your damn phone, yet again.

“It’s not even seven yet, and you’re still entertaining those…losers?”

Now that you knew what his annoyance stemmed from, you could have some fun. You shrug, grabbing your jacket from the locker, and zipping it up as you speak.

“What? It’s the perfect time to go on a breakfast date–”

“You’re not going on a fucking breakfast date,” he scoffs, walking towards you.

You smile innocently, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him.

“Give me a better offer, then,”

Jack falters, stopping just a few feet away, annoyance slowly fading at your words. 

You don’t back down, looking at him expectantly.

“Well? If you’re going to reject everyone for me, then you might as well take me out as well,”

He gapes, eyes widening in realisation. 

You knew.

He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, then taking them out again and crossing his arms.

Come on, man– you're fidgeting like a dork!

“I– yeah, sure,” he splutters out, wincing at how he sounds.

“That doesn't sound very convincing, Jack,” you tease, enjoying the fact that he was a blushing mess because of you, far too much.

“Go out for breakfast with me,” he says instantly, voice breathless and hands falling to his sides, like he's ready to reach out and stop you if you try to leave now. “Please,” he adds quickly.

The last bit of control he’s been holding onto all night slips, and Jack was ninety percent sure he would beg if you asked him to.

Luckily enough, you don’t. Instead, you smile at him– that radiant smile that makes his stomach flutter with what can only be described as butterflies– just to walk right past him. 

He feels his heart drop, closing his eyes as he curses internally.

Of course you were only messing with him–

“Are you coming or not?” you call out from where you’re leaning against the doorway, still sporting that same smile.

Waiting for him.

Jack has never walked faster in his life. 

In the parking lot, he opens the passenger side door of his car for you, only to stop before he shuts it– searching your gaze.

“...You’ve deleted Hinge, right?”

You blink the fleeting shock away and force yourself to keep typing when Jack’s steady hand never wavers on your spine. “Are you sure about this?” you hear yourself ask.

“Of course I am,” he shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You glance back at him with an expectant gaze, wide eyes glimmering with worry. “Because we could get in trouble if someone found out— serious trouble.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, because this wasn’t the first time he’s low-balled a few measurements to help a patient get an abortion they want, and it probably won’t be the last. 

His mouth flickers upward in a soft smile, but his eyes stay stern as he tells you in a calm and unwavering voice, “Well, I’m the attending here, right? So, technically, I’d be the only one getting in trouble.” 

“That’s worse,” you agonize in a sharp whisper, fingers trembling over the keyboard. “I don’t want any of us getting in trouble— not her and especially not you.”

“Good thing no one’s gonna find out then, huh?”

Jack arches an expectant brow.

Your eyes soften around the edges with apprehension.

Robby’s gritty voice cuts through the never-ending noise and the tension between you as he drops off a clipboard at its assigned rack. “What are you two whispering about over here?” he quips drily.

You flounder instantly at the simple question.

Jack takes it in stride. “Oh, nothing— Just, you know, conspiring against you. Figuring out the easiest way to overthrow your authority. That’s all.”

“If you wanna take over, then by all means…” Robby jokes with his hands splayed in surrender before stalking off in the opposite direction. “Put me out of my misery.”

You exhale a wavering breath when he’s gone and turn back to the computer in front of you. You adjust the girl’s gestational sac and biparietal diameter measurements to meet the mandated eleven-week cutoff. 

Jack’s warm hand never leaves your back.

You fail to notice that your fingers no longer shake.

Trauma 2 swells with heat — both from the increasing temperature of the unconscious burn patient rushed in by the EMTs, and from the rising tension as the young man’s sats begin to plummet without warning. An unrelenting beeping noise fills the tense air, along with the sound of shuffling as you all scramble to throw on disposable PPE.

You fumble with a pair of gloves like it’s your very first day in the ER, while Jack helps tie a paper gown around your neck and spine.

“What’s your call, Doc?” he asks from behind you.

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer breathlessly. “Maybe a— a lung injury from the fire?”

“Explains the sudden respiratory distress,” Jack nods affirmingly, warm fingers brushing the base of your neck. “But doesn’t explain the high peak pressure or the low tidal volume.”

“Okay… Uh…” you waver and swallow hard. It takes a long moment for your brain to finally click. “Then it’s a— A restrictive pattern. The burnt skin is losing elasticity. The chest wall’s getting too tight.”

You miss the proud smile Jack gives you in response. 

“That’s right,” the older man praises as he finishes knotting the tie in your gown. He turns to announce to the rest of the room: “Let’s get these dressings off and prep him for an escharotomy, shall we?”

A nurse readies a medical tray. You freeze when Jack passes you the scalpel in a gloved hand. Your wide eyes flit wildly between it and him.

“I… I’ve never done one of these before. I wouldn’t know how to—”

“That’s okay,” Jack nods, with a voice much softer than the chaos surrounding you. “You hold the blade. I’ll cut. We’ll take it slow. I promise.”

When he steps in behind you, you can smell the musky cologne on his skin and the coffee on his breath — beneath the bitter scent of charred skin and antiseptic. His right hand rests firmly on top of your smaller one, warm like a furnace, and guides your fingers to the man’s blistered side.

“Start at the lateral clavicle…” Jack instructs lowly in your ear. “And then down the anterior axillary line…”

“How much pressure?” you ask, fighting off a shiver.

“Just about… this much.” He applies the slightest bit of guidance. The scalpel pierces the skin. Fatty tissue blooms underneath, tainted by the deep scarlet blood that spills out. “Now just go around to the lower rib margin…. Yep, that’s it… You’re doing great…”

Your chest warms at his praise.

The rapid beeping quietens shortly thereafter.

“Peak pressure’s already down in the thirties,” Ellis comments from the opposite side of the room, dark eyes steady on the monitor. “And tidal volume’s already coming up.”

“See?” Jack lilts in your ear, a smile audible in his voice. “There we go.”

You exhale a wavering sigh; a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Jack finds you in the break room afterward, when the patient is finally stable again. Your back is facing him as you make yourself a coffee, all slow and methodical — ‘cause this is the only place in the PTMC where you’re truly allowed to take your time.

“Hey…” the man greets gently to keep from startling you. He smiles when you glance over your shoulder to look at him. His chin bows in a nod of approval. “You did good in there.”

You shake your head and turn away, ripping open three square sugar packets in one fell swoop. “No. That was… That was all you, Dr. Abbot…”

You tap the pink wrappers with your pointer finger. White granules come spilling out, dissolving instantly in the steaming liquid — a little like you do, when Jack towers suddenly at your side, leaning back against the counter with his arm brushing yours. 

His freckled biceps strain against his scrub sleeves when he crosses them over his chest. His scruffy chin ducks softly to flash you a stern sort of look.

“You did the left side and the horizontal incision,” Jack reminds you. “So just take the win, kid.”

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes. A reluctant smile tugs at the edges of your mouth. “Thanks…”

His kind eyes drop to the mug in your hands. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure how much of a good idea that caffeine is. I know your adrenaline’s spiked— always happens when you get to do something new in here.”

“I know. I just… needed a second to breathe,” you confess. “I was actually making it for you…”

Jack’s brows lower in a dubious look. “…Really?”

You nod, smiling quietly but still wider than you realize. “Two creams, three sugars, right?”

His expression softens as something red-hot burns through his chest. He nods once, with a shy smile, and with calloused fingers that brush yours when he takes the mug from your hand.

“Yeah…” he hums, breathless for a reason he can’t name. “That’s right.”

The MCI hits the PTMC like a tidal wave. 

The emergency department turns into a blur of blood and bustling bodies and bellowed commands as a series of GSWs are rushed in from a shooting at a local concert. The day shift is called in despite the late night for extra hands, while the rest of the bottom floor is cleared out to make room for incoming patients.

A young boy is carried in, limp and bloodied. His concert tee is two sizes too big and ripped at the stomach from where a bullet had torn through his skin and wedged into his abdomen. 

You’re reminded immediately of the boy who was rushed in the same way, some months back, with differing injuries but on the brink of death all the same — Barry, who now lives with his grandmother, and had just celebrated his fifth birthday, and is going to start kindergarten in the fall.

You don’t have time to think about all that now — not about the child from before, or how the sight of this one reawakens a trauma you thought you’d gotten over. You just move. 

Your hands move fast and steady despite your racing mind. You’re wrists-deep in the boy’s small, round stomach when sudden intestinal failure causes his sats to drop. You work fast to stop the hemorrhaging and to repair the rupture in his small intestine before he’s taken to the OR for more intensive monitoring.

“Sats are stabilizing,” you hear Crus say from beside you, as the rapid beeping of his monitor begins to slow. “Heart rate’s normalizing. Blood pressures trending upwards— Let’s get him to the OR.” 

You don’t realize Jack had been with you the whole time until the room is cleared out. 

You remain in place, covered in bright red blood that isn’t yours — with your gloved hands limp at your sides and your glassy gaze focused on the crimson footprints smudged on the linoleum below.

Jack steps into your tunnel vision then, silver head bowed and light eyes swimming with concern behind his safety glasses. 

“Hey…” he coos. “You with me?”

You blink hard, trying to clear the haze of adrenaline from your vision. You nod on muscle memory, until the words catch up with you, “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I just—” 

Your voice breaks, betraying you instantly.

“It’s okay,” Jack murmurs. “You did good, kid. You did everything right— He’s okay…”

He reaches out for you, weathered hands tense with hesitancy. Your wide eyes are filled with lingering fear as you watch him inch towards you, but you don’t stop him when his fingers brush your wrists. 

He peels your bloodied gloves from your trembling hands with a warm and steady touch. Your paper gown goes next, and then your glasses. You stay still, letting Jack take care of it all, while your brain struggles to catch up to the current moment — still stuck somewhere in the chaos from before.

“I thought—” Your breath stutters in your chest. You struggle to tear your eyes off the blood on the floor. “I thought he was— that he was going to—”

“I know,” Jack hums, more distant now. “I know. But he’s okay. That’s what matters.”

Your head swivels over your shoulder. You find him standing at the bin across the room, chucking away your PPE gear before tossing in his own — his gloves, then his gown, then his glasses. The two of you are left in your heavy black scrubs, unstained, but still smelling of the heavy metallic blood in the room anyway.

His eyes are narrow and attentive as they flit across your face — the beads of sweat on your forehead, the glazed-over look in your eye, the bite marks of worry etched into your mouth. He hasn’t seen you like this since the day he found you on the roof.

“Go ahead and take a breather, kid— I’ll come find you in a second.”

Any other time, the thought of a break would’ve terrified you. But now, you catch yourself nodding before you’ve even really considered it. 

“Okay…” you hear yourself waver in a faraway voice. “But can you, uh— Can you check— Make sure he’s… that he’s okay in the OR—”

“Yeah,” Jack nods instantly. “Of course.”

His words hang in the quiet, heavy, blood-soaked air for several long moments — the weight of them more so — the notion that no one has ever cared for you in your whole life the way Jack Abbot has cared for you in the past few months. 

You feel your feet moving before your brain has truly processed it. 

The steps you take towards him are not planned; they’re not all the way thought through, either. You gravitate towards him with all the same instincts as the tides to the moon. You don’t even realize you’re hugging him until your arms are already wrapped around his waist — until your warm cheek is pressed to the soft fabric of his scrubs, until you can hear his heart beat thudding in your ear.

You hold him tight — scared that he’ll sleep away, or maybe that you will.

Jack freezes for half a heartbeat. Because, even though he’s made a habit of being next to you in every room he’s in, it isn’t lost on him that this is the very first time that you’ve touched him without him initiating it first.

Once the fleeting moment of shock has passed, his strong arms wrap just as tight around your form — one hand firm between your shoulder blades, and the other cradling gently at the back of your head. He keeps you close while you bury your nose in his chest, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his warmth.

“You’re okay…” he coos. “I got you, kid. You’re okay…”

You can feel the words humming in his chest.

And for the very first time, you start to believe them.

The doc liked the message and now, you were on the clock.

Night shift was cruel at first, especially as a new nurse two years ago. But you learned fast and by the time you were offered to go on dayshift, you were already too consumed by the dark side. It didn't have anything to do with Dr. Abbot either, that came much later and much more recently.

As you got more experience, charge kept putting you in higher acuity assignments, taking on more responsibility that honestly scared the shit out of you some nights. You feared coming your shifts for a while and left even more anxious than you were coming in.

But you must have caught a particular attending's attention.

It started as a simple commendation for handling the care of a critical patient, quickly building into anticipating his orders if he was working that night and being one step ahead of him, which got you more praise. But that wasn't what you were looking for; it was the smiles that lingered after, the small check ins after a tough shift, and somehow no one else picked up on it.

The anxiety dwindled. It was always there, since it was still the ER after all. But if Abbot was working, you knew there would be something good hopefully waiting on the other end of it...and sometimes a coffee (that he would scowl at once he knew how much sugar was in it when he ordered it).

Any shift with Abbot put your mind at a little bit of ease.

It had to be discreet though. Dr. Shen almost got you to slip up when he asked if you wanted to Doordash some coffee, to which you said you already had some, and then he was quite offended that you got it without him. But you couldn't tell him it was Abbot, so you made it up to him by bringing in coffee the next time.

Discreet was hard though, the closer you two got and when he came up to you in the break room, two Pirates tickets in hand, your eyes widened.

"I have an extra ticket,' said Dr. Abbot, taking a seat in front of you. "If you'd like to come with me."

You stared at him, mid chew of your lunch, eyes scanning the room. It was almost three in the morning now and your eyes were barely open, making up his presence for all you knew.

"Just had two tickets lying around?" you asked, raising a brow.

Abbot tilted his head, squinting at you. "No, smart ass. I got them from a friend who has season tickets, and you were the first person I thought to ask."

You mirrored his expression, tilting your head and smiling at him with a hint of mischief that compelled you to tease him further.

"Wow, I'm the first? Can I know who was the second?"

His jaw tightened ever so slightly. "YN." he sighed, shoulders sagging as he looked at you through tired eyes. "Just say yes."

A deliriously exhausted giggle you couldn't contain escaped and you nodded your head.

"I would love to go with you, Jack. It'll be a nice treat after these shifts."

Agreeing to go with him didn't quite hit you until after he left the breakroom and your lunch became harder to swallow. You sat and stared blankly at your phone, heart racing at the realization that this was probably going to be a date. Abbot and you had tried a few times now to do something outside of this hell hole, but things fell short--not for a lack of interest but out of sheer tiredness and other errands that tied them up.

It dawned on you then that this was finally the date.

Abbot called when he was downstairs, and you couldn't help but peak out of the window to get a look at his truck. A fluttering feeling consumed your stomach, glossed lips pulled taught like a child who was about to go to Disney. You ran downstairs, taking a moment to compose yourself before going outside.

The sunlight hit you the second you stepped outside. It was probably the nicest day they've had this spring so far with not a cloud in sight and a gentle breeze that sung a particular tune with the trees that lined your street.

To your surprise, Abbot was waiting by the passenger side door, arms folded over his broad chest. His eyes immediately scanned you, going down to your legs and back up to your eyes, making your stomach flip.

"I know, it must be crazy not seeing me in scrubs and a hospital blanket around my shoulders." you teased, trying to approach him calmly and not ogle at him.

Abbot opened the door for you and as you slid by, all you could notice was the way his jersey fit across his chest and arms. Something warm fluttered in your chest, making your heart skip a beat.

"It certainly is, but I like it." Abbot said, shutting the door and flashing you a smirk before running around to the drivers side.

At first, you had to hide your face as he got in, so as not to show the way the heat crept up your neck at his words. You made a mental note that the shorts and tank top underneath your jersey was the right move.

"How did you sleep today? I know you didn't get home til late." you asked, trying to change the subject as he pulled off.

It was hard not to stare at his side profile and the one arm that was extended towards the wheel. He had his window down so you rolled yours down slightly, careful not to mess with your hair still. When you looked back, he was already looking at you and you quickly averted your eyes to your lap, trying not to grin.

"I slept like shit but mostly because I was nervous about this."

You snickered and looked at him incredulously.

"Dr. Abbot? Nervous about a date? I couldn't even fathom of it."

His lips curved and he glanced at you. "Tell anyone I said that and I'm ordering orthostatics on all your patients for a week."

You laughed, head dipping back into the head rest. "God, you really know how to torture me. A resident kept ordering those once and both me and the tech were ready to stuff him in a closet."

Abbot shook his head at that and turned on his radio.

"What do you like? I can never tell based on the Spotify station you guys have on at the nurses station."

Heaving a sigh, you shrugged. "That's because everyone gets an hour to put on a station. But I like anything. Oldies if your ears can bare it."

He looked quite offended at that actually. "Oldies? What's old to you, huh?"

But you tried not to laugh as you stared at him, him holding it as long as he could before having to look back at the road. The radio settled on a station that was playing a song from Bowie and he left it on with a simple nod of approval from you.

Abbot was definitely older than you, but age was strange when you worked in a setting like they did; it didn't matter how old you were when you were able to work as a team to take care of a patient. Your mind probably fell for him before your heart truly did.

When you two arrived to the stadium, you had told Abbot more about your life growing up in Pittsburgh and how you would always come to the games with your parents growing up. It was hard not to be a little bit passionate about sports in this city, to which he understood and said he's got more tickets with her name on it then.

As you brushed shoulders walking to your seats, eventually you held hands when it came time to squish through crowded concession lines and fans getting to their seats. Everything was less calculated now, your breathing a little more relaxed and heart no longer ready to jump out of your chest. You were calm and content with staring at the back of Abbot's head as he lead the way.

While you were much more energetic out of work, Abbot was mostly the same except for his ability to joke around more. You sipped on a seltzer and he had a beer, laughing all the way through nine innings when you weren't cheering--or yelling.

Abbot leaned back at one point, eyes wide, when you yelled with the rest of the crowd about a bad call from the ump.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side." he said as you settled back into your seat.

You smiled at him, sipping your drink.

"I don't think that's possible."

After a hot dog and another round, the game was almost over with sunlight still to spare. The Pirates won which kept the morale up for the night so as you two held hands back to the parking lot, an idea lingered on your tongue.

"If you're not too tired, I have a shifty rooftop set up we could hang out on if you're not ready to go home? But seriously, no pressure. I know you didn't sleep well today."

The calculations started to come back as your hands grew a little more clammy and heart started to race again. It wasn't even a guarantee that Abbot wouldn't ditch you after this date, let alone want to spend any more time together after it. You weren't sure whether to study his face for any hint of an answer or keep looking at your feet, but his hand suddenly lifted around your shoulders, making your knees go weak.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, as long as you're not secretly planning to throw me off of it."

Giggling, you leaned closer into his hold. "Dammit, you spoiled the surprise."

As you crossed the long stretch of parking lot though, the crowds from leftover tailgates were hardly thinning out, especially for that of a win. But up ahead, your gut told you to keep your eyes peeled on the dense crowd, something far beyond your senses reaching out before you could fully understand it.

It was loud and voices grew more heated, not in an exciting way, and the way Abbot stilled beside you made you understand he saw it too.

"Let's cut through--"

But the voices quickly escalated, and with that, several popping sounds that made your heart stop in place.

You didn't have time to register Abbot's body completely swallowing yours as he pulled the two of you down behind a car, and it was then that your heart started to race.

"God, how many bullets was that? I lost count?"

Abbot remained crouched over you, back facing the aisle between the cars still, and his entire face changed and suddenly, you two were back at work where he made that same expression when completely immersed in critical care.

"I counted at least fourteen shots. Stay low and get back to the truck. There's a first aid kit and BLS bag in the back seat." he commanded, handing her the truck keys.

You frowned at him. "What are you going to do? It's not safe!"

But Abbot pointed at her. "YN." he said, firmly. "Do as I say. Please."

There was the subtle begging look to his eyes that broke through his sternness. But you understood. With his background in the army and whatnot, this was his nature and you were both products of the ER so you knew you had to do what you had to do.

The panic that initially flooded your lungs melted away as you ran back to the truck. It was all adrenaline to you now as you grabbed the bookbag and little red box, hurrying back to the scene.

It's been a while since you were in the field as a paramedic in college, your only recollection of this level of trauma being in simulations. It was different when they were brought to you in the ambulance bay. But Abbot immediately came into your vision, dropping down to open the bags.

Your eyes were still stuck on the five bodies that were on the ground, some moving, some not.

"YN." Abbot spoke, breaking through the trance your racing heart was putting you in. "Take care of any walking wounded, look for exit wounds." he said, hanging her some bandages and saline.

Up ahead, police were speeding towards them and you could hear ambulance sirens in the distance. A wave of despair came over you briefly, wondering how you were somehow able to draw in the forces of work on your one day off this week.

But it quickly faded as you came to the first man, probably in his forties, leaning against the hood of a car in hysterics, angrily shouting and seemingly in shock.

"Sir, my name is y/n and I'm an ER nurse. Where are you hurt?"

He threw his hands up to his face, crying and still muttering to himself about how crazy and terrible this was and other incoherent words. You stepped closer into his eyesight and asked him again.

But he just sniffled and said he was fine.

As he turned away though, your eyes widened at the gaping gash in the fat of the back of his neck, seemingly grazing it and going into the windshield of the car he was found leaning on.

"Okay..." you exhaled.

~

When the medics arrived, you had managed to bandage only a few of the walkie talkies who were less severe in their injuries, allowing the medics who recognized you and Abbot to tend to the more severe cases.

There was already one dead.

In the meantime, Abbot hopped on one rig and you the other, following the man who had gone into cardiac arrest while you were assessing him.

You dragged yourself out of the rig, feet hitting pavement a little heavier than you expected, and turned to face her—hands on her hips, eyes already scanning you head to toe like she was triaging you herself.

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked Dana, standing at the foot of the truck with her hands on her hips.

Taking a deep breath, you mustered up the energy to stand and meet her on the driveway. "Trying to enjoy a baseball game, how about you?"

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes did. Then she really looked at you and suddenly all the blood on your hands, shirt, and legs felt sticky.

“Oh, kid…” she muttered, the edge softening immediately as she stepped forward, hand coming to your back. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Princess and Perlah were the first one to gasp at the sight of you, causing an embarrassing amount of other heads to turn your way.

"Please tell me you're just clocking in early and not checking in?!" Princess cried, scurrying out from the nurses station.

Smiling, the fatigue hit you like a rock as the adrenaline started to waver.

"Neither, thankfully. The game ended and some drunk idiots decided that it was a smart idea to bring guns to a tailgate."

They shook their heads and Dana muttered something under her breath about men and shorter life spans. Perlah circled her to make sure she wasn't actually hurt before being called to help in a room. By the time you turned around, Dana was already placing a towel and some of the good soap in your hands with a PMC shirt on top.

“I got the water running hot for ya in the locker rooms. Call me if you need anything.”

Nodding sharply, you walked off to the shower and in your wake, Dr. Robby emerged from a room looking at the path you took down the hall.

“Did I just see…?”

Dana put her hands up before Robby could even finish his sentence. “Yep.”

The doctor’s face scrunched in confusion as he took a glance around the chaos around them, something tearing deep across the inside of his mind.

“What the hell, man,” he exhaled, shaking his head.

Some of the other residents emerged asking if it was you they saw in the blood stained jersey walking to the lockers. Dana barked at them to all get back to work, saying that you were fine but to still mind their businesses. The residents cherished you though and had night shift not been so detrimental to their health, they would have stayed on it just for you.

As Dana and Robby commanded the flow of the department, night shit started trickling in and as did another rig, revealing Dr. Abbot in a baseball jersey and holding the ambu bag connected to the patient.

"Abbot was there too?” Robby asked, turning just as the stretcher came through.

Abbot didn’t even look up, already mid-report, hands steady on the ambu bag like nothing about another employee showing up manning an ambulance was abnormal.

Dana’s eyes narrowed slightly and something clicked.

“Shh,” she hissed suddenly, throwing a hand up between Robby and Shen, who had just wandered in with his iced coffee and absolutely no awareness of the storm he’d walked into. They were both oblivious to what Dana was onto, but then, Robby held his gaze onto the other attending just a little longer.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Dana asked.

Shen froze mid-sip. “I’m not thinking anything. I just got here.”

“Oh, get out of here.” she scowled, waving him off.

“So… Abbot went to the game,” he said slowly. “Didn’t invite me. That’s fine. Whatever.”

From the nurses station, Santos finally looked up, exhausted but clearly done watching them struggle.

“Abbot and Y/N went to the game together.”

The words stopped the others surrounding them in place, fellow nurses and residents alike turning their head to follow Abbot’s yellow jersey. Princess emerged, sliding over on a stool.

“She did say she had a date tonight,” she added. “Wouldn’t tell me who. I’ve been stalking her Instagram all day.”

Shen leaned in, frowning. “Yeah, but, no offense, that doesn’t mean it was Abbot.”

Every single woman in the vicinity looked at him like he had just failed a dosage calculation and Mateo walked in just in time to feel the tension.

“…why does it feel like I missed something important?” he asked, dropping his bag.

Shen gestured vaguely. “They think Abbot and Y/N are dating because they both showed up from the same shooting.”

Mateo scoffed immediately. “No way. She doesn’t like Abbot—”

But his confidence wavered as he spoke, looking unsure at his feet.

It was almost worse than a problem that couldn’t be solved; a case where the H’s and T’s were all ruled out and they were left dumbfounded with the mess. But it was so much more simpler than all of them realized, and as you emerged from the locker rooms, PMC t-shirt over your denim shorts and free of blood, everyone watched you like they were waiting for the crash.

You faltered slightly under the attention, hands tugging unconsciously at the hem of the oversized shirt.

But just as you walked alongside the trauma rooms, a figure tore through the curtains to exit, and you nearly collided with Dr. Abbot.

“Oh, I’m sorry—“

Thankfully, you skidded to a stop in time, hands rushing up and bracing for the imaginary impact, just to gently push against his arm and chest. He turned, startled too, and stabilized you at your shoulders.

“Don’t be, I should have looked both ways.” he said, almost in all seriousness, his hands slowly leaving you but his proximity remaining.

It put you in a bubble momentarily, one that made it a little hard to catch your breath and smile like a fool depraved of oxygen.

“You can’t possibly be a crossing guard on top of all this, no one will blame you.”

Everyone’s gaze followed you both now, some jaws slacked open as beliefs were changed or formed in that moment alone.

“What’s everyone staring at?” Ellis asked, stepping in mid-shift.

Shen, without missing a beat, nodded toward you both. “Everyone thinks they’re dating.”

Ellis blinked once, realizing people still didn't understand she was serious, then snorted.

“Well… yeah.”

The room shifted all over again, this time louder, more reactive; a mix of disbelief, laughter, groans from the people who definitely lost money to Ahmed.

Robby turned away with a half-laugh, shaking his head like he’d just solved a puzzle he didn’t know he was working on.

“Alright, alright, cupids! Get back to work. Shoo!” Dana barked, not really able to phase Princess and Perlah who gushed over it in their own language.

You finally pulled yourself away from Abbot, the realization that your date was abruptly cut short making you feel heavy with disappointment. It didn’t seem fair to be disappointed though, not when something so terrible happened. How could you not be though when he was standing there so calm and collected, wondering how he could look less tense on your roof?

Abbot crossed his arm, looking down at you.

“I can tell you’re upset.”

But you tried to straighten up what you could. “No, I’m not. It’s totally fine.” you assured.

“I can tell you’re upset,” he said quietly.

You straightened. “I’m not.”

“You get that look,” he continued. “Same one you get when the cafeteria’s out of your favorite Celsius.”

You rolled your eyes, but it broke you. “…okay, maybe a little.” His mouth curved.

“I’d offer to fix it,” he said, “but I think I’m out of my depth here.” he sighed, glancing around the emergency room.

You hesitated, but there was very little guard within you at this point in the day.

“You can still come over,” you said, softer now. “Days still young.

You saw the moment he wanted to say yes and your heart started hammering against your chest in anticipation because you also saw the hesitation that came with it.

But something in him relented, with the smooth and unwinding deep breath her took and the way his eyes softened at their edges when he looked down at you.

“…we just need to get back to my truck,” he said.

It took everything in your power not to jump with excitement and run outside to call an Uber, but you nodded curtly, beaming under your composure.

“There is the issue of being covered in blood, though…”

Shrugging, you slowly walked around him. “Cloths are optional.”

Before you turned away fully, you caught the way his lips pulled, heat creeping in its path. As you straightened out, Dana was waiting for you with arms crossed and eyes darting between you and a certain doctor, and everything felt exposed.

“So how longs that been going on?” she asked, pointing.

Your hands came to your face as if you could hide. “Would you believe me if I said it was the first real date?”

Dana’s smile cracked through that motherly gaze she tried to hold over you, and that’s when you noticed the others who whispered and giggled behind her. Clearly it wasn’t much of a secret anymore.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Dr. Shen frowned, perking up mid report from another resident. “I’m out twenty bucks to Ahmed.”

You threw your hands up, shaking your head.

“No one told you to bet on my dating life.”

“Or mine, for that matter.” Abbot emerged from behind, hand resting on your shoulder.

But it was all smiles, and slightly more empty wallets, as you and Abbot finally managed to slip away.

“Oh hey, lovebirds!” Robby called out as you passed through the ambulance bay doors.

Of course, you wouldn’t be in the clear without Robby’s input, and you two shared a knowing glance before fully turning back around to face him.

“Next time,” he added, “try a date that doesn’t end here.”

Abbot flipped him off and you laughed, ducking your head as you reached for his hand again.

“Don't listen to him. I think we set the bar pretty high,” you gleamed, glancing up at him.

He looked down at you, exhaustion finally creeping through.

"The next three dates are takeout,” he decided firmly. “Minimum.”

You smiled wider.