Eleanor Staghart

Starting your rotations at PTMC would have been terrifying if you didn’t get stuck with the group you follow now. On your first day, you came in off a terrible experience at Mercy upstate, and when you met the other R1s and fourth-year med students, they seemed to be familiar with each other. You were the odd man out. But Dennis was, too. While Mel reconnected with Samira and Trinity struck gold with Perlah and Princess– not to mention Victoria's parents literally being on the upstairs payroll– you two were the only ones who hadn’t made a connection. Well, some might say that your floundering was the connection. You hit it off in your first hour, and have been inseparable since. 

The year was hard on both of you during the transition from student to resident. You were intent on specializing in pediatric emergency medicine while Dennis had his sights set on being attending chief, just like Robby. Outside of the traumas, Dennis followed Robby for teaching, and you used each spare second to pick up younger patients and build on your study. 

You were working on an experimental treatment study that gave kids power over how they treated their pain– letting them choose their dosage, their care, their desired results. Children were more honest when they were trusted, you found, and it was all being done in the hopes of drawing attention not only to the sheer volume of peds cases that came through the ER, but the necessity of having a pediatric resident on at all times, and possibly even a pediatric attending physician. So, you and Dennis technically weren’t so different… Either way, it was a mountain of effort. 

Even though he didn’t have the same academic drive to make change, Dennis admired you helplessly. He thought you were a genius, an angel-doctor, someone who they should give awards to for how sweet you were with children and how devoted to improving patient care you could be. You made him want to be a better agent of change, not just a good doctor. 

While it took twelve months to get the hang of the place, you and Dennis were finally doing well. As a pair, you got accepted into the residency program at PTMC and were finally getting paid. You went in on a shitty downtown apartment with Trinity, hoping to save money by carpooling and splitting rent. And you were hopelessly, disgustingly in love. 

At first, Trinity couldn’t stand you two. It was easy enough to ignore at work, because in order to stay focused you and Dennis decided to be neutral around the hospital. It made your lives easier and avoided any potential teasing or prying, especially from the nurses, who were dead set on sniffing out everyone’s business. But the second you guys were off the clock, he had his arms wrapped around your waist and he was steering you, petting you, kissing you; it made her sick sometimes. The lip smacking, the little giggles. Sometimes she would purposely get a ride home with Mel just to beat you to the apartment and lock the door, if only to preserve her peace for a few measly minutes. The frustrated banging on the wood was better than hearing you guys canoodle. 

But once Trinity got together with Garcia, her frustrations were far and few between… and hard to even see anymore. She was never home. The girl had started keeping clothes and scrubs at Garcia’s place, and if she did come back, it was to do laundry or eat the fridge. So, you and Dennis finally had peace and quiet. After those long days in the emergency department full of staring eyes and stress and death, you could come home to each other and soak up the softness of each other’s silence. Like tonight.

It had been a particularly hard one– nearly seventeen hours on the clock. There was some freak toxic spill in a factory across town, and over twenty patients had come in with chemical burns and gashes from slipping and falling down stairs onto machinery. Hazmat came and closed off half the emergency wing, and everyone had to be cleared from quarantine and hosed down in the frigid air before coming or going. It was torture. Dennis drove home in his truck, the both of you soaked to the skin in paper-thin sterile scrubs, starving and shivering. 

You stumbled through the apartment door, dead on your feet. Dennis took your bag and trotted off to drop the belongings in the bedroom, while you veered into the kitchen, yawning and shaking out the shivers as you yanked the refrigerator open. 

“God,” you pouted, “We forgot to go shopping again.”

The soft patter of footsteps echoed down the hall, and a strong pair of arms wrapped around your middle. Dennis tucked his chin over your shoulder, squeezing your tummy. “I can call the Chinese place. They’re 24/7, right?”

“Think so,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I’m just hungry. And tired. And annoyed.”

“Anything else?” Dennis laughed, the rumble soothing your spine. You spun in his arms and faced him, leaning back against the counter and moping. 

The apartment was a mess. The kitchen hadn’t been cleaned in days. There were clothes and shoes littering the living room, and Santos had a pile of papers covering the coffee table. Your research scattered the work desk by the bookshelf. It just felt like you never had time to catch up anymore, to take two seconds to clean up; when you got a day off, you slept through it on Dennis’ chest or your sad and forgotten pillow, just in case it would be another week before you got the chance. As you looked around, you felt the overwhelm of it all rushing back, and you dropped your head on his shoulder.

Dennis sighed softly and pressed a few smooches to your hairline. “I can see your wheels turning.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Bee, I lived on a farm. I’m used to the mess.” 

You managed a tiny smile at the name, nodding to yourself. He was right. It could always be worse. You could still be living in the med student dorms, where the showers were riddled with mildew and your roommate slept with her boyfriend all night, forcing you to get no sleep. At least you had this privacy, and this man in front of you who ensured you kept it. 

“I’ll call in an order.”

You sighed quietly as he pulled away and wandered back to the bedroom to grab his phone. For all the things he admired about you, you admired that about him: his ability to let things roll off, to take the good and leave the bad. You let everything affect you, but he never failed to have a good sense about him. He was way too wise, and it was why patients adored him. That and maybe his warm eyes, or his gorgeous, crooked smile, or the way he said “ma’am” and “surely” with that midwestern charm. 

You rooted through the medicine cabinet to grab some acetaminophen as you listened to the dull babbling of Dennis on the phone, and you rested against the counter as you took the pills dry. Your feet ached, the black work shoes worn down from any support they once offered. You were still cold from the wet roots of your hair. You were in a miserable mood, and the apartment was lonely without his warmth. You closed your eyes and tried to take your mind off it all, and that was when you felt hands scooping you off your feet. 

“Oof– Dennie!” You squeaked, wrapping your arms around his neck in case he dropped you. 

Dennis grinned and hoisted your legs around his hips, bracing you against his chest. The pads of his fingers dimpled the soft, bunching skin of your thighs. “Yes?”

“Why am I being handled like a ragdoll?”

“Because you flail, and it’s cute.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason,” you laughed, and he readjusted so his palms could cradle you dubiously close to the spot where your legs jointed to your ass. “I think you just wanted to squeeze me.”

“That, too,” he hummed, kissing your cheek. 

“Put me down,” you mumbled, nosing his jaw. 

“Why?”

“I’m heavy.”

“You are not,” Dennis scoffed, giving you a comical look of offense.

“Yes I am! Come on,”

“No,” he frowned, and he squeezed the underside of your legs to drive the point home. “You’re lighter than a hay bale.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible.”

Dennis narrowed his gaze playfully and slid you onto the kitchen counter, caging you in. You huffed at the relief of being put down and ruffled his hair, to which he shook the mess out like a dog. 

“Did you get me an egg roll?”

“You’re not heavy,” he interjected. 

“Okay, I’m not heavy.”

“Good. Correct,” he confirmed, and with a tiny glint in his eye, Dennis slid his palms up your legs and sides, caressing the spots where you curved and rolled. The farmboy was quick to trap you in a soft, unassuming kiss, and you melted on the faux marble, coiling around him once again. 

Dennis grunted softly as he pressed close to the counter and wrapped his arms around your back, sneaking his fingers under your scrubs. Your mouths worked in tandem as he drew patterns down your spine with one hand and kneaded the pudge of your tummy with the other, making you squirm. 

“Just been so stressed,” you mumbled, trailing your kisses down his neck. 

“I know, honeybee,” he panted, nipping your ear and pressing you against the cabinets. 

“You always make it better,” you confided, tugging sluggishly at his shirt. 

“Come here.”

The air settled softly over the room as you two gave into the urge. It wasn’t a tense moment, not even a worked-up one. It was just like letting a breath out. His hands were so welcome on your hot skin as he freed your legs from the chafing prison of those hazmat-issued scrubs. Your mouth was so grateful for the traces of soap on his collarbone as you nibbled and suckled on the meat of his chest, caressing the ridges of the abs that formed in secrecy over the last year of hauling patients and volunteering at the shelters and community farms after hours. It was a simple exchange of love between two people who have been leaning on each other for over a year, and who simply didn’t want to function without their counterpart. The mesh of passion in a quiet little safe place.

Dennis tucked his thumb under the cotton lip of your panties, sinking the pad into the wet heat between your folds. He sought the throbbing nub that required his attention. You choked on a moan as your back straightened out, and you curled your fingers in his hair, breathing the air of his mouth as he began to encircle it. 

“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he murmured, prodding softly at your clit, smearing the mess over your mound. 

“You had one, too,” you wheezed. 

“Yeah, but I’m not upset,” he purred, giving you a little nip and kitten lick at the juncture of your neck and jaw. His palm adjusted to let his greedy fingers tuck under the cloth, and you grunted as he cupped your cunt. “I hate seeing my girl so drained. You’re too pretty… too smart for that.”

“Dennie,” you moaned. 

“Yeah? Right there?” Dennis asked as he sunk two fingers past your entrance, feeling the pulse of your needy walls like a heartbeat around his knuckles. “Oh, baby… you’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“S’all your fault,” you whimpered, grinding gently onto his palm. 

Dennis hooked an arm behind your hips to help angle you forward, and he crooked his fingers inside your cunt, grinning as the familiar squelch gargled around the digits. Your face twisted with need, and he began to gently thrust, pressing the heel of his palm to your clit and working out circles. 

“That’s it, honeybee, come on– just take what you want,” he cooed, giving you every opportunity to rock against his fingers and use him up. “My little bee, yeah? You like it when I’m sweet.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, breathless and dizzy with pleasure. His hands should be exhausted from all the work he did on those trauma patients, but he made no show of it. The man’s fingers petted your g-spot like it deserved a treat. 

“You’re so pretty, baby, did I tell you today?” Dennis whispered, attaching his mouth to your neck. You felt the scrape of his teeth. “So, so pretty.”

“Dennieee,” you begged, feeling the heat building in your gut. The combination of his pressure on your bud and fingers stroking your walls was enough, but the words made it impossible to hold out. 

“Gonna cum, honeybee? Yeah? You can, don’t worry, baby. Come for me, let me see your face.”

Dennis always had that tone when you got desperate. Easy, gentle, as if you were a spooked horse. There was no fighting off the butterflies as they flitted happily around your spinning, floating orgasm, making you shiver and twitch as he wrought a crashing wave of pleasure down on your body. You moaned hoarsely and clung to the corded muscle of his arms, bucking into his palm and babbling weak, “Ah, ah, ah…”s. 

Dennis smiled against the curve of your neck and pulled his fingers free, sliding them between your lips and exploring the hot slick of your tongue. He watched your pouty lips close around them and suck, and his cock twitched in his pants. “That’s it. Good girl, honey.”

You flushed from the praise, body buzzing and shaking with stimulation. You reached down to cup his erection. Dennis tensed and hooked his fingers over your teeth, biting the inside of his cheek. “Jesus, baby.”

“You need it, too,” you pleaded, gently palming him, watching his cheeks burn and his lips part. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, and you tugged the string on the scrub bottoms free so he could shimmy them down. 

Dennis was not one to get greedy often, but it was so hard not to let the urge overcome him when you watched him with those bog doe eyes and begged to be fucked. Your legs wobbled like a calf as he dragged you to the edge of the counter and lined himself up, gliding the head of his cock through your folds to coat the pink, hungry skin in the residual slick. The two of you let out a freakish, synced sigh, and he pressed the tip in with impatience. He was met with no resistance– your cunt stretched dutifully for him, and soon enough he was grunting like an animal, pinning your hips to the counter and watching your breasts bounce from the force.

Your knees hitched around his hips as the deep, eager force of his length speared you, and you lolled your head back against the cabinets, clawing at the edge of the counter. “Dennie, baby, please, please…”

“You feel so good, baby,” he whined, thrusting harder, watching the creamy rings start to form around the base of his cock. “Fuck. Such a sweet girl, honeybee, such a good girl!”

“S-so… so…”

He chuckled weakly as you lost your train of thought. He thought you were pretty without fail, but there was something to you when he had you at the mercy of your own pleasure. You seemed to glow, skin shimmering with sweat, all your bountiful curves twisting and turning with marshmallow torque. He gasped hungrily as he dug his nails into the fat of your thighs and moaned, “So fucking beautiful… God, could just squeeze you ‘til you pop.”

The heat wrapping around your womb in vines was pernicious and unrelenting. You licked up a stray droplet of drool from his chin as he pounded into you, and you threaded your fingers into his hair, dragging him into a sloppy, wonderful kiss. Dennis’ lashes mingled with yours as you swirled your tongue past his lips, jolting with every thrust, milking him to his breaking point. The heat between your bodies was overwhelming, and it was so good, so deep–

“Hello? Guys, I’m home–”

The apartment door swung open, and Trinity was ambushed by the sight of Dennis fucking you like a jackrabbit on the kitchen counter, your scrubs pushed up over your tits and his pants at his ankles. The poor girl covered her eyes and swallowed a spontaneous upchuck reflex. “What the actual fuck?!”

Dennis didn’t stop, he only slowed. A mortified expression crossed his face as he begged, “Get out!”

“Yeah, no fucking shit!”

The door slammed, and Trinity could be heard barking and grumbling down the hall. Maybe Garcia had to cancel their plans tonight. Maybe God had planned to embarrass you. It didn’t matter now, though, because Dennis was spurred on by the intrusion, and he pumped into you hard enough to burst. The two of you fell into a messy fit of laughter and lost, climactic whimpers as his hips stuttered and warm, thick ropes clung to your insides. 

“Shit,” you wheezed, “She’s gonna kill us.”

“It’s our apartment, too,” he grinned, kissing your chin and resting his heavy forehead in the dip of your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you flushed. “Maybe you should go get her.”

Dennis lifted his head again and slipped two fingers into your mouth, shutting you up with drooping, sated eyes. “Just shut up and stop worrying about everything, honeybee… yeah?”

You could explode all over again. It was that stupid farmer’s voice. All the adrenaline and weight of the day dissipated again as you hummed around his fingers, a tiny “mhm.”

Dennis sighed happily and tugged you close again, feeling his cock jump inside your heat, and he kissed your cheek. “That’s my girl.” 

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, beam collapse at construction site,” paramedic says fast. “Pinned approximately six minutes before extrication. No head strike witnessed, no LOC. Fentanyl one hundred en route, pressure trending down. Last BP eighty-six systolic. Distal pulse weak with Doppler, absent by palpation. Pain out of proportion, worsening swelling.”

“Great,” Robby says flatly. “My favorite words before seven-thirty in the morning.” The patient is groaning now, half delirious. “My leg—my leg—” “We know,” Robby says, surprisingly steady as he leans into the chaos. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. We’re taking care of you. Deep breath for me.” Trinity is at the head of the bed. “Airway intact. He’s talking. Sat’s ninety-six on nonrebreather.”

“Me thinks that’s the only thing behaving,” McKay mutters, spiking fluids as she and Mateo work opposite sides of the stretcher. Dennis slides ultrasound gel across the patient’s abdomen with shaking fingers that calm the second the probe hits skin. Jesse threads a second large-bore IV while McKay hangs blood.

“Nice,” Robby says without looking, which somehow means more. FAST exam is negative. Chest x-ray is clean enough. Pelvis stable. The leg is not. The boot comes the rest of the way off and everybody in the room winces a little. The calf is hard. Too hard. The skin over the anterior lower leg looks stretched to bursting, and when Robby asks Dennis to gently palpate, the patient nearly comes off the bed screaming.

“Pain with passive stretch?” Robby asks. Dennis reaches for the toes carefully, extending them just enough. The patient howls. “Yeah,” Dennis says. “Yeah,” Robby echoes. “Page surgery again. And ortho again. Tell them this isn’t a courtesy invite.” Mohan is already on it. “Trauma surgery and orthopedics paged overhead and direct.”

Garcia gets there first, striding into the bay like she owns every trauma that ever bled in western Pennsylvania. “What do you have?” she asks, already pulling gloves on. “Crush injury, probable tib-fib, increasing concern for compartment syndrome,” Robby says. “Pressure soft but responding to blood. No obvious chest or abdominal disaster, which frankly feels rude because I like consistency.”

Garcia leans over the leg, expression sharpening. “When was extrication?” “About fifteen minutes from now to too long ago,” Robby says. She snorts once. “Fair. Has ortho seen him?” “Not yet.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll call them myself. Park answers me faster than the paging operator.”

Trinity arches a brow. “That’s because you scare men for sport.” “It’s not sport if they deserve it.” Dennis is hanging on every word, every motion, every tiny clinical decision. Then Garcia says, “June Bug better answer. She owes me coffee.”

Dennis barely notices the nickname then because Robby is asking him for another pulse check and the room is surging again. The patient’s pressure improves with blood. X-ray confirms a displaced tibial shaft fracture, fibular fracture too, ugly and unstable. There’s no open wound, but the swelling keeps climbing and the calf is turning boardlike beneath the skin. Robby’s jaw sets. “This leg needs decompression before it decides for us.”

And then you walk in.

Dennis looks up because Garcia says, “There you are,” in a tone she doesn’t use for almost anyone, and for half a second all the noise in the room seems to narrow around the sight of you stepping into Trauma One in dark blue OR scrubs, hair pulled back, orthopedic pager clipped at your waist, trauma shears in one pocket, penlight in another.

You’re short enough that Park always jokes he can lose you behind a C-arm, but you move through the room with such clipped, unbothered confidence that everyone makes space without thinking. You take one look at the x-ray, one look at the patient’s leg, and your entire face changes from sleepy annoyance to razor focus.

“Mechanism?” “Steel beam crush at worksite,” Garcia says. “Time pinned?” “Approximately six minutes, maybe a little more.” You touch the calf, then the foot, then glance at the monitor. “Any palpable dorsal pedal or posterior tibial?” “Doppler only on arrival +2, weaker now,” Dennis says before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to him for the first time. Brown. Sharp. Assessing. “Passive stretch?” “Exquisite pain,” he says. “Great. Love that for us.” Garcia huffs a laugh. Robby’s mouth twitches.

You don’t waste a second after that. You examine the compartments yourself, then straighten. “This is compartment syndrome until proven otherwise. He needs emergent fasciotomies. We can temporize with reduction and splinting if you want while we move, but he needs the OR.”

Garcia nods immediately. “Agreed.” Trinity points at Dennis. “Huckleberry, hear that? This is what confidence sounds like when it actually knows what it’s doing.”

Dennis flushes. Robby smirks. “He’s trying, Santos”

You glance at Trinity. “He’s fine. Better than some off-service interns I’ve had try to tell me a cold foot is probably anxiety.” That gets an actual laugh from the room. Then your phone rings. You look at it and roll your eyes. “Park.” Garcia grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You answer anyway. “We have a surgical emergency, Brenden.” The voice on the other end is clipped and unimpressed. “Then why are you chatting with me instead of booking the room?” “Because Garcia made me call you like you’re useful.” Robby actually barks out a laugh. Dana, from the doorway, just mutters, “Jesus.”

You listen, then say, “Yes, obvious compartment syndrome. Yes, I know. Yes, I already told them. No, I’m not measuring compartment pressures on a leg that’s screaming the answer at us. See you upstairs.” You hang up. “Park the Shark approves of surgery.” “Shocking,” Trinity says.

The leg gets gently reduced under sedation, splinted, wrapped. You and Garcia coordinate transport upstairs with the ease of people who have done this together too many times to need full sentences. Before the patient leaves, you reach down, squeeze his shoulder, and say, “We’re taking you now so we can save your leg. Stay with us.”

It’s the first soft thing Dennis hears from you. It sticks.

By nine in the morning the trauma is gone to the OR, the blood is mopped, and the ER is already pretending none of it happened because two chest pains, one septic grandma, and a drunk guy who swears the stop sign attacked him.

Dennis is putting in orders at the station when Frank Langdon strolls in from a room with that polished senior-resident energy he wears even when he looks half dead.

He stops cold. You’re leaning against the desk beside Dana, finishing a note, and when you look up your entire face changes. “Frankie,” you say. It is not dignified. It is absolutely sibling. Frank groans. “Don’t call me that in public.” You grin. “What, too late to protect your brand?”

Dana hides a smile behind her coffee cup. Dennis glances between you and Frank because the shift has already been insane and apparently now the pretty ortho resident is on first-name, mocking-nickname terms with Frank Langdon.

Frank steps close enough to bump your shoulder with his. It’s small and automatic and weirdly fond. “How bad was it?” You shrug. “Bad enough. Fasciotomies, and ex-fix likely if the soft tissue looks as ugly as I think it is , should fix it.”

Frank tips your chin for half a second, checking for something only a sibling would. “You eat yet?” You swat his hand away. “Did you?” Dana finally cuts in, dry as dust. “I love this very creepy, very codependent little ritual, but one of you needs to move because I need the printer.” You and Frank move in perfect unison, still bickering. Dennis watches the whole thing in silence.

Then Jesse leans over from the other computer and murmurs, “So… are we all seeing that?” “Seeing what?” Dennis asks, too fast. Jesse gives him a look. “Langdon’s mystery girlfriend.” Dennis blinks. “What?” Mateo snorts into his chart.

Across the desk, Perlah and Princess trade one scandalized glance and slip into Tagalog so quickly Dennis only catches Frank’s name and the word for dating because that rumor apparently needs no translation. Dana does not look up from her tracking board. “You children need hobbies.”

Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.

The day keeps moving. At ten-thirty you’re back for an elderly fall with a periprosthetic femur fracture. You arrive with the portable films already pulled up on your tablet, Park having apparently texted you three separate insults instead of hello. You stand shoulder to shoulder with Garcia and explain why the fracture pattern matters, why traction would be temporary, why the patient’s anticoagulation makes operative planning a little messier.

Dennis hovers nearby pretending to review labs. He has never in his life been so aware of how loud silence can be. He notices everything instead. The way you tuck a loose strand of hair back with the back of your wrist because your gloves are dirty. The way you explain complicated anatomy to the family without sounding condescending. The way you say “sir, I know it hurts” and actually mean it.

At eleven-fifteen Victoria corners him by the med room.

“She’s hot,” Victoria says, because Victoria has never met a social filter she couldn’t bulldoze. Dennis nearly drops a flush. “Vic—” “No, I’m serious. Like terrifyingly competent hot. Which is worse. You can’t even do a little personality devaluation to protect yourself because she’s also nice.”

“She is not nice,” Trinity says, appearing out of nowhere with a chart in hand. “She told Park to choke on his own ego once.” Victoria gasps. “So she’s perfect.” Dennis mutters, “Can you two not—” Trinity’s grin turns sharp. “Oh, Huckleberry, you have a crush.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” Victoria leans in. “On Frank Langdon’s alleged secret girlfriend.” Dennis closes his eyes. “Please stop saying that.”

By noon, the rumor is alive enough that Mel accidentally asks McKay if HR knows, and McKay says, “About what?” and Mel says, very sincerely and slightly jealous, “About fraternization with dramatic eye contact.” McKay stares at her for a long beat. “Mel, honey, that could describe half this department.

You come down again around one for a teenager with a displaced distal radius fracture and an elbow concern after a skateboard wipeout. Not technically an ortho trauma disaster, but Park is scrubbed into the crush case upstairs, and you’re the resident he trusts not to screw up his service while he’s occupied.

That alone tells the ER a lot.

Brenden Park himself finally appears at two-thirty, still in OR cap, mask hanging around his neck, expression exactly like a man offended by oxygen. He walks in with you while you’re both discussing the leg crush patient.

“Lateral compartment was worse than imaging suggested,” you’re saying. Park nods once. “Muscle still viable. Barely.” Garcia joins you near the board. “Vascular happy?”“Happy is a strong word,” Park says. “Not immediately despairing.” Robby appears from behind a curtain. “That’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from you in six months.” Park ignores him and looks at you instead. “You’re with me for the acetabular fracture if it comes in.”

You tip your head. “Obviously.” His gaze flicks to Dennis, then back to you. “See? Favorite resident.” “You say that to all the women who tolerate you.” “I say that to all the residents who know anatomy.” Garcia laughs. Trinity nearly chokes on stale coffee. Even Robby looks entertained. Dennis, unfortunately, is now standing close enough to see you smile at Park in a way that’s easy, familiar, unimpressed. Not flirtatious. Just trusted.

Which somehow makes him like you more.

The afternoon slams the department.

A septic nursing-home transfer. A toddler with a coin lodged somewhere creative. A psych hold throwing urinals. Shen texts the group chat at three-forty-five that he’s “bringing Dunkin and emotional support,” even though night shift isn’t in for hours. Dana threatens to confiscate his phone when he arrives later.

Around four, you end up beside Dennis for the first time without a dozen people buffering you.

A middle-aged woman has a spiral humerus fracture after a horse throws her into a fence. Robby wants to know if she needs urgent operative management or if she can be immobilized and seen in clinic after pain control and neurovascular reassessment. You’re reviewing her films by the workstation when you glance over and catch Dennis staring at the x-ray instead of speaking.

You save him. “What do you think?” you ask. He startles. “Me?” “No, the ghost behind you.” His mouth twitches despite himself. “Midshaft humerus, spiral pattern. No obvious open wound. Radial nerve exam matters.”

“Good.” He swallows. “If pulses are intact and there’s no vascular injury or compartment concern, probably coaptation splint, pain control, follow-up?” You nod once. “Exactly. You can still have nerve injury without bone sticking through skin. Don’t let dramatic x-rays trick you into forgetting the exam.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and the nervousness he’s been drowning in all day gets shoved aside by the fact that you are talking to him like you expect him to keep up.

“I’m Dennis,” he says, because apparently his brain is twelve years old. You smile, quick and lopsided. “I know. Huckleberry.” His eyes widen. “You know that too?” “I know lots of things. Garcia talks. So does Santos. Mostly against everyone’s will.” Across the station, Trinity calls out without looking up, “I heard that.”

You lean a hip against the counter. “So, Dennis from Broken Bow. You always freeze up around consultants, or am I special?” He goes red so fast you almost feel bad. “Sorry,” he says, then winces. “I mean—not sorry, just— I’m not usually—” “That nervous?”

He gives a helpless little nod. You soften just enough to rescue him again. “You don’t have to be nervous. Half the time we’re making it up based on swelling and vibes.” He laughs then, unexpected and warm. “Pretty sure that’s not evidence-based medicine,” he says.“No, but it is orthopedics.”

That breaks the ice.

You spend the next five minutes talking through the humerus fracture, splinting, radial nerve checks, operative indications, when to worry, when not to overcall things just because they look ugly. Dennis is smart, quieter than most of the ER crew, but once he realizes you’re not going to bite his head off, he starts asking genuinely good questions.

You answer every one. Frank walks up at the tail end of it carrying a chart and stops dead at seeing you and Dennis leaning over the same films. Dennis straightens so fast he nearly knocks into a wall. Frank’s eyes flick from Dennis to you and narrow just enough to be sibling, not senior resident. “June Bug.” You don’t even turn. “Frankie.”

Dennis almost chokes. Frank sighs. “I need room eight signed out before Mohan murders me.” You finally look over. “Then maybe stop interrupting my educational outreach.” Frank stares. “Educational—” “You heard me.”

There’s a beat where Dennis expects annoyance. Instead Frank’s face does something strange. It softens. Totally, instantly, like all the edges got sanded down the second you looked at him.

“Fine,” he says. “But eat something.” You point your pen at him. “You too.” Frank leaves. Dennis watches him go, then looks back at you. “You two… really close, huh?” You snort. “Unfortunately.” That is all you say, and because Dennis is Dennis, he doesn’t pry.

By shift end, of course, the rumor has mutated.

Not only are you apparently dating Frank Langdon, but according to Jesse’s whispered update from triage, the relationship is “serious enough that Dana knows,” which is somehow both absurd and, from the staff’s point of view, compelling.

Dana hears that one and says, “I’m going to start sedating employees.”

Perlah and Princess look delighted.

At six, Brenden comes down with you again for one last consult—an ankle fracture-dislocation reduced in the field but unstable as hell, skin tenting, obvious operative case. Park is all brisk efficiency, firing questions at Dennis and Victoria like he’s testing whether they deserve to be allowed near bones.

Victoria, to her credit, fires back the classification correctly. Park pauses. “Disturbing.” “She’s a child prodigy,” you say. “She’s also twenty and says things like ‘it’s giving ischemia,’” Park replies. From the next bay, Shen arrives for nights carrying an iced coffee and says, “Honestly? She’s right.”

“Shen,” Robby says wearily, “you haven’t even clocked in and I’m already tired of you.”

Abbot shows up not long after, all night-shift ease and old-soldier steadiness, getting report while you and Park review post-reduction films. He glances between you and Frank across the station where Frank is leaning over your shoulder reading a note. “So are we all just pretending that’s normal?”

Dennis looks up too fast. Abbot catches it instantly and grins like a bastard.

Then Garcia breezes by, hears just enough, and finally says, “Oh my God, you idiots think she’s dating Frank?” Silence. Beautiful, catastrophic silence. Frank looks up from your shoulder. “What?” You blink. “What?” Garcia points between you two. “That. Everyone thinks that.”

There is one stunned second where the entire desk seems to stop breathing. Then you laugh so hard you have to grab the counter. Frank makes an offended noise. “That is disgusting.” You’re still laughing. “Oh my God.” Dana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, Garcia. I was enjoying watching this spiral.”

Trinity, delighted beyond measure, says, “Wait. Wait. You’re not—?” Frank and you speak at the exact same time. “She’s my sister.” “He’s my brother.” The station detonates. Victoria slaps a hand over her mouth. “No way.” Mel looks genuinely panicked. “I have said so many things out loud.” McKay starts laughing into her hand. Jesse bends in half over the printer. Mateo just goes, “Damn.” Perlah mutters something scandalized in Tagalog to Princess, who looks ready to ascend.

Dennis feels his entire soul leave his body and then slam back in when the world rearranges itself all at once. Sister. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Everything clicks—the softness, the shorthand, the protectiveness, Dana knowing, Robby not batting an eye. Garcia steps in with the final blow.

“She’s June Bug,” Garcia says. “His baby sister. Orthopedic resident. Try to keep up.” Abbot looks at Dennis and murmurs, “Well, that’s gotta feel like winning the lottery. Dennis nearly combusts.

Frank points at the whole group. “You people are freaks.” You wipe at your eyes, still laughing. “You’re the one who keeps hovering like a deranged mother hen.” “You’re five-four and choose to stand next to moving stretchers.” “I’m literally a surgeon.” “Debatable.”

Robby, who has watched this whole implosion with the exact expression of a man whose entertainment has finally arrived, folds his arms. “For the record, I knew.”

Dana deadpans, “No one likes you.” Garcia hooks an arm around your shoulder. “Come on, June Bug. Before these morons decide you’re secretly dating Park next.” From the other end of the desk, Park—who unfortunately hears everything—doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s signing. “I would rather walk into traffic.” You call back, “Mutual, Brenden.”

That gets another round of laughter.

The shift should end there, but of course it doesn’t. It’s the Pitt. A GI bleed rolls in. Shen steals someone’s pen. Abbot takes over resus with that calm, dangerous competence that makes night shift feel like a different planet. Frank gets pulled into a crashing patient. Garcia gets paged back upstairs. Park vanishes like an angry ghost.

And in the brief lull between disaster and handoff, you find Dennis again. He’s at the Pyxis, looking like he’s still recovering from the revelation that you are, in fact, unattached and not committing incest with Frank Langdon. You lean against the machine beside him. “You survived that well.”

He groans. “Please don’t.” “Why? It was cute.” He gives you a look. “I spent all day thinking I had a crush on a senior resident’s girlfriend.” “A crush on his sister, apparently.” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not better.” “No,” you say. “It’s definitely worse.” He closes the drawer with a soft thunk and looks at you, finally a little less scared than he was this afternoon. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you two looked romantic.”

You arch a brow. “What did we look like?” He smiles, small and honest. “Like you’ve been annoying each other your whole lives.” Something warm settles low in your chest. “Accurate,” you say.

There’s a beat. The department hums around you—monitors, phones, wheels, Dana yelling at someone across the hall, Shen laughing too loudly, Abbot standing at the board like a goofy drill sergeant.

Dennis rubs the back of his neck. “I’m glad you came over earlier. About the humerus fracture.” You study him for half a second. Quiet. Sweet. Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Pretty in that open, earnest way people underestimate. “Dennis,” you say, “next time you have a question, just ask.” He nods. “Okay.” “Okay,” you echo.

Frank appears down the hall then, sees the two of you talking, and narrows his eyes with immediate big-brother suspicion. You sigh. “And there he is.” Dennis’s smile turns real this time. Frank calls, “June Bug, are you leaving or moving into the ER permanently?” You call back, “Only if Dana lets me."

Dana, without missing a beat, says, “Absolutely not. I already have one Langdon too many.” You push off the Pyxis and start backing away. “See you around, Huckleberry.” Dennis watches you go. “Yeah,” he says, a little stunned, a little hopeful. “See you around.”

You disappear back into the chaos beside Frank, tossing some insult at him that makes him roll his eyes and fall into step with you anyway.

Dennis stands there for one extra second, listening to the noise of the department spin on.

Twelve hours ago, you were just a name in a page overhead.

Now you are June Bug. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Park the Shark’s favorite resident. Garcia’s best friend. The kind of surgeon who can walk into a trauma bay half awake and make everyone trust her in under thirty seconds.

And Dennis Whitaker, against all reason and every better instinct he has, is already gone for you.

You were fresh out of med school, the first month of being a resident had finally passed, and it was everything you thought it was gonna be. When you first started Med School, your professors warned you about the choice you were making. You were swearing to help others, “do no harm” as the hippocratic oath says. They also warned you about the dedication you’d have to make, the long hours, the burnout, the stress, all of it. But you knew what you were getting into, and you wanted it. You wanted it bad like every other student in that room. And you felt like gold when you walked the stage and received your white coat. Being a resident was tough, though. It was chaotic, stressful, and yet extremely fulfilling. However, work was constant, demanding and it was nothing short of tedious. You had done your fair share of life saving, including traumas of varying degrees, as well as mundane things that took nasty turns. You had seen it all, cellulitis turned sepsis, stomach ache turned STEMI, the works.

Another thing that Med school did was make you go broke. While you were in med school, you were bouncing around homes, and even lived in a secret room in the hospital with Whitaker for a while. You eventually settled with a friend who was a year above you in med school, who now was an R2. You put in rent when you could, helped out however you could, but she covered a lot. But as the first few paychecks rolled in, you were able to start looking at places for yourself. Dennis was excited for you, and offered to help you move in. You waved him off for now, because you hadn’t even found your place yet, but you appreciated the sentiment. Dennis Whitaker was a tough one to crack. You had lived with him in the hospital for a few weeks, and were in med school with him for the entire four years, and you still knew next to nothing about him.

You knew he was a farm boy, you knew he was from Nebraska, and you knew he was helping out a widow whose husband was a victim of the PittFest shooting. She was a young woman, and she was very pregnant last you saw her. You had heard him mention her baby, a son whose name you couldn’t remember. She was super sweet, and rumor had it they were together. Of course, he refuted it, but it wasn’t the likeliest story. Regardless, you knew she was in good hands with him, he is a really nice guy overall. You and Dennis had learned a lot in your rotation at the Pitt, and it’s what drove the two of you into Emergency Medicine in the first place.

The environment was friendly when it wasn’t chaotic, and you felt like a family, no matter how dysfunctional. The staff at the Pitt had already taken a liking to you two, the attendings liked you, most of the residents liked you, and the nurses liked you. You were the “easy” ones, the med students that listened but didn’t speak unless asked, the ones who knew what they were doing, and the ones people could rely on. It was likely your connections and good rep that got you your residency in ER Med in the first place, but you didn’t complain. You had to climb your way to the top somehow.

Regardless, you were there now. And you had a trauma incoming, a GSW, because Pittsburgh had too many people without need for guns.

“What do we got?” You asked, following the EMTs to trauma two, where you transferred as they gave the rundown. Abdominal GSW, vitals stable, needed more pain meds. However, the annoying part was that it was an ongoing police investigation, meaning you had to salvage the bullet and go through the paperwork. You had to do this one by the books, and it was a pain in everyone’s ass.

You were cutting through his clothes when you saw a massive bleeder, which you immediately held pressure to.

“I think we have two shots in.” You alerted the room, holding the pressure. But you then realized exactly where you were holding pressure to, and you froze.

“Fuck. I’m holding pressure over the abdominal aorta! The bullet hit it.” You yelled, and people gasped.

“Do not move even an INCH.” Garcia warned you.

“I know!”

“You’re the only thing keeping him from bleeding out, we have to transfer him to the OR.”

“We have to stabilize him first.” Robby spoke, and she sighed.

“Fine, hurry it up. I don’t like that your R1 is the only thing keeping his aorta from bleeding out.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” You hissed.

“Whatever, move it.” She

“FAST scan negative, he lucked out on the first one.” Santos read off the screen. “Well, good. Let’s get moving.” Garcia ordered, and the transport was ready.

“Carefully. Even a bit of movement and the guy is dead.”

So people moved slowly, you were kneeling on the gurney, your hand hadn't moved in a good 15 minutes, and it was getting numb. You knew you couldn’t move, not even a bit. The transport team slowly brought you and the patient to the OR, and once Garcia was in, and could clamp it off, you would finally be able to move your hand.

But that was going to be a while, and you were starting to panic.

“My hand is getting numb…” You yelled out, and everyone told you not to move.

“You know you can’t move until I clamp off the aorta.”

“I know damn it!”

“You can’t move, just…talk to me.” Dennis suggested, staying away from the sterile zone. He went into the scrubbing room, speaking over the little speaker. “What’s the best case you’ve had all day?”

“Best case? Well the most interesting cases I got today were a Nun from St Mary’s that got Syphilis from her work. I found that ironic. And uh…I had the North 8 patient…I had to remove that…and of course the daily foreign object in the rectum.” You ran through cases as Garcia spoke commands in the background. These conversations went on for another good half hour before she finally delivered you the best news.

“I got the aorta clamped, you can remove your hand, Doctor.”

“Oh thank god. You removed your hand from his stomach. You then speed walked away, washing the blood off your arm in the scrub sink.

“Good work.” Dennis spoke from behind you.

“I owe it to you. That guy would’ve been dead if I didn't have a distraction.” You thanked him, embracing him in a quick hug.

“It’s nothing, honestly. It’s a tough spot to be in, and usually talking is a good distraction. I would’ve been a mess if I were in your position.” He scratched the back of his neck, a bashful smile on his face.

“I doubt that, you’re a good doctor, Dennis. Thanks again.” You walked out of the scrub room as your phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Your patient in South 10’s labs are back, critically high troponin.” Dana’s phone rang through, loud and clear.

“Aw shit. Get an attending and start the code STEMI, I’m on my way back down. Sorry D, I had my hand on a trauma patient’s aorta and couldn’t move.”

“Yeesh, that’s no fun. Hurry up though, don’t let your guy code.” And before you could respond, she hung up. You made your way downstairs, the elevator too high up for you to wait, so you went down 3 flights of stairs at top speed, and when you entered the room, they were already doing the second EKG.

“ST elevations. His initial EKG was clean!”

“Doesn’t matter, we gotta call the cath lab.”

“Already did, they’re waiting for you.” Princess quickly replied

“Oh, bless you Princess.” You sighed in relief.

“Alright sir, you’re having a heart attack, but we’re gonna take you up before it stops your heart, okay?” You explained, and he nodded, grasping his chest.

You helped wheel him out of the room and into the elevator, before letting out an exhale of relief.

“Holy shit, this day is going great.” You pulled out your chair to start charting.

“Ain’t it?” Dana laughed.

“Sarcasm, Dana. I don’t know who I pissed off to reign a day like this on me.”

“Hey, at least both patients made it out alive.” She pointed out, she was always blunt.

“True that.” You nodded, opening Mr Henderson’s chart and noting his numbers and the transfer of care. “Could’ve had worse outcomes for sure.” You mumbled to yourself.

“Cheer up, we’ll find you a case that won’t involve death.” Dana teased.

“Oh don’t.”

“Code sepsis in chairs.” Mateo tapped you on the shoulder, and you just sighed.

“See, you jinxed it.” You grabbed your stethoscope, and had her wheeled in.

“What’s open?”

“South 6.” Dana responded, and she was wheeled in.

“Hi Ma’am, I’ll be taking care of you. When did everything start?”

“A week…my piercing got infected and…they gave me augmentin…but it didn’t do anything.” She said in between groans of pain and short breaths.

“Okay, did you get it done at a reputable place?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I'm gonna take a look.” You put gloves on and examined the piercing, which looked extremely red and had spread, and had discharge.

“Are you allergic to any medications?”

“No, nothing.” She shook her head, she was sweating and she looked pale. Not good, at all.

“Let’s get her on a monitor, what were her vitals in triage?” You opened a chart for her, opening your notes.

“84/58 bp, fever at 103.6, heart rate 143, oxygen at 94, respiratory rate at 28.” Mateo read out on his glove.

“Okay…let’s get Cefepime and Vanco on board, this is likely MRSA or Pseudomonas. I want cbc, cmp, blood cultures, lactate, chem panel, coags, blood gasses and UA. Let’s get fluids on her and have vasopressors on standby if her BP drops. Call ICU and tell them she needs the next bed.”

“Am I gonna die?” She stammered between tears.

“Not if I can help it, we’re taking good care of you.” You brought up the rails. “Let’s get a second IV, call me when the ICU responds.” You spoke to Mateo, and he nodded.

“I need a break, I’ll be in the break room.” You announced, and Dana gave you the ok.

“Just be back in 10, if you could.”

“Yes ma’am!” You opened the door, and immediately went out of sight. You rested your arms on the counter, and felt anxiety rise in your chest. You felt a tightness that made your breathing feel like a chore, and felt the world spin. You tapped your foot on the ground, trying to ground yourself as you leaned over the counter, and you saw yourself back in the ER. You heard the familiar noise of monitors beeping with the arrhythmia alarm, you felt frozen, even though everyone was moving quickly around the trauma bay. You saw your patient, a little girl. The little girl. You remember this case, a little girl drowned and was down for an unknown amount of time, she was freezing cold, you felt her skin. The famous words “she’s not dead until she’s warm and dead” spiraling in your head. You just watched as everyone scrambled to warm her and get her back. You felt your breathing quicken, wanting to move, to do something…but you were trapped, watching as she slipped away.

You felt your legs slowly give out, and you felt as you slid down the wall and onto the floor. You could feel your clothes touch your skin, feeling each fiber against your skin. Suddenly you were hyperaware of every noise and light, everything feeling overstimulating.

You saw Dennis approach you in the trauma room, calling your name. Again, and again, and again until you snapped out of it.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” His hand was on your shoulder, and you flinched for a second. “It’s me, just me.”

“W-what the fuck…”

“You were probably having some sort of flashback or panic attack.” He sat down next to you. “What was going on?”

“It was…the little girl. Ollie Simon.”

“The girl who drowned? From our first week of residency?”

“Yeah…I was back in that trauma room.”

“I remember that case, it was a tough one.” He spoke, his words calculated.

“Yeah, that’s…a word for it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No…”

“How can I help then?”

“Just…be here?” You requested, looking at him for a moment.

“Sure.”

And he just stayed there with you for the rest of the break, until Dana went to grab you again.

—- —- —- —--

That interaction started things up between you and Dennis Whitaker. For the next few months, the two of you would frequent each other’s houses, grab meals after work, and he’d help you check out houses. He became a person you could rely on, and he showed the same to you. He was there through it all: shitty tinder dates, panic attacks, helped you get into therapy, and was overall just a reliable friend. Sometimes, it felt too good. Like you didn’t deserve someone like him, but your therapist made you fix that mindset because she said that you were worthy of a good friendship. But with time, you felt yourself develop feelings for him with each interaction.

It was the small things, the coffee he’d bring you always being your exact order from that one cafe you liked, the calming presence he offered when you got overwhelmed at the hospital, and of course, the company was always great. You and him had a good, healthy friendship. You were open with each other, you supported each other through every decision, good or bad. He was good to you, better than most men in your life.

So that brought you to today. Another shared meal in the food truck court outside of the hospital, eating your tacos and chatting as per usual.

“So, Dennis.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m thinking of signing a lease for one of the places.”

“Really? Which one?”

“The one that’s close to the hospital, on 28th?”

“Oh, yeah! I like that place, it suits you.” He finished his bite before responding.

“Yeah, I like it, and I've been looking at furniture too.”

“You should sign it! What did Amara think?”

“She liked it too, everyone I needed opinions from agrees, so I’m gonna text the realtor after work and get started on that stuff.”

“Congrats, I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Once everything is set, I'll definitely throw a house party.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You’re obviously invited.”

“I would hope so, considering I'm paying for your food, and have paid for your coffee quite a bit.” He chuckled.

“Yes, because food is the way to my heart.” You jokingly stuck your tongue out at him.

“Y’know what? Fair enough.” Then his phone went off.

“Break’s over, let’s get back.”

“The grind never ends.” You sighed, throwing the food scraps out and leaving the bowl on top of the garbage can. “C’mon Whitaker, let’s go.” You grabbed his arm and pulled him in the direction of the hospital.

“Welcome back lovebirds! You want a STEMI?” Dana teased, and you looked at each other for a moment, before back at her.

“Yep! I want it.” You grabbed your stethoscope and waited.

“3 minutes out. Give your girl some help, Whitaker.”

“Oh, Dana we’re not-”

“You’re so funny Dana, but yeah we’re not together.” You chuckled awkwardly.

“Huh, the more you know. The ambulance arrived.” She waved you to go away and do the ambulance.

“64 year old male, complained of sudden onset chest pain, diabetic, takes regular management medications and metformin. Here’s his EKG, taken 5 minutes ago.” The EMT summarized, their coworker giving you the EKG.

“Yep, definitely has ST Elevations. He’s having a STEMI alright.”

“Got it, Hi sir, my name’s Dr Whitaker, my coworker and I will be helping you out here. Has this ever happened before?”

“I’m Francis, and no.” He responded, short of breath as he held the mask off his mouth. Robby then came to take over, but you stayed put.

“325 baby aspirin taken in the field.”

“Alright sir I’m gonna spray this under your tongue to help you out, okay?” You took out the nitroglycerin spray and sprayed 2 sprays.

“Alright, and let’s get him up to the cath lab.” You helped as Mateo wheeled him out and into the elevator. Meanwhile you had charting to do.

“Patient BIBA, BP 154/100 and HR 153, EKG findings consistent with STEMI. Given 325 aspirin in the field, 2 sprays sublingual nitroglycerin administered. Patient going to Cards for stent. Transferred to CICU post stent.”

“Nice going.” He stood behind you.

“Thanks.” You turned to face him, a smile on his face. “The realtor is almost here, she’s being nice enough to swing by with the paperwork, since I work til late.” You closed the chart, getting up and walking to the entrance of PTMC.

“Dr ______?” A woman with a blazer and dress pants approached you. She had brown hair in a right bun, with loose strands at the front.

“Sydney. Thanks for swinging by.” You shook her hand, and she handed you a pen.

“I know you’re busy, and we’ve already talked about the logistics, so let’s get these signings in and if you have any questions, you have my number.”

“Yep, alright.” You grabbed the papers, quickly skimming through the words on the pages, signing things as needed. You read everything over once more before handing the pages to her.

“Alright, thanks. We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.” You handed the pen back, and headed back into the ER.

“Well, I have a new apartment now.” You followed Dennis into a room, seeing a very in pain patient.

“This is Ms Ryers, she came in 8/10 abdominal pain and a fever of 101.4.” He presented, and you looked at her chart.

“Call me Gina.”

“Okay Gina, has this ever happened before?”

“Not this bad.” She winced.

“Okay, I’m gonna do a quick exam and we’ll figure it out from here.” You put on some gloves, and had her lay back. You listened to her heart and lungs first.

“Lungs are clear, heart is tachy but good.” You spoke out your findings so Dennis could chart it. You then moved to the abdominal exam. You palpated at each area “Let me know where it hurts.” You slowly moved down, and she winced at the right lower quadrant.

“McBurney’s sign is positive.” You noted, and he nodded. “Okay, that exam was really helpful, Gina.”

“What is a McBurney’s sign?”

“It’s a term in medicine, when its positive it means your pain is localized in the right lower quadrant where the appendix is.”

“So what, do I have appendicitis?”

“That’s what we think. We need imaging and tests to confirm it, but if we’re right, you need surgery.”

“Okay…can I call my mom?”

“Of course.” You stood up, throwing out your gloves.

“Full abdominal workup, CBC, CMP, UA, Chem, abdominal and pelvic CT, pregnancy test, and page surgery.” You suggested.

“Yep, agreed.” He agreed.

“I’ll go present it.” You passed by him, finding an attending to present to, while Dennis got the orders in. Once you did the presentation, and the attending agreed, you went to check the board.

“Do you want help moving boxes this weekend?”

“If you could?”

“Of course.”

— —- —- —-

That weekend, you were finishing packing your things in the last box, when you heard a knock on the door. Weird, because you weren’t expecting Dennis for another hour, but you went to check. You checked the peephole, and saw a familiar brunette. You opened the door, a confused look on your face.

“Hey, sorry I’m a bit early. I brought breakfast.” He chuckled, a bag of food in his hand.

“Oh, no worries. I’m just…not the most presentable.” You tried to fix your hair a bit, not wanting to look too awful.

“You look fine, don’t worry.” He walked into your dining room, already familiar with the layout of the house. He set the food down, taking out the meals.

“For you, your favorite.” He set a box in front of you, and a coffee, that was of course your order. You opened it, seeing a basic breakfast sandwich that you had on mornings before work.

“You didn’t have to, y’know that?”

“I know, but I wanted to. You need food before moving a shit ton of boxes.” He grabbed himself a cup of water. “Amara knows I’m here, right?”

“Yeah, she got called in.” You spoke, covering your mouth to speak.

“Alright, eat up, I can start moving boxes into your car.” He patted your back, before entering your room and leaving with two boxes.

“Hey, just be careful with the ones that-” You turned around, and the first thing you noticed was his arms. Large, and straining against his shirt.

Holy shit.

You knew Dennis had to have some level of muscle, he was a hard at work farm boy after all. But holy, you didn’t expect seeing his arms flex like that. The scrubs definitely didn’t do him justice, because he looked so fucking hot like this. This whole thing felt so domestic, and you only realized how intimate it was. You felt like such a loser, flustered over a guy’s arms, but with that and the other mix of things you liked about him? A girl can only resist so much.

“You okay?” He asked, totally oblivious to your staring.

“Uh yeah, I was saying be careful with the boxes I labeled ‘fragile’ because I have some stuff in there.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Sweet.” You threw out the trash, and went to grab a box, that you later realized was a bit too heavy.

“I got it.” He grabbed it with ease, and made you feel a little hot in the face. Both because he made it look easy, and because he looked good doing it.

“I could’ve managed.” You grabbed another box, this one lighter than the last.

“I believe you, but I don’t need you to throw out your back.” He called into the hallway, and you followed him out to the car.

“How considerate of you.” You nudged him in the hip.

“Well, I don’t want to have to take you to the ER because you can’t walk, so.”

“I’m so glad you care about my safety, because I also don’t feel like getting a steroid shot today.”

“Thought so.” A beat passed, and then another. You filled it in before it got awkward.

“Amy has you at work, huh? If you can carry these boxes easily.” You teased, and he just nodded.

“Something like that. A lot of hay, for the most part.”

“Oh, not that bad.”

“Well, that and keeping the fire up.” He placed the two boxes in your trunk.

“So you’re a lumberjack too?” You quipped, and he just laughed.

“God no.”

“Good, I don’t know how I'd feel about that. It’s a scary image.”

“Well, guess I'll never grow a beard.” He joked

“I would cry if you did.”

“Well I don’t want you crying, you’re too pretty to cry.”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?”

“And you think I’m attractive?” He retorted, too quick to make a comeback.

“Huh????” You blinked twice, your brain shutting down for a solid second. Your face was bright red, and you knew it.

“Oh, my bad. I thought we were just stating obvious statements.” He chuckled.

“You’re not funny Dennis Whitaker.”

“You know I am.”

“Maybe.”