Kat

You’ve noticed, of course you have. You always notice when his shoulders are too tight because you made a priority of always making sure you both were alright after work.

By the time the crew decides to go out for drinks, the idea floats down the hallway in tired, hopeful murmurs. It starts with Dana, then Donnie, then Cassie and so on. “We deserve it,” Trinity sighs.

Dennis doesn’t even look at anyone else first, he looks at you. You’re leaning against the nurses’ station, chin in your palm, lashes heavy but eyes bright. When you catch him staring, your whole face lights up like he flipped a switch.

“Dennis,” you beam, like he’s a surprise, like he isn’t standing six feet away. He walks toward you, slower than usual, less resident-on-a-mission and more boyfriend-like. “They’re going for drinks,” he says gently.

You gasp softly at his words. “Like… fun drinks?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “Fun drinks.” You clasp your hands together dramatically, nodding your head at him with sparkling eyes. “Oh my god, yes, please. I want something pink and irresponsible.” He huffs a laugh at those words but nods.

You reach out and smooth down the front of his scrubs, fussing with a wrinkle that absolutely does not matter. You don’t even care if someone sees you, it’s not like they don’t know about you and Dennis, anyway. “You need a drink too,” you inform him. “Your eyebrows have been furrowed all day.”

“My eyebrows?” Dennis asks, a bit surprised by the sudden subject of his eyebrows. “Yes, they were doing that thing.” You move a finger to circle around your own eyebrows before smiling at him.

“What thing?” You squint at him then, trying to recreate it. Your face scrunches in a way that makes him want to kiss you immediately. There’s so much fondness in his face at that moment, the love he has for you visible in his expression.  “That thing,” you repeat.

He laughs properly then and the tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction, reminding him that he always feels the safest and more relaxed when he’s around you. You’re his safe place, the little house he makes love grow.

“Come with us,” he says, softer now. You blink at him like it was never in question. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

Not them. You.

The bar isn’t loud yet, it’s still early enough that conversations don’t have to compete with music. There’s warm lighting, dark wood and the faint hum of tired professionals pretending they aren’t exhausted.

You are no longer in scrubs.

You changed in the locker room into a soft pink cardigan that falls off one shoulder and fitted jeans that hug you just enough to make Dennis very aware of your existence, there’s a thin gold chain around your neck, gloss reapplied and perfume sweet and light.

You walk in holding his hand like it’s instinct. It is instinct.  The crew claims a long table, someone orders shots immediately (Trinity), someone else complains about it (Victoria). Dennis sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours, one of your knees angles toward him automatically and your hand finds his sleeve without looking.

You are glowing in this setting; you laugh easily, you lean forward when people talk, you listen intently and of course you ask follow-up questions. You are so bright it makes him ache a little.

After an hour of conversation and laughing, you decide to go get a drink at the bar, Dennis following after you just to escape the jokes coming from Trinity. The bartender lifts his head up when you both get there, he’s confident with an easy smile. The kind of person who is very used to being charming for a living. “What can I get you?” he asks. You look at him with wide curiosity.

“Something pink,” you say earnestly. “But not, like, scary pink. Just happy pink.” Dennis presses his lips together to stop a smile at your words, but it’s nearly impossible with the cute little facial expression you have at that moment.

The bartender chuckles. “Happy pink. Got it.” His gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary and Dennis notices. He doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t even interrupt but he does shift closer to you.

Your body presses more firmly against his at the feeling.

The bartender returns to you with a bright pink cocktail, rim dusted with sugar. “For you,” he says, setting it down in front of you. “On the house.”

You gasp softly. “Oh my god, thank you.”

Dennis watches the interaction carefully.

You beam at the bartender with complete, harmless sincerity; no coyness, no lingering glances. You take one sip and immediately turn to Dennis. “Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes huge and sparkling like when you see something that you like. “Taste this.” You push the glass toward him.

He takes a small sip, eyes still on you. “It’s good,” he nods and you grin like he personally invented it. The bartender is still there, much to Dennis’ little dismay.

“So,” he says casually, leaning an elbow on the table. “You work nearby?” Your boyfriend feels it this time; the subtle angle, the interest, the lingering eyes. You nod enthusiastically. “Yeah! We all do.” Your head turns just slightly to look above your shoulder, taking the view of your coworkers being in an intense conversation about movies.

He smiles at you. “Long shift?”

“The longest,” you sigh dramatically. “But it’s okay because I have him.” You point to Dennis without even looking away from your drink, a smile on your face from being able to show off your boyfriend to people. The bartender’s eyes flicker toward Dennis for the first time; like he didn’t care for him before or as if he only realized he was there too.

“And you are?” he asks, tone less sweet, smile less showing. Dennis doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t puff up like those stereotypical jealous boyfriends. He just drapes his arm across the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder softly.

“Dennis,” he says evenly. You lean into his side automatically, head almost resting on his shoulder. “My boyfriend,” you add, like a correction. Like you want everyone to know who Dennis is. The bartender’s smile falters—just slightly.

“Ah,” he says.

You are already sipping again, blissfully unaware of the tiny shift in energy. Dennis doesn’t gloat, he doesn’t need to (but God, he does want to).

Because you haven’t looked at the bartender once since you said it.

You are bad at recognizing when people flirt with you, not because you’re naive, oh no. But because you assume everyone is just being friendly, you assume the best out of everyone.

The bartender comes back twice; once to refill water, once to “check if the drink is still happy pink.” You nod enthusiastically both times.

“It’s still happy,” you confirm seriously. Dennis watches the bartender’s eyes trail down the line of your arm when you reach for your glass. He feels the old flicker of something tight in his chest; jealousy, maybe or protectiveness. He doesn’t act on it and doesn’t even say anything about it for now.

Because every single time the bartender speaks to you, you respond politely—and then immediately turn back to Dennis.

Your hand slides up his forearm absentmindedly while you talk, you rest your chin on his shoulder when you laugh, you whisper commentary about the others’ stories directly into his ear like he’s the only one who needs to hear it.

“Do you think he practiced his joke?” you murmur at one point, a bit amused. Dennis huffs quietly, nodding his head at your question. “Probably.”

“I like him, he’s funny,” you say affectionately, like you’d talk about anyone else in general. He smiles into his glass. You like everyone but you choose him. You love him and Dennis knows that, because you can’t stop telling him (and he loves that so much).

The bartender tries once more. “You two been together long?” he asks casually, wiping the wooden bar. You blink at him like the question is adorable. “Yeah,” you say softly, glancing up at Dennis. “A while.” Dennis feels your hand slide into his lap under the bar, you lace your fingers with his without breaking eye contact with the bartender.

“Best decision of my life,” you add, matter-of-fact. The bartender laughs awkwardly. “That serious, huh?” You tilt your head, confused.

“Yeah,” you say simply. “Of course.” Dennis’s chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with jealousy now.

Later, you both went back to your coworkers, the drinks are half-finished and the table has dissolved into smaller conversations, you shift fully toward Dennis.

Your knees bracket his thigh, your hand smooths down the front of his shirt absentmindedly. “You’re quiet,” you murmur.

“I’m listening.” He shrugs at you, but you know he’s trying to block out the conversation and the loud voice of Dana because she had a bit too much to drink, honestly. You can’t blame her. “You’re thinking.” You voice back at him.

He hesitates, you watch him with such open softness that it almost undoes him. “Do you get tired of it?” he asks quietly, leaning his head toward you so you’d be the only one to hear his words. “Of what?” A hum escapes your lips. 

“The attention.” You blink, eyebrows raising up on your forehead a bit.

“What attention?” He almost laughs at that. Like you have no idea what type of reactions you get from people; how could you not know? Everyone loves you. From coworkers, patients, friends, family, random people.  “The bartender,” he says gently, finally. You stare at him for a long moment, not seeming to understand.

“He was just doing his job?” Dennis studies your face. There is no artifice there, no coy evasion. You genuinely did not see it. You didn’t see what was happening. “Oh,” you say suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait… Was he flirting?”

Dennis smiles despite himself. “A little.” You gasp softly, scandalized, a hand moving to rest on your chest like that dramatical gesture you make each time. It always makes Dennis smile. “With me?” You still add, trying to make sure you understand what your boyfriend means. 

“Yes.” You look genuinely perplexed, eyes looking around for a second before your obs falls back on Dennis. “But I was talking about you the whole time.” Your tone is even more perplexed with those words and Dennis nods his head, smiling just a little.  “I know.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice before talking again. “Do you want me to tell him to stop?” The seriousness in your tone makes his chest ache. “No,” he says softly. “You don’t have to.” You frown slightly, but not because of his words; but because you’re thinking of how Dennis must have felt to watch that man flirt openly with you. “I don’t even want him,” you say, like it’s obvious. “I want you.”

You press a kiss to his cheek; slow, deliberate and super sticky. Your gloss leaves a faint shimmer behind with some pink and golden glitters. Dennis swallows. “I noticed,” he murmurs. “I only want you too.” He adds back at you.

You beam at him like you’ve accomplished something. “I only ever look at you,” you add, softer now. And it isn’t possessive in the way you say it, but it's true. You just want him and no one else.

When you step away to the restroom, the bartender approaches Dennis directly.

“Your partner’s sweet,” he says, neutral tone. Dennis nods, even if he doesn’t truly want to talk to the other man. “Yeah.” The bartender still tries to make conversation, adding. “You’re lucky.”

“I know.” There’s no edge in his voice, no challenge. There’s a sheepish smile on Dennis’ face as he thinks about you for a few seconds; your face, your attitude, your personality, everything about you makes him happy.

The bartender studies him for a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. “I know,” Dennis replies calmly, because he does. And because he knows you.

When you return, you slip right back into his space like it belongs to you. It does. You slide your hands into his hair lightly, fixing it where someone bumped into him earlier, smiling at him like he’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life (he might be). Your eyes sparkle. “You’re cute,” you murmur. He rolls his eyes softly. “I’m tired, the shift was too long.”

“You’re cute and tired.” You kiss his forehead, leaving another one of your infamous shimmery gloss prints of his skin.

The bartender doesn’t approach again after that.

On the walk home, you hook your arm through his; the night air is cool, your cardigan slips further off your shoulder which makes you shiver lightly. Dennis tugs it back up carefully.

“You were jealous,” you say suddenly, teasing lilt in your voice. “A little,” he admits, a bit of a blush on his cheeks at the embarrassment at how he felt in that bar. You grin at him, face illuminated by the lamps of the city.

“That’s kind of hot.” He groans softly, trying to look away or hide his face, you don’t know. “Don’t.” You giggle at his words, bumping your shoulder with his own, and then your tone softens. “But you don’t have to be,” you say quietly. “I don’t even notice anyone else like that.”

He blush even more at your words, nodding his head because he damn knows you’re telling the truth. It makes him happy to know. “I know.”

You focus your eyes on his face, making sure he understands that you truly mean what you are telling him. “I mean it, Dennis.”

“I know, baby, I know you do.” You stop walking and tug him toward you, your hands cup his face, thumb brushing at the skin of his cheeks softly. “Dennis Whitaker,” you say very seriously, “you are the only person I have eyes for. The only one I love. The only one I want in my life, got it?” He looks at you under the streetlight glow.

Your gloss is slightly faded now, your hair a little messy but your eyes are still warm and unwavering. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, a smile on his face, a brighter blush on his pale face. You grin at him before nodding. “Yeah, of course I am.”

He kisses you gently, not possessive and not claiming. But it’s warm, it’s sticky from the leftover of your gloss, it’s soft, it’s steady. It’s so Dennis. When you pull back, you hum softly against his mouth. “See?” you whisper. “Only you.”

And Dennis believes you, not because you said it.

But because you never stopped showing it.