he can’t stop replaying your last words, your coldness cutting deeper than any punch. the way you said you needed space, freedom from him. freedom from the chaos he carries like a second skin. but the truth is, he’s not ready to let go. not yet.

tonight, something inside him snaps. a decision he knows is reckless, dangerous, but inevitable. he can’t stand another night without touching you, without reminding you, and himself, that you’re still his.

he’s dressed for the night like a shadow of himself. black tactical pants, worn but functional. a fitted black hoodie with the hood pulled low, the fabric soft but concealing. on his feet, silent black military boots that grip the metal of the fire escape like a second skin. his mask the old black one with the angular lines covers his face, hiding the desperation in his eyes but not the raw need twisting in his gut.

he moves with practiced precision, scaling the fire escape like a ghost, every metal step cold beneath his fingertips. the city hums quietly around him, the distant sirens and buzz of late night cars fading behind the wall of silence he wraps himself in.

the window to your apartment looms ahead, half open, just like you always left it when you went to sleep. he slides the glass up with barely a sound, muscles coiled and tense as he slips inside.

dex stands just inside your apartment, the faint glow of the city bleeding through the cracked window you left open, a tiny flicker of hope that maybe this is some sign. that you’re still waiting for him in your own way, even if the silence says otherwise.

his heart pounds, heavy and erratic, like it’s fighting against the weight of what he’s about to do. every instinct screams at him to stop, to turn back and respect the space you’re trying to carve out for yourself without him, but some desperate part of him clings to the fact that the window was open, maybe you wanted him here. maybe.

inside, the air smells like you, your shampoo mixing with the faint hint of the lotion you always keep on your nightstand. his pulse pounds as he takes in the quiet sanctity of your bedroom, the soft rise and fall of your sleeping form beneath the blankets.

this is his moment. the place he’s been craving, stalking, aching for. and now, finally, he’s here.

you’re lying in your bed, skin warm beneath the thin cotton sheets, the soft curve of your tummy just visible, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath. your brown nipples, dark against the smoothness of your skin, catch the faint moonlight slipping through the blinds. your thighs spread lightly beneath the covers, familiar and soft, everything dex always loved.

you don’t hear the door open, don’t feel the weight cross your threshold — but dex is here. masked and fully clothed, the smell of his cologne and sweat lingering around him, he moves carefully, reverent almost, like you’re some fragile treasure he’s terrified to break.

he kneels beside the bed, watching you sleep, voice low, a rasping whisper. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

he then climbs on the bed, over you. his hands twitch, uncertain, hovering just inches from your skin before he finally lets his fingertips ghost over your bare shoulder, trembling like a prayer. he’s terrified that the smallest wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, your breath, your sleep, the thread of trust left between you. the warmth of your skin under his touch pulls him in, raw and tender and achingly familiar, and he leans closer, letting his face bury in the crook of your neck, drinking you in. your scent is everything he’s missed. honeyed, soft, the way it clings to the curve of your collarbone and wraps around him like a lifeline.

his hands move up, trembling but reverent, to cup your full breasts, his thumbs brushing over your clothed nipples, aching under his touch. he wants to worship you like a temple, slow and soft and careful, but the hunger beneath that tenderness claws at him, pulling him deeper into desperation. his lips find the skin below your ear, sucking lightly, murmuring your name like a prayer, a plea.

his hands reach out first, trembling as they brush your thick thighs, tracing the soft curve of your tummy, the part he always loved. his fingers curl around your waist, pulling you closer to him in the dark.

he pulls back, sliding his hands beneath your shirt.

then his lips find your chest, full tits rising and falling with your steady breath, brown nipples hardening beneath his mouth. he sucks one gently, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, reverent and needy.

his voice cracks when he whispers, “i missed you,” barely loud enough for you to hear, but it’s everything he feels, an ache that’s been gnawing at his ribs for too long. he’s torn between worship and want, between fear of breaking you and the primal need to claim you again. he hesitates, his hands trembling on your skin, caught in the storm of his own conflicted desire, draw a quiet moan even from your sleep.

they wander, worshiping your curves, the way your body fits like a goddamn prayer beneath his fingertips. his voice starts to ramble, desperate and tender, a broken confession whispered against your skin.

“you were waiting for me,” he murmurs, lips barely grazing your skin. “i know you were waiting, baby. i’m here now.”

he knows this isn’t like before. you’re not waiting, not really, not now. but he’s desperate to believe that maybe this touch, this breath, this moment is still yours. and slowly, trembling, he moves lower, trailing kisses and soft sucks along your neck, your collarbone, until he’s pressing his forehead against your skin, silent except for the frantic beating of his own heart.

you shift slightly but don’t wake, his worship continued — his mouth finding your other nipple, sucking harder, rougher now, his desperation bleeding through every touch.

his cock presses hard against your thigh, strained in his belt.

dex’s hands slide lower, over your belly, soft, just a little round where he always loved to rest his palm, before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the slick heat between your thighs.

he pushes your shorts down slowly, loving the way your skin reacts even without waking. thick thighs spread, exposed and soft, waiting. breathing shallow, fingers trembling where they ghost the curve of your hip beneath the blanket.

slowly, reverently, dex slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties and shifts them aside, his breath catching when he sees the warmth glistening between your dusky thighs.

he slides a hand beneath your body, lifting your hips gently and after unbuckling his pants, he presses the tip of his cock through your slick folds. you’re still asleep, he lines himself up, hand stroking gently down your thigh, grounding himself. and then, with a low, shaky sound, he pushes in, slow and deep, his whole body trembling as your warmth welcomes him like home.

his voice breaks in a low, trembling whisper. “i love you. please ever don’t leave me again.”

he fucks you slow at first, savoring the feel of you so warm and tight, the way your body yields beneath his. then faster, desperate, nearly choking on his own need.

his hands cup your cheeks, thumb stroking tenderly as he buries himself deeper, moaning your name like a prayer.

you stir, eyes fluttering open.

“dex? what the… what are you doing?” you ask, voice raw, half-dreaming.

dex’s mask hides his face, but his voice is soft, trembling, pleading. “you were waiting for me… you always used to. you said i could always find you in your sleep. remember?”

he rocks into you again, deeper, harder this time, like the rhythm itself is an anchor.

“i know you still wanted me. i know you were waiting.” his voice is rough, torn at the edges. “i watched you fall asleep. no one else is here. it’s still me. it’s always me.”

his hand moves up to your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just holding, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

you’re wet, so fucking wet for him, even half-asleep, and he takes it like proof. like permission. like you were aching for this too.

his hips grind in deeper, a soft whimper catching in his throat when he feels your walls tighten.

“god, i missed this pussy,” he groans. “so fucking soft, always take me like you were made for it.”

your breath catches again, half from his words, half from the way his cock keeps hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. he’s still fully clothed, the texture of his hoodie rubbing against your exposed stomach, the weight of him holding you down in the way you used to love.

“why did you leave me?” his voice cracks as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, his mask damp against your skin. “why the fuck did you walk away?”

you blink up at him, breath hitching, the stretch of him inside you grounding and unbearable all at once. you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know but because saying it out loud might shatter something permanent.

“don’t… don’t do that.” you plead.

“don’t shut me out. you said i could come to you. you said i could have you like this.” he begs, almost choking on it.

your hands come up, fingers brushing his jaw beneath the mask, the heat of his skin trembling under your touch. “i didn’t leave because i stopped loving you,” you whisper. “i left because you looked at me like i was… pure. like i was something holy…i couldn’t take it anymore.”

his rhythm falters.

“and i’m not, dex,” you breathe, lips parting around the truth. “i’m not that. i’m fucked up. selfish. angry. i’ve done things, thought things i didn’t want you to see.”

he lets out a ragged sound, like a sob and a moan tangled together. “don’t say that. you’re mine. you’re everything.”

you shake your head against the pillow, tears catching in your lashes. “i couldn’t keep letting you love me like i was some perfect thing. it felt like lying.”

he thrusts deeper, desperate, his gloved hand coming up to wrap around your throat with a gentleness that shouldn’t make sense. “then don’t be perfect,” he growls, forehead pressing to yours. “be broken. be angry. be fucking cruel. just don’t leave me again.”

your eyes lock and there’s nothing left to hide.

you reach up without thinking, fingers brushing the side of his mask. “take it off…”

he stills, just for a second. then he presses deeper, choking on a breath. “you sure?”

you nod, eyes meeting the black fabric. “i want to see you. all of you.”

his hand lets go of your throat just long enough to pull the mask up and off. his face is flushed, eyes glassy with emotion, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something dangerous.

you cup his cheek, and he leans into it like a starving man.

“you came back,” you whisper, and there’s no anger in your voice. just heat. just heartbreak and admiration.

“i never left,” he says, voice shaking. “you tried to lock me out, but you’re still mine. i know you are.”

his hand returns to your throat, squeezing just enough now to make your breath hitch, his other palm sliding down to your stomach, pressing gently where he’s filling you so deep.

you whimper, thighs tensing as he starts fucking you harder now, no less loving, just desperate, rougher, his control slipping.

“say it,” he pants. “tell me you’re still mine.”

you can barely breathe, barely think with how full you are, how he’s choking you and touching you and claiming you like you’re his goddamn oxygen.

“baby,” you whimper, softly, like it’s sacred. “i’m yours. i’m so fucking yours.”

“i’m not going anywhere ben…not now. not ever again.” you promise, body clenching around him.

a strangled moan tears from his throat.

and you don’t say anything, not with words. just a gasp, a moan, the way your legs wrap tighter around him. the way your body arches into his like your skin still knows the shape of him even after all that distance.

you squeeze around him again, and that’s all it takes for him to break.

his body convulses as he spills into you, hard, messy, overwhelmed. his head drops to your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, clinging to you, his breath hitching like he can’t get enough air.

and even after, he doesn’t pull away. just breathes you in, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other around your waist like he’s never letting go again.

a few moments pass. after catching his breath, he tears away from the crook of your neck, for a moment, he just stares—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face, to convince himself this is real.

you smile — tired, aching, you still look at him like he hung the stars. your palm presses to his cheek.

“hi,” you whisper, like it’s the first time. like you’re seeing him all over again.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a slow, shaky smile curling at the edge of his lips. “hi.”

you lean up, kissing him so slow and sweet it makes his chest cave. no lust. no desperation. just the kind of softness that says stay. he kisses you again, slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world now. and when he finally pulls back, you whisper against his mouth :

“i missed you.”

Seeing the older man's hand slyly brush against your thigh when he thinks no one is looking is when Brendon decides to make an example out of you.

Sleeping your way to the top? Taking the easy route? He'll get some satisfaction out of seeing you squirm when he holds you to the fire before a live audience.

"You," he barks while zeroing in.

Jerking your head in his direction, you nearly stumble into Robby. Staring with wide eyes, you think to begin backing up before making a run for it. "M-Me?" You say while pointing to your chest uncertainly.

"Did I stutter?" He spits. "Come over here and help me pop this joint back into place. Now."

You swallow thickly and the back of your neck warms.

You half hope that Robby will save you, but that wouldn't be very professional if he stepped between you and his colleague, now, would it?

Not that he's always been when it comes to favoring and babying you, but... No one else needs to know that. Except half the ED, who he's stopped hiding it from, anyway.

Stepping forward, your arm brushes against Robby's—what if you latched onto it and refused to let go until Mr. Ortho picked somebody else to torture?—and you walk on unsteady legs toward him.

Standing at full height with a puffed-out chest, he nods at the man's affected leg. "Get yourself into position."

You blink stupidly, followed by a nervous laugh. "I... What?"

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles under his breath.

Leaning down, he positions his lips next to your ear. "Put your right leg on the edge of the bed."

At least he had the forethought to lower it beforehand, you think.

"Or do you not want to learn?" He growls.

Doing as instructed, you plop your Skecher next to the man's injured leg.

Dr. Park pinches his nose while exhaling sharply.

Looking back to Robby, he gestures to you. "Is this what you're teaching down here now? Incompetence?"

You can't see it, but you just know Robby's temper is being summoned for duty.

"Give her a break, Park, she's just nervous. First time she's ever popped a joint."

Park snorts. "I bet," he mumbles doubtfully.

"Should I—"

You promptly shut your mouth when he puts his hands on you. Grabbing the back of your right thigh with one hand and your shin with the other, he repositions your leg between the patient's.

"Don't move," he commands.

You're afraid that if you do, Mr. Quinn won't be the only injured party in the room by the end of things.

Stepping to the side with crossed arms, he stares you down. "Now, grip the back of his thigh and calf in both your hands."

You bend over and do just that and proceed to grab handfuls of squishy flesh smattered with dark hair.

Park circles around behind you to see things from your exact angle. "Rotate the leg outward. You'll feel a click. When you do, shove it back into the socket.

You hesitate. "What if... What if I make it worse, or—"

Mr. Quinn lifts his head and grants you a worried look. "Maybe you should take over, doc. Don't think I like the sound of that."

He levels him with a stern gaze. "I'm right behind her. This is a teaching hospital. Without trying, those at the bottom can't move up." Park leans in close. "Unless you find a workaround, it seems."

You open your mouth to ask just what he means by that, until he startles you with a yell.

"Now turn it," he bellows.

Slowly, you swivel his leg outward and the gentleman sucks in a sharp inhalation of breath.

"Fuck, I don't think—" He begins.

When you hear a click, you hesitate.

Mr. Quinn's protestations are cut short when Park commands you like he's a drill sergeant and you're one of his subordinates. "Now, put your hand on his foot and push!"

Doing as you're told, you bear down, and like magic, things slide right into place where they belong.

Mr. Quinn looses a ragged breath and sighs with relief. "Ah, that feels better," he says contentedly.

"For now," Park replies. "You'll be sore for a few weeks, but we'll send you home with crutches and meds to help with the swelling and pain. As well as a follow-up with me put on the books."

"Long as it ain't surgery," he replies with a shrug while folding his hands together atop his stomach.

Taking a step back, you're startled by the sound of a single set of hands clapping.

You look at Whitaker, who's smiling happily for your job well done, but it quickly melts off his face when Park burns a hole right through him with a venomous glare.

What is this guy's problem?

Taking a step forward, Park sneers at you. "Go on," he says with a jerk of his head. "Back to your teacher."

He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne. And then he lowers his lips until only you can hear what leaves them when he whispers in your ear. "Pet."

You gulp, then scurry away and back to your previous position. Only this time, you hide almost entirely behind Robby's towering form. Safe, safe, safe is all you can think once you've reached him.

You'd very much like to never do that again. Popping joints you can maybe handle. The asshole teacher, not so much.

You prefer gentle instruction when available. Patient, even.

"Class dismissed," he announces, much to your relief.

Seeing how the patient was handed off to him, Park is required to do a few pages of paperwork before he can go, which he reluctantly accepts the task of completing, as if he has another choice.

He's a man who's not easily distracted—he's always precise, straight to the point, and efficient. But he'll be damned if your annoying little self hasn't stepped on his every last nerve without even trying.

Studying you as you chart at the nurse's station—oblivious to his staring daggers at you—he watches as Abbot enters through the ambulance bay doors, only to make a beeline straight to where you sit. Leaning over the counter in front of you, he reaches forward and says something Brendon can't discern before giving you a gentle tap under your chin and walking away to begin his shift.

A moment later, Robby exits Trauma 2 and rubs sanitizer over each of his hands before picking up a blue nitrile glove and shooting it between your shoulder blades. Just as quickly, he turns around and pretends to be looking over a stack of paperwork as you ignorantly swivel this way and that, searching for your attacker.

After a moment, he walks by, you look up, he smiles—giving himself away on purpose—and plants a kiss on the crown of your head before going in search of Abbot.

Makes him fucking sick to watch this goddamn rom-com. This place has gone from pulling out bullets to now being a pathetic romance novel.

He'd like to believe that when he's not down here, the two of them push you to your limits to see what you're capable of—if much of anything, soft thing that you look to be—instead of succumbing to your pretty eyes or sweet smile because they're that fucking pussy-whipped. And by a resident of all things.

Shaking his head, he returns his attentions to something more worthwhile—which isn't saying much—paperwork.

"Not the only fish circlin' that pond, Park," remarks Dana, who's come to stand beside him.

He rolls his eyes without looking up. "Not interested."

She chuckles. "I remember a couple attendings tellin' me the same thing not all that long ago. Now look at 'em—wrapped around her little finger."

"It's a problem that you can say that," he spits. "It's unprofessional. Grossly so." He looks at her. "And you know it."

She shrugs while draping her forearm atop the counter they stand at. "Brought the light to Rob's life that he needed. Can't complain about that. As for Jack... Never thought he'd smile at a woman ever again after losin' his wife. But there she sits: sunshine in human fuckin' form."

He returns to scrawling his signature across printer paper. "You're making me nauseous."

She laughs, then pats him on the back. "Don't gotta be so tough all the time. Let your hair down every once in awhile. Never know what could happen, kid."

He deigns that she's lucky she left when she did because Park was nearly at his boiling point. If she'd kept talking, he would've blown his fucking top like a barrel of dynamite blasting through a hillside.

A sheet of paper is slammed down beside of you, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"Sign it," snaps Park.

With now trembling hands, you drag the document closer.

"Even highlighted it for you," he says while pointing to the designated line. "Sorry it wasn't in pink," he sneers.

"What is it?" You ask innocently while looking at him.

"A fucking marriage license. What do you think it is? It's about the procedure I had you perform today."

Turing away, your eyes begin to sting. Why is he always so mean?

You pick up a pen, click the ballpoint down, and write your dainty signature upon the line provided.

Snatching the document away, he stands at full height again.

"You ready?" Calls Robby from across the way, looking at none other than yourself.

You nod while grabbing your bag and sliding it over your shoulder. "Yes."

Park shakes his head in disapproval, but Robby hardly pays him any mind before wrapping an arm around your shoulders to lead the pair of you to the parking lot.

You're barely out the sliding doors before you feel your braid coming undone. Reaching up, you slide your fingers along the end of your strands, only to come up empty-handed. "Did you—" Pulling away, you begin turning this way and that, searching the asphalt for your missing hair band.

"You drop something?" He asks.

"My hair band," you mutter while retracing your steps.

He sighs, wanting nothing more than to get home so he can jump in the shower. "You don't have another?"

You frown, then straighten, and return to his side. "I'll get one out once we're in the truck."

When Park reaches the elevators, the indicator overhead dings and the doors slide open, welcoming him inside the steel and aluminum box. Stepping over the threshold, he presses the button for the 7th floor—appreciating the pretty little cream-colored hairband that's wrapped tightly around his wrist when he does so.

Things are busy as ever today. You began your morning by running through half a dozen patients, and every time one walked out the door, two more popped up on the board.

No wonder why Robby seems to deflate every time he looks at it anymore.

It's nearing 5 before you bother to take a second bathroom break, and just as you've exited the restroom, you bump into Mel, who seems to be in an overstimulated tizzy.

You know the feeling quite well.

"Hey," you say quietly while grabbing her by the shoulders. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Oh, sorry," she starts while nervously pushing her glasses back into place.

Good thing they didn't shatter on the floor, you think.

"I have an ultrasound that needs to go up to the NICU. I tried sending it over email, but an office assistant said it was too dark—which I don't really see how, unless it's a problem with the monitor, which they should probably get look at by IT—so, I was going to bring a printed copy up, and maybe they'd—"

"Slow down," you say while laughing quietly. "If you're busy—and you look like you are—I could deliver it for you."

"Really?" She says excitedly while bending at the knees, then springing up. "That would just be—so great! I have so much to get to. And there's this—"

You hate to interrupt her, truly, but it's probably best that the requested image is delivered sooner rather than later. Slipping it from Mel's hands, you grant her a reassuring nod. "No problem. I love going up there. Consider it done."

You're practically glowing by the time you make it back to the elevator.

Holding and kissing babies, as well as talking neonatal medicine and pregnancy with the fine doctors upstairs always puts you in a chipper mood. Plus, there'd been chocolate chip cookies in their break room, which you'd helped yourself to a couple of before reluctantly heading back the way you came.

It's not that you don't love the Pitt—awful name for it, really, if not also terribly fitting—but little ones and expectant mothers are where your heart truly lies, you're quickly coming to learn. Everything is just so...pink and squishy up there, and smells like baby powder. Such a pleasant place.

You certainly prefer that over pools of blood and erratic drunkards running half-naked through the common area downstairs.

Bouncing happily on the balls of your feet, you wait for the elevator to reach the floor you're currently on, and just as you make to sweep inside after the doors have shoved open, you pause.

With the heels of his palms planted atop the railing behind him, Dr. Park slowly lifts his head, trailing his eyes along you all the while.

"Going down?" He questions.

You chew your lip for a moment and consider turning back around and claiming you forgot something, but you're sure Robby is already looking for you. He won't be pleased if you're gone any longer than is necessary.

Which you've already been...

With a sigh, you come inside. "Yes," you chirp before pressing the A button.

"Not surprised," he retorts.

Your brows furrow in question, but you ultimately choose not to say anything.

He sure does seem to love his private jokes.

When the doors close, you remain at attention, watching as the floors pass by.

6

5

4

3

Park steps forward and flips the emergency stop switch, bringing the machine to a sudden halt.

Swinging around, you mean to ask him if something is wrong, until he shoves you back against a wall.

Your heart now hammering away between your breasts—terrified that you're about to be assaulted—you open your mouth to scream, until he speaks.

"What the fuck is it about you, huh?"

Your eyes flit between his. "W-What?"

"First, you get Robby and Abbot wrapped around your goddamn finger, and now I can't get you out of my fucking head. You wanna try explaining that to me? I meet you once—one fucking time—and now it's all I can do to not think about bending you over the desk in my office. I'm doing paperwork, in surgery—hell, driving myself home—and am I concentrating on what I should be?" He slips the tip of his tongue between pursed lips before shaking his head with raised brows for emphasis. "No," he says while slamming his hand against the metal wall beside your head, causing you to squeak in fear. "All I can focus on is the thought of you."

Half of you thinks to begin blubbering like a baby—wailing for him to let you go so you can return to the ED—while the other half is fighting against a hysterical laugh climbing its way up your throat. Nervous response in the face of absolute fear, apparently.

Before you can do either—before you can so much as get the wiring in your brain to work properly so you can actually formulate a plan, or even string together a coherent sentence like pearls on a string—he leans in impossibly close while gripping your jawline firmly in his hand.

"Just one taste," he rasps. "Just one, and I can finally get you out of my system."

He doesn't ask. Instead, he merely takes when he crushes his lips painfully to yours.

Ravenously does he devour you. Forcing your lips apart with his own, his tongue plunges inside and deftly explores the cavernous space within. He runs its tip along your teeth, the fleshy walls of your cheeks, and even the solid roof of your mouth before flicking it against your own, tempting it to stir to life.

You make to slip away from him, but his other hand flies to your hip and slams it back against the wall to hold you firmly in place. "I told you before: don't fucking move," he rumbles, repeating his command from the day you treated... What was the man's name again? Quigey? Quill?

Feeling suddenly dizzy, you can no longer remember.

Working his way lower, he nips at your neck with his canines while submerging his fingers in your hair and tugging painfully against the strands.

You whimper, and it only spurs him on all the more.

Sucking at your pulse point, he wedges a knee between your thighs and plants a hand against your belly. And then he slides it lower. And lower. And—

Shoving him away, he stumbles back. Looking down at your pants, you're horrified to see that he untied the neat little bow you had done in the front.

He advances on you again, until you yell for him to stop.

And to his credit—as well as your surprise—he obeys.

With violently trembling hands, you attempt at tying a knot, only to fail miserably at the task.

"What...What were you trying to—" You begin, but fall short when an amused look crosses his sharp features.

He chuckles darkly. "Most of us learned about sex ed well before medical school, sweetheart. Unless you're still waiting on lessons from Robby and Abbot for that, too?"

You glare at him. "I'm not the kind of girl who—"

"What?" He spits, interrupting. "Gets felt up in an elevator?"

He steps forward. "No, you just prefer to climb the corporate ladder by climbing on top of something else at night, I imagine. Just to indulge my curiosity: have you given it up for both your attendings yet, or are you holding out on them like your pussy is some prize to be won, so long as they give you what you want in terms of a career?"

Slap.

You reel back in horror and tense up in preparation for the gesture to be returned tenfold when he knocks you on your ass.

Instead, however, Park merely fumes while staring you down with fists clenched tightly at his sides.

You startle when he stomps forward and sends the elevator slightly reverberating from the movement. Grabbing either of your arms, he pins them above your head while lowering his lips dangerously close to your ear. Close enough that the tip of his nose swipes against your cheek. "Do not ever do that again," he growls.

You swallow thickly when you feel his erection pressing against your belly, but keep your mouth shut about it, lest he take things further. One way or another...

Finally, you nod fervently, and he releases you. Planting your hands on your knees, you double over and struggle to catch your breath. Your face is burning hot, as is another part of you, but you choose to ignore it as best you can.

After adjusting himself, he steps forward and flips the switch back into place. With a jolt, the elevator is off again.

Standing straight once more—by God do your legs feel like jelly beneath you—you swiftly tie two loops together to remake a bow at the front of your pants before throwing your head forward and gathering your hair into a ponytail. Messy will do just fine.

Just as the doors spread apart, you race to get as far from him as possible.

Difficult feat, since he's clearly sticking around on your floor for a bit.

You can't get past the feeling of mortification which has covered you like a veil.

Not when a shark swims but a handful of feet from where you sit, talking to Robby about God knows what.

You did nothing wrong. He came onto you. You couldn't have fought back if you wanted to! Did you want to? Yes, of course!

He's insufferable and egotistical and pretentious and mean. He's just so mean!

The steady pulse which is still going strong between your thighs clearly has different ideas about him, though. Stupid, useless thing.

Studying Robby from beneath your lashes—because you refuse to look at the other one—you trail your eyes along his handsome, weathered face and soft belly. Yes, most assuredly more your type. Stern and strict when he needs to be, and sweet on you when you deserve it.

You do so adore him.

When Park folds his arms, however, you bolt out of your chair when you catch sight of what he has.

Coming to stand beside the two of them, you stare up at him until he ackowledges you.

He hardly glances in your direction before returning to conversing with Robby, though.

"Ahem," you say—feigning clearing your throat.

They both grow silent.

Looking at you with a raised brow, Park doesn't say a word.

"You have something of mine," you state with an outstretched palm.

Looking at you like you're a bothersome fly who won't leave him be, he shrugs ignorantly. "Mind telling me what that might be?"

Your eyes drop to his wrist before flitting upward again. "My hair tie. You stole it the day we met a couple weeks ago, didn't you?"

He snorts incredulously while unwinding his beefy arms. "Are you accusing me of theft?"

Robby holds up his palms before half placing himself in front of you. "Alright, just calm down." He looks at Park's wrist, then turns back to you. "Sweetheart, what would Dr. Park want with one of your hair ties?"

You shrug, then gesture to him. "I have no idea, why don't you ask him?"

Robby runs a palm down his face in exasperation before turning fully toward you. "We are not making a scene out of something so miniscule," he states lowly.

You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off. "Honey, look at me."

You do, but while scowling.

"Let it go." He nods toward the computer station. "And finish up with your charting. We're going to be grabbing a new patient in a few once I'm done here."

You grit your teeth. Child that this bastard has turned you into, you have half a mind to throw a damn tantrum—stomping feet, screaming; the whole works.

Instead, you act the adult and get back to work.

But you've won either way, because now he's on Robby's radar.

"You wanna tell me what that was with Park earlier today?" Robby says between bites of his sub.

The two of you are currently parked in an empty lot, downing your dinner to-go, you're both that hungry after your grueling shifts. When you began whining that your stomach was hurting, Robby promptly swung into a drive-thru to order for you whatever you liked. Now, you feel quite content as you snack on toasted bread and grilled meats.

Stealing one of his fries from the cupholder between you, you munch on it momentarily before speaking. If you tell him about the elevator incident, his head may very well pop like a cherry tomato. Not that you enjoy lying to him by any means, but...it's also not like the two of you are together. You flirt while at work, and he's been driving you back and forth while your car is in the shop.

That's it.

"I told you: he stole my hair tie and I wanted it back. Yes, it seems small and stupid, but it's something I did technically purchase, which doesn't rightfully belong to him. Maybe if he was actually using it for his own hair I wouldn't have cared." You look at him. "But he isn't."

He leans his head back against the seat and takes another bite. "Why would he bother taking it in the first place? That's what I'm asking."

Truth be told, you have as much explanation as he. You don't get it either. So, he hates just the thought of you, but has presumedly been wearing something which belongs to you every day for the last couple of weeks?

Make it make sense.

You take a sip of your drink and shake your head. "Maybe he uses it as a fidget toy."

Things are soon back to smooth sailing for you. You stay attached to Robby's side during the day like usual, and bask in Jack's attention at night before you're due to go home.

There's no hide or hair of Park because he's clearly gone back to his ivory tower to stay.

Fine with you if you never set eyes on him again. But every time you pass the elevators, you can't help the stirring you feel within your loins at the sight of them.

When you try relieving the pent-up sexual frustration one night, you're just in the middle of things—hand firmly settled between your slick thighs while lying nakedly atop your bed—but despite every effort to think of anyone else, such as Robby, Jack, hell even Langdon at one point, your mind keeps drifting off to him instead.

Eventually, you gave up and went to sleep, despite being so close.

You refused to give him the satisfaction, even if he'd never know it.

"Hey, Shark Bait," Santos calls from a handful of feet away.

Your head shoots up and you glare. "What?" You spit.

Sarcastically widening her eyes, she throws her hands up and turns back around. "Geeze, I'll ask somebody else, then. Try getting laid at some point—might be good for you."

Now being the evening, Jack mouths to Robby across the room Shark Bait?, to which he's granted a shaking head in return.

So help you God if she makes that your new nickname, you'll—

"What seems to be the problem?" Jack inquires while straddling the seat next to you.

Boredly typing the same thing repeatedly into the computer because you're exhausted, you shrug. Your forearm rests atop the desk you sit at while your chin is positioned atop it. If your head gets any lower, Robby may very well have to carry you out of here.

Now there's an idea.

"Tired," you mumble.

He settles a palm atop your thigh, which awakens you even slightly.

"Robby says you've been in a mood all day."

"Been tired all day," you pout.

He squeezes your thigh and you whimper, wishing he'd do a great deal more than that.

"That whole Shark Bait comment have anything to do with Park?"

Groaning in irritation, you finally lay your forehead atop your arm. "He's an asshole."

He lets out a low whistle. "Never heard a foul word come from those pretty lips before. He must've really done a number on you."

"He stole my hair tie," you complain.

Jack snorts. "Please tell me that is not what this is all about."

No, you want to say. It's not. What it's about is that he has given me the female equivalent of blue balls. Something which you and Robby could easily take care of if I wasn't such a coward and finally bothered asking for as much.

"No."

Sliding his hand off your thigh, he rests it atop the back of the chair he occupies. "Honey, I can't read your mind."

Gently banging your head off your arm, you remain silent for a moment. "I'm just frustrated."

He raises a brow in interest. "This uh...frustration. Does what Santos said have something to do with it?"

You don't reply.

Wheeling closer, he speaks lowly to you. "Sweetheart, if you need a vibrator, I'd be all too happy to get you one."

Your head sprouts up so quickly that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, thought that'd get your attention," he says with satisfaction.

You narrow your eyes at him, which he finds to be all too adorable a look for you. Like a pissed off kitten.

Before you can think up a smart aleck reply, Robby comes over and slides a hand up your back before gently massaging your neck.

He keeps that up, and you'll curl up in his lap in one of the hospital beds before finally drifting off to sleep.

"C'mon, let me take you home."

You make to stand, but stumble slightly before falling into his side.

Jack picks up your bag and hands it to Robby, who slides onto his shoulder before holding you close and leading you outside.

When your car was first carted away on the back of a tow truck, your sense of stability went with it. How would you get around? Run errands? Get to and from work?

Your episode of spiraling was short-lived, however, when Robby caught sight of you exiting an Uber the following morning before starting your shift. He'd promptly questioned where your personal vehicle was, and when you awkwardly mumbled as to its current state and subsequent whereabouts, he told you he'd be your designate chauffer until it was made road-worthy again.

You'd thought to protest, simply because you didn't desire for him to go out of his way, waste extra gas, and be a burden on top of it all, but ultimately decided that you were selfish enough to accept his offer if it meant spending more time with him. Especially one-on-one.

So, imagine the great sense of disappointment which settles over you when you receive a call that your vehicle is ready to be retrieved and taken home.

Telling Robby is a rather interesting exchange.

"I could just rip the alternator out," he'd said with an earnest expression.

You'd giggled, assuming he was joking.

"I'm serious," he'd continued while sliding a hand down your arm. "I'm going to miss my passenger."

After assuring you at length that if you ever needed anything—not limited strictly to a ride—you could call him any time and he'd come running.

You were grateful to know that he cared that much.

"I mean it," Robby had reiterated in the parking lot before leaving work. Cupping your cheek in his hand, he stood oppressively close as his warm, chocolate-brown eyes gazed into yours. "Anything."

Maybe he'd hoped for more time—a proper opportunity to ignite something more between the two of you. You had wanted him to, but if it was all mere flirtation, sided with a bit of adoring affection... You didn't want to make yourself seem like some lovestruck, dewy-eyed schoolgirl obsessed with being the teacher's pet.

So you had simply nodded while pawing gently at his soft middle.

When he leaned down, your eyes nearly fluttered closed in anticipation of a kiss. Your heart had quivered at the exciting prospect. And he did grant you one, but only on the forehead before stepping away to head home.

If one more man saw fit to tease the bundle of nerves between your legs—whether intended or not—you might very well end up attacking one of them in an on-call room to finally satiate your sexual needs.

Just as you've popped open the door to your car, you glance to the left and see—the phrase 'speak (or in your case, think) of the devil and he shall appear' comes to mind—the very man who's kept you so riled up in the first place.

With a huff, you sink into the car and shut the door behind you. Ignoring the way your hands tremble just from the sight of Park, you click your seatbelt into place, turn the ignition over and... It makes an awful whirring sound, like it's struggling for life.

No.

Oh no.

You just got it back! Coupled with a bill you can't even bear to look at a second time...

Then again, when Jack saw you staring down at it with elbows propped up and fingers pressed into your temples as the cogs in your mind slowly rolled as you thought of the things you could sell and the ways in which you could start cutting back to cover the due costs, he'd snatched it away before settling his glasses upon the bridge of his nose and whistling quietly. "You know if you'd brought it to me or Robby instead, you wouldn't have had to pay a dime, right?"

He'd lowered his chin while looking at you from over the rim of his glasses.

"You're both already so busy. That—that wasn't an option. Even if I did, I still would've had to pay for parts."

Walking over to the printer, he laid it face down before pressing the big blue button which in turn spat out another copy of it.

"I'll take care of it," he'd said while handing you the original for record-keeping.

You'd blinked before flying into a torrent of insistence that he not.

Jack had then leaned over while gripping the back of your chair. "And no, you wouldn't have paid for parts, either. Between the two of us, we make more than enough to ensure you're taken care of."

You'd chuckled nervously while leaning back. "Think of all the trouble I saved you, though."

Gripping your chin, he grew utterly serious. "Next time, it's our hands under the hood. Got it?"

You'd nodded in agreement, then watched as he tucked the bill away into his back pocket. "I find out you've paid a cent on it," he began while straightening. "And you and I will be having a talk."

You watched silently as he walked away, appreciating his unsteady gait all the while.

Throwing yourself back against the driver's seat with a groan, you squeeze your eyes shut while thinking he may just get his wish. And very soon.

After sliding your keys out of the ignition, a rapping of knuckles against the window beside you causes you to shriek. Peering out, you frown at the sight of Park waiting for you with folded arms.

Tossing your keys into the cupholder, you sigh before exiting. "Yes?" You ask while keeping the door open, lest you need to suddenly lock yourself within the safety of your vehicle's confines.

"What, Robby finally get tired of carting your ass around?"

You glower at him from beneath your lashes. "No. I just got my car back from the shop."

A smirk flits briefly across his lips. "Not a very good one, apparently." Coming around to the front, he looks at you. "Problem with women and thinking they know anything about anything with a motor."

You sneer, and he leans down and tucks his fingers under the car's grill. "Pop the hood."

You hesitate. "And how do I know you're not going to just make it worse?"

He snorts. "It is a tempting thought: the idea of you being stranded here and taking a morning shower in the sink in the women's restroom."

You shrug casually. "I'll just call Robby to come and get me. Maybe ask him to take me home with him." You grin. "Both the ER cowboys have a hard time telling me no."

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Course they call themselves that." Instead of telling you a second time, he chooses instead to stare you down.

With a huff, you finally oblige him. As long as it rids you of his annoying presence, you'll be happy.

"C'mere and shine a flashlight on it. Can't see shit with only the streetlight overhead."

Slipping your phone from your pocket, you come to stand next to him while illuminating the engine bay with your device.

Reaching forward, he fiddles with what on one end looks like a very odd screw before pulling it out. Marching over his vehicle—of course it's a muscle car—he messes around in the trunk for a moment before bringing over a roll of shop rags. "Spark plugs are fuckin' filthy," he remarks before wiping it down.

Returning it to where it goes, he starts on the next one while looking at you. "Don't go back to that shop. This should've been a basic diagnostic step."

"Well, it ran fine this morning. So I'm sure they fixed the main problem," you say with a shrug.

"While leaving another one go," he spits. He shakes his head while turning away. "Sheer laziness."

You roll your eyes. Seems a simple enough fix, so you're not all that perturbed by it.

As he works, Park makes small talk with you. "Where were you coming from that day?"

You can feel your cheeks warm. He just couldn't resist the temptation of reliving it, could he?

"6th floor." You smile. "I love it there."

He huffs. "Figures. So you like kids, then?"

You nod vigorously. "I do."

"Got any of your own?" he asks while half glancing to you.

"Not yet," you reply. "But I will someday. When the right man comes along."

Finishing up, he stands back and wipes his hands with a clean towel. "Figures," he states while surveying you. "You seem the mothering type."

You narrow your eyes while crossing your arms. "I fail to see how that's a bad thing."

His eyes flit to the driver's side of the car. "Turn it over."

You shake your head, but ultimately do as you're told.

You may have a bit of a mouth on you, but he nevertheless appreciates just how obedient you are.

To your relief, the engine roars to life. Leaning back, you breathe a sigh of relief.

No restroom showers for you.

With a thunk, Park shuts the hood of your car and you switch it back off again momentarily so that you can reluctantly thank him for his assistance.

Returning to his own sedan, he tosses the shop rags back into the trunk before fetching a bottle of sanitizer and lathering his hands until they're clean and smelling of alcohol.

"Thank you," you murmur, watching him walk back over to you. "And for your peace of mind: yes, I will go somewhere else in the future for so much as an oil change."

He hums in acknowledgment to what you've said. Intent on crowding, he doesn't plant his feet until you're backed against the side of your car. "Wha—What're y—"

With a neutral expression painted upon his finely carved face, he grips either of your hips in his hands before shoving them against the glass behind them. "I might've only said one taste," he drawls. "But I didn't say of what."

Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along your neck. "Since I'm sure there's so many other places for me to go."

Cupping you over your pants, he prods against your heat with his index and middle finger, causing you to jolt in response.

"How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?" He rumbles.

You fight to keep your eyes open when all they seem to want to do is roll back in your head as he presses the heel of his palm to your clit.

"N—None."

He scoffs. "Good girls know better than to lie to their betters."

You squirm beneath his hand. "I—"

Yanking against the bow at the front of your pants shuts you up entirely. "You want it?" He groans. "Because if you don't," he continues while slowly sinking his hand beneath the hem of your panties. "Then you're going to have to use your words and tell me as much."

Silence suddenly seems like such a preferable option to you.

Traveling lower, when his hand finally cups your bare, weeping cunt with no layers between the two of you to hinder the experience, your eyes fluttered closed while a gasp of satisfaction escapes your lips.

"God, you're fucking soaked," he growls.

Prodding against your clit with the pad of his thumb, you whine.

"Please."

He swiftly runs a single finger between your sopping folds before circling that perfect bundle of nerves with your own lubrication. "Needy little thing," he mocks before sliding the tip of his tongue up the length of your neck. "Bet it doesn't take much for you," he whispers right against your ear—his warm breath puffing against the shell of it. "Does it?" he asks before easing a single digit inside of you.

"O—Oh God," you gasp.

"Just as desperate as I thought you'd be," he commentates before slipping another between your fluttering walls.

Curling the digits upwards, you practically jump onto your tiptoes.

With two fingers massaging the fleshy ledge inside of you while his thumb continues working at your swollen clit, it's all you can do not to beg him. For what, you're not sure.

To keep going? He already seems intent on that. To never stop? Tempting enough prospect. To bend you over the hood of either of your vehicles so he can have his way with you? God, what you wouldn't give just to finish around the throbbing length of his cock.

He pauses his ministrations and you begin to quietly cry in panicked frustration. "Please, please don't," you plead through teary eyes.

Having you right where he wants you at long last, he savors the moment. Brushing tears from your heated cheeks, he clicks his tongue mockingly. "Don't what?" he glances down to where half his hand is submerged in your body cavity. "Keep going?"

"No!" You cry. "Don't stop!"

He chuckles. "So pathetic," he mutters before kissing away your tears. "You'd give anything just to come on my hand in a parking lot of all places, wouldn't you?"

You've lost control of your senses. As much is confirmed when you nod so hard that something twinges in your neck.

When movement begins again, you nearly start bawling from a sense of gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," pours from your lips.

He grunts as his fingers keep beckoning forth your orgasm.

As you near your apex, you reach up and sink your nails into either of his shoulders and hold on for dear life as an overwhelming crash of white light soon explodes behind your eyelids. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you squeeze tightly around his slick fingers, trying to suck them inside.

Whatever it is which you say as you come undone is garbled and utterly nonsensical. But you somehow know that he understands whatever it is which you meant by it.

Removing his hand from between your legs is when you finally open your eyes. The world seems a bit hazy—blurry, even—and your body drained of all energy.

You watch with fascination as he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks. "Just as good as I thought," he breathes.

You try retying the front of your pants, but with your coordination now shot, you quickly give up.

Gently grabbing you by the neck, he pulls you in toward him and gives you an open-mouthed kiss, just the same as the one in the elevator.

"See you around," he says with a smirk before stalking off.

You're out of sorts for the next few days—crying at the drop of a hat, latching onto Robby for attention (proceeded by feeling guilty about it), berating yourself for every little mistake you make, and following Jack around like a lost puppy when he comes in early a couple days in a row for his shift...

Suffice to say that you're not yourself.

Not after what happened between you and Park.

Just like he did between your legs, he's also now burrowed into your head somehow. Like a parasite. Or a nasty insect you'd love to squash with the heel of your tennis shoe.

You don't understand what's the matter with you. Why all you want is to be held; pampered; cherished with reassuring words.

It had something to do with things afterward, you think.

One moment, you were on Cloud Nine while he fingered you to completion, and the next, you were bawling in your kitchen because your spoon fell out of your cereal bowl and onto the floor the following morning.

You decide you hate him. And that you made a mistake. Who does that in public? Anyone could've seen! Talk about a lack of self-respect...

You avoid traveling in the elevators at all costs now, instead opting for the stairs every time something needs ran here or there. Makes for good cardio. That's what you tell yourself when you're out of breath three floors up one day. You deem the sacrifice of getting a little sweaty worth it, though, if it removes almost any and all chances of you running into him.

Your dreams of never setting eyes on his stupid face ever again, which you'd like to punch like one of those inflatable clowns, doesn't last long when you run into him—literally—after exiting the women's restroom one day. Bounding off his chest, you seethe while glaring up at him.

Noticing how your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy—not that he should be surprised, crybaby that you seem to be—he folds his arms behind him. "Don't tell me the princess of the ER didn't get her afternoon nap today."

You are so past obnoxious banter with him. You go to step around him, until he gently grabs you by your wrist. "Hey—"

Shoving his chest, he staggers back, then jeers. "Who the hell do you think you a—"

"You left me!" You cry.

His brows furrow while his eyes flit between yours for understanding. "What?"

Your chin wobbles and you sniffle. "You got what you wanted and then you just left me there! I felt so used and—and disgusting. We didn't talk about it, or, or—"

He snickers. "You really are a brat when you're not the constant center of attention, aren't you?"

Roaring in anger, you draw an open palm back, which he swiftly catches and pins against a wall. "What did I tell you about that?"

You pout. "I wouldn't have. Not really."

You're not so sure of that.

And then your eyes well with tears. "Why are you so mean to me?!" You wail.

"Jesus Christ," he curses lowly. "Get your fucking act together."

You only begin to cry harder.

Realization finally dawns on him then of what's come over you. And his stomach sinks.

Moron, he mentally chastises.

Drawing you into his chest, you attempt to battle against him with ineffectual fists before soon succumbing to the warmth you've been needing.

"You really are a sub, aren't you?"

You sinks your nails into his pectoral. "Why did you just call me a sandwich?" You cry.

He rolls his eyes. It's a fucking miracle you ever made it through medical school.

He sighs while settling his cheek atop your head and keeping both arms wrapped firmly around you. So help him God if so much as a janitor rounds the corner and finds him in such a compromising, and not to mention pitiful, position...

"It's called a drop. We were intimate, and instead of me sticking around like I apparently should've and giving you the attention you're clearly reeling from the loss of, this is the result: you being an emotional mess, which is becoming everybody else's problem to deal with."

"You're a mess," you mumble against his chest while snuggling against it.

"When it comes to you, apparently," he grumbles discontentedly.

You hum in satisfaction from the affection he's finally giving you. Not that you need it, of course. You still hate him and never want to see him again, but... It's rather nice to be embraced.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," he starts while running a large palm up your back.

You nuzzle against his neck. "Mm, what?"

"You are the very opposite of what I usually go after," he mumbles.

You interrupt before he can continue. "Well that's not very nice."

"Never said I had any intention of being that," Park snipes. He kisses the crown of your head. "Come to dinner with me."

You shrug in an attempt to play hard to get. "Maybe I already have plans."

He grits his teeth. He's liable to tighten his arms until he snaps you in two so you'll never be his problem again if you keep testing his patience. "I won't ask twice. Turn me down, and we're done. For good."

You frown at the ultimatum. Being given direction is nice so you're not left figuring things out on your own all the time—it's why you're so fond of Robby—but taking orders? Boy, does it make your blood boil.

"Fine," you spit while clutching at his shirt.

"Fine."

Things have changed. At times, you think for the better, while others, the worst. Robby and Jack have both backed off since the entirety of the ED caught wind that Park has suddenly claimed you as his.

They're both still friendly—kind and helpful, even—but no longer sweet on you like they once were. You understand why, even if you miss that aspect of your relationship with each of them.

Jack seems fond of Mohan now, and because she's so very kind, you hope something works out between them, even if you're sort of jealous... On both ends.

You might've daydreamed about kissing her once or twice...

Robby on the other hand seems a tad withdrawn. You think he's hurt, but don't know what to say or do to make it right. Loss of the affection there once was between you has been hard to take on both your ends. You're unaware of it, but he can't stop replaying the day of the joint reset. If he'd only left you with Mel tending to an abscess, this never would've happened.

He blames himself for his loss of you.

Robby had been concerned initially—whether it was genuine, or because he was desperate to find a reason why you shouldn't be with Shark, is up for debate—but because of how stoic Park is at all times, as well as the temper he's known to have, the worry was there that he would mistreat you. Not handle you like fine China as he and Jack both have.

Not that the orthopedic surgeon's disposition ever changes, but he's different with you. Softer, gentler, and more attentive. And you beam from the love he showers you with.

So Robby relinquishes what was clearly never his while throwing himself into work on his new bike, and planning an eventual trip that's been weighing on him.

Stepping over an unfamiliar threshold, Brendon's living space somehow is both exactly as you imagined it and not. You'd envisioned something industrial looking—all high ceilings and black and grey and white coloring, made to look sterile like an OR.

Instead, there's ambient lighting, a soft couch (not made of leather, also to your shock), a collection of DVDs, which unsurprisingly includes Jaws, a kitchen with a tea kettle on the stove, and an assortment of healthy green plants littered around the space.

"Not what you had in mind?" he asks while tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

A man with a decorative grab and go bowl? Now you are most certainly taken aback.

"No," you quip.

"What did you expect, then?" he asks while stalking toward you. "Dungeons and coffins and moats?"

You blink. "Did—Did you just quote Twilight?"

He grins before cupping your face between his hands and kissing you. "I'll give you a tour," he whispers against your lips.

He's very organized, which is to be expected, given how meticulous and detail-oriented he is. But the one thing—above any other—which you couldn't stop staring at, was a ratty old teddy bear sitting high on a shelf in his bedroom.

"My mom made it for me when I was a kid," he'd said while retrieving a t-shirt and checkered pajama pants from his dresser. "Found it in her house after she passed. I couldn't bear to part with it."

He'd shook his head without mirth. "No, I didn't intend for that to be a pun."

Padding over to him, you'd wound your arms around his waist while gazing up at the adorable children's toy. Would he like for you to sew an eye back onto it? No. That would've been for her and her alone to do. He's perfect just as he is, you deem.

"I think it's sweet. There's nothing wrong with holding onto mementos. Postcards, clothes, books, photos, toys." You shrugged. "They're important."

He cleared his throat while sinking a slightly trembling hand into your hair. "My only regret is her not getting to meet you," he said thickly.

Reaching up, you brushed a tear from his cheek. "I still can one day. If you'd like to take me to where she's buried, we'll get her her favorite flowers. Then have lunch with her and talk."

He buried his face in your shoulder then, and began to sob.

After preparing the both of you plates of fancy seafood pasta, coupled with glasses of red wine, Brendon rests his head in your lap as you each watch a movie from his couch together. Goodfellas is an excellent film, in your opinion, but all it really serves to do is make you hungry for more pasta.

Once the credits are rolling, he switches off the flatscreen before leading you into the bedroom and shutting the door behind the two of you.

You quietly pant as Brendon kisses your right inner thigh before switching to the other side and sucking against the supple skin found there.

He's been at it for the better part of an hour—letting his hands roam your naked body and his tongue your salivating mouth before sinking his head between your legs. Only, he refuses to show any amount of attention to your throbbing clit.

He's got you so wet that it's dripping on to his smooth, navy-blue sheets which smell of something dark and spicy, but every time you lift your hips and quietly whimper "please", he chuckles and blows against your sensitive bundle before mumbling "not yet" and licking at your pubic mound.

Clenching the tangled sheets beneath you, Brendon plants wet kisses from the bend of your knee all the way to the crook of your thigh. Spreading your slick labia apart with his index and middle finger, he gently blows against your swollen clit with a concentrated stream of air, which causes your back to arch and hips to buck in response.

"Always so needy," he rumbles from the foot of the bed.

You press the heels of your palms against damp lashes.

Swiping a finger through your folds just to tease you, you release a quiet sob. "Please. Please just put something inside of me."

He shakes his head, though you can barely make him out in the dark. "You're not calling the shots here, are you?"

You pout. "No."

"Didn't think so."

He lifts your left leg over his shoulder before peppering kisses down the length of it.

You curl your toes as he gets closer to your cunt, then deflate when he drops your limb back onto the mattress.

Planting two fingers between your folds, his eyes flit to you. "This what you want? Hm?"

You nod excitedly. "Yes! Yes, please."

He hums thoughtfully. "Well, if you insist," he says mockingly.

You just know he's about to piss you off even more with whatever he's about to do.

Sinking his middle finger inside of you, Brendon appreciates how your pulsating walls squeeze repeatedly around it—but he knows it's something else which they're frantic for.

You wiggle your hips. "Can you finger me?"

He doesn't move the digit—just leaves it lodged inside of you. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I would." He glances up to you. "But I don't," he spits.

Tangling your fingers in your hair, you throw your head back and begin to sob. "I can't take much more."

He sinks a second digit inside. "You'll take whatever I tell you to until I've had my fill."

Feeling your walls clench, your own body gives away just how much you enjoy the filthy things he says to you.

Completely hopeless that you'll get to orgasm tonight, you break into a full on weeping fit.

He sighs in relief at the sound. "There she is. That's my good girl," he drawls heatedly.

With painstaking slowness, he begins to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. "God you're making such a mess," he murmurs. "Getting it all over the sheets."

"Sorry," you whimper.

And then he smacks your pussy. "Quiet."

You bite your lower lip to obey.

This isn't the first time you two have been intimate, but it is the first time it's been in his house—his bed, specifically. As such, he feels wholly in control here. A safe word was decided long ago, however: hammerhead. Completely ridiculous, but better than nothing at all.

As he eases his fingers in and out of your wet heat, the sounds it makes fill the silence which surrounds you. It's humiliating, really.

You spread your legs impossibly wider.

Pulling his fingers out, you start crying again. "Oh, God—"

"What did I just say?" he barks.

You shut your mouth again.

You hear the shifting of clothes—thank God, he's finally undressing and ready to give you what you've been after the whole time—and then the bed dips on either side of you. Resting back on his haunches and straddling your thighs, Brendon works at his cock with a closed fist, breathing heavily as he circles the tip with his thumb.

"This what you wanted?" he questions.

"Yes, please," you sigh.

Manuevering himself to the side, he grips both of your knees and plants your feet before spreading your legs apart. "You don't move unless you're told to."

"Yes, sir," you whisper.

Climbing atop you, he swipes the head of his weeping cock against your slick entrance, which he's made more than ready to take him.

"Wait," you say while half sitting up. Leaning back on your elbows, you study him. "You didn't put on a condom."

"I don't do condoms," he replies matter-of-factly.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Wha—How many women have you had unprotected sex with, then? We...we used them at my place."

"None."

Your brows furrow.

You're so very perplexed.

Squeezing one of your breasts with his free hand, he explains. "I told myself that if I ever brought a woman home, I wouldn't allow anything to stand between us. Including a cheap fucking piece of rubber."

You lay back again. "How many have you brought here?" you inquire quietly.

Easing between your walls without warning, he groans. "This would be a first."

Knocking your legs apart with his knee, he circles his hips before bottoming out against your cunt.

Prodding gently against your belly, you can feel the tip of his cock.

Oh, dear God, this is heavenly...

"But, what..." You swallow thickly. "Um..."

You can't formulate a thought with him now rocking his hips rhythmically against your own.

"Will you pull out?" you ask.

"No."

Your eyes flutter closed. "Birth control doesn't always—"

He licks your lips. "Guess there's a conversation we'll need to have in the morning, then."

You slide your fingers into his hair. "Oh, yeah?"

His cock twitches at the breathless way you say that. "You wanna be a mother, don't you?"

You cup his cheek. "Someday."