jammie

you don’t turn when the door to your bedroom swings open. still brewing in the upset your husband has caused you after an extended mission held him back from coming home early.

it was the no contact that got you. and while it was technically no fault of his own, it still ticked on your nerves how he came back all cavalier and cool, acting as if he’d just gone on vacation instead of this life threatening affair.

and while he tried to appease you and apologize for his behavior, you are already too far gone and want nothing to do with him— for maybe about twenty minutes.

well, now it’s been fifteen, and he’s surely come back to make up again.

you’ll chew his ear out for coming back prematurely— you had five minutes left to sulk, after all— but thats mostly for the drama at this point.

but your tongue freezes in place when the shock of white hair that you open your eyes to is not of sylus’s, but lucian’s.

“baby?” you wonder, pulling him close when he successfully gets his little feet under the covers and cuddles up angrily to his dragon. “woosi, what are you doing here?”

“papa take my race car bed, hmph!” he huffs. if you hadn’t been this close, you would have missed the smoke that puffs from his nose when he does. “and—and kee-ro sleepin’ there too.”

you gasp lightly. peppering his forehead with kisses to make him feel better. sympathy coats your voice. “no space for you?”

“no more space for woosian!” he thumps his heel against the mattress and pouts into your cheek. as if ashamed of his tantrum.

your heart gives way for his pain. gently nudging yours aside for the meantime, you realize this is partly your doing. sylus has always sought comfort immediately from you after fights and quarrels, but since the boys, he’d found also that going to them can make his own sorrows cease if only for a little while.

“sorry, angel.” you sigh, brushing back his hair from his teary eyes. “this is my fault. papa made me mad so i asked him for space.”

“papa made mama mad?” he frowns, brow creasing like sylus’s does.

“yes, but i’m okay now.” you sit up. straightening your back, you take him up by the armpits and give him a squeeze. “i’ll go call papa and you can have your race car bed back. how’s that sound?”

you get as far as pushing the covers off before lucian is pulling them back on.

“papa sleepin’ now.” he tells you. eyes big and round full of processing emotions and quiet understanding. “not nice to wakey.”

“oh?”

“woosian have space here.” he tells you, crawling off your lap and back in place where you plucked him from. where juice patiently waits for his return. “woosian stay with mama.”

you swallow down your own building tears.

because how could such a little heart have so much space for you and your feelings?

how could he possibly understand?

and yet, here he is. blinking, waiting for you. respecting the five minutes left of distance between you and his father by giving up his own right to his own bed.

“lucian…” you coo, propping his head up your arm and kissing his nose. “your heart is pure as gold.”

“my heart have blood.” he says, eyes screwed shut. his childish way of putting himself to sleep and acting nonchalant about it all. “mistoo waf says that in skoo.”

“yes,” you giggle, already feeling better. “but mama says your heart is gold, and i’m your best friend and also! i made you.”

“in your belly?” he asks.

“in my belly.” you affirm.

“we best fwends in your belly?” he opens his eyes, the concept exciting him.

“yes.” you grin.

“i like dat.” he giggles, shy into your shoulder. you gift him another kiss on the cheek before drifting off to sleep.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

later, sylus will come, kyros dangling off his arm like a stretchy kitten, and find that he has no space on his big red bed.

in his place, the wife he’s wronged is curled around his hatchling that he has also betrayed, foreheads touching as they sleep.

he can’t help the pride that surges in his chest at the sight. and the fact that his son had come in to offer you comfort when he could not.

he places kyros down under the covers beside his brother, and leans over to feather a kiss on your forehead.

on his way, he pets lucian’s hair. “good job, angel.”

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate out a girl?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into your eyes.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

The bathroom mirror didn’t help.

Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.

That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.

Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.

But it was your eyes that gave you away.

You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.

You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.

Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.

Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.

But Dean hadn’t been cruel.

He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.

Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.

He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.

Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.

“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”

He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.

That was the worst part.

You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.

“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.

“You okay?”

You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.

“That was a terrible lie.”

Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.

“I’m getting ready,” you called back.

“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.

“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”

You looked at the lock.

Your hand didn’t move.

“No.”

There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.

Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.

But this time, he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.

You didn’t.

You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.

The worst part was that you still believed him a little.

Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.

Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.

Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.

You remembered lifting the blanket.

You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.

And then he’d woken up and made a joke.

You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.

By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.

Almost.

“You took forever,” he said.

There it was—the attempt.

You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.

You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet again.

You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.

Dean stood.

“About what I said earlier—”

“You don’t have to.”

He stopped.

You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.

“I kind of think I do,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

That made you look up.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

You forced a small smile. “Like what?”

His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.

“Like I regretted it.”

There it was.

The word you’d been trying not to touch.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”

“I don’t.”

He said it too fast. Too seriously.

For one awful second, you believed him.

Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.

“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.

His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.”

You swallowed.

Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.

“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Great choice.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

The sarcasm should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“No, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”

Your mouth closed.

That was annoyingly accurate.

Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.

But his phone rang before you could say anything.

Both of you looked at the screen.

His mother.

Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.

You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Dean.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”

You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.

“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”

There was a pause.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”

You were not ready.

You were barely a person.

But you zipped your bag anyway.

Breakfast was worse.

There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.

Dean held your chair out for you.

The gesture was automatic.

So was the way you hesitated before sitting.

He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.

You hated that you saw it.

“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.

Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”

Fine.

The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.

His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”

Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”

“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”

You froze.

Dean’s head lifted.

His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.

Dean’s mother gave him a look.

“What?” his father asked mildly.

“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.

The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.

At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.

Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.

You took it without thinking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes met yours.

For one stupid second, everything softened.

Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.

Dean did too.

His mother saw that.

When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.

“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.

Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”

“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”

You swallowed.

Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.

You looked away first.

“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.

His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”

“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”

She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.

That seemed more likely.

She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.

Then his parents were gone.

Just like that.

No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.

Dean turned to you slowly.

The lobby felt too quiet.

“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.

You wanted to say yes.

The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”

Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”

The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.

Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.

You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.

They were not.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Allie.

allie: are you alive?

allie: and by alive i mean emotionally

allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast

allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast

allie: answer me before i create a theory

You turned your phone face down.

Dean noticed.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”

Silence again.

Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”

You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s new.”

“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”

You finally looked at him.

He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”

The worst part was that he sounded honest.

Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.

So why didn’t it make you feel better?

Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.

You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”

Dean didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Your lips pressed together.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.

Dean took a breath, slower this time.

“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”

Your chest ached.

He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.

You nodded once, mostly to yourself.

“There it is,” you said softly.

His eyes cut to you. “What?”

“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”

Dean flinched.

You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Dean went quiet.

The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.

Almost honest.

Almost enough.

Almost real.

“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean inhaled sharply.

You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”

That was not enough.

You hated that it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.

“Okay.”

“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

That was all.

And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.

Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.

That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.

Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.

You told him he didn’t have to.

He ignored you.

“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure.”

“That was patronizing.”

“That was supportive.”

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

“I’m counting on it.”

For half a second, the banter felt easy.

Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.

Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.

You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.

Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.

You stilled.

His hand dropped.

That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.

You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.

“Can I call you later?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

“You can,” you said.

Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.

Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”

It disappeared.

You almost apologized.

You didn’t.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“It doesn’t feel fair.”

“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”

You looked down at your shoes.

Dean said your name softly.

You hated how quickly you looked up.

“I meant it,” he said.

You didn’t ask which part.

You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.

So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.

For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.

Not okay. Busy.

There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.

Allie called you on Sunday night.

You ignored it.

She texted.

allie: coward

You ignored that too.

allie: i say that with love

You almost smiled.

Almost.

On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.

You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”

Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“It’s an intervention.”

Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”

“You both have intervention faces.”

Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”

Hannah nodded. “A little.”

“Work on that,” you said.

Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”

“Apparently.”

Hannah hugged you first.

You hated that it made your throat tighten.

Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked down at the coffee lid.

The question should’ve been easy.

No, because Dean had been careful.

Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.

“Not on purpose,” you said.

Allie’s expression shifted immediately.

Hannah’s face softened.

You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.

“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.

You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.

“We broke the rule.”

Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”

“No, the tax fraud rule.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”

You laughed once, but it didn’t last.

Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”

Your face warmed.

Allie inhaled. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me.”

“It was good,” Allie said.

“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.

Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.

“And then?” Allie asked.

“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”

Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”

“He said he panicked.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe him?”

You didn’t answer.

Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”

That was the worst question.

Because yes.

Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.

“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.

Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.

“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.

Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Dean texted that night.

dean: can we talk?

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then it lit again.

dean: not tonight if you don’t want

dean: just when you’re ready

You typed three different answers.

Deleted all of them.

Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.

You did not sleep much.

By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.

The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.

tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.

That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.

You told yourself Dean might not be there.

That was stupid.

Dean was always there.

He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.

But his face changed, just enough.

His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.

Garrett noticed.

Logan noticed.

You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.

“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”

Dean went very still.

Logan’s eyes widened.

Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”

Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.

“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” Allie said.

Dean hadn’t said anything yet.

You looked at him because not looking was worse.

“Hi,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”

That was it.

Two words.

And somehow, the room felt full of them.

Movie night was terrible.

Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.

He didn’t come closer.

Didn’t sit beside you.

Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.

There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.

And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.

You told yourself that was proof.

Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.

The kitchen was quieter.

You liked that.

You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Dean said.

You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”

“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Dean saw it, because of course he did.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“It was small, but I’m counting it.”

“You’re desperate.”

“Yeah.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

You turned around.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“And then you keep saying them.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Dean.”

“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.”

That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.

He was dangerous.

You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”

Dean’s face changed.

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean went silent.

The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.

Your heart dropped slowly.

“Right,” you said.

“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“Then say it.”

Dean’s mouth opened.

Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes closed briefly.

You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”

Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean looked at you.

The words tasted awful.

You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Too fast.

Garrett’s expression sharpened.

You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.

Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on?”

You froze.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You knew that.

After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.

But then Dean spoke.

“Nothing.”

Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The captain thing.”

“The captain thing?”

“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”

Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Your fingers curled around the railing.

Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Your breath caught.

Garrett said, “Dean.”

“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”

You should’ve left.

You stayed.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”

Garrett was silent.

“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”

“What kind of joke?”

“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.

“I said we should blame the wine.”

Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”

You closed your eyes.

The hallway blurred for a second.

Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”

“I tried.”

“Try better.”

Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then tell her.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”

Everything inside you went still.

The house noise faded.

The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For a second, you couldn’t move.

You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.

Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.

Garrett said something after that.

You didn’t hear it.

Dean answered.

You didn’t hear that either.

Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.

You stepped back quietly.

Then again.

The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.

Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.

You walked until the house was behind you.

Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.

Allie.

You declined it.

Then Hannah.

You declined that too.

Then Dean.

You stopped walking.

His name filled the screen.

For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then the call ended.

A text appeared almost immediately.

dean: where did you go?

Another came before you could breathe.

dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that

You stared at the message.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that.

Not, please let me explain.

Not, I didn’t mean it.

Just proof that there had been something to hear.

Another message appeared.

dean: I need to talk to you

You locked your phone.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.

It buzzed again.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

dean: it’s not what you think

Your vision blurred.

That was the thing, though.

You had heard him.

Clearly.

You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.

Maybe all of that was true.

Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.

Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.

But you’d heard enough.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For once, you decided to believe him.

💌 lmk if you want to be added to my taglists

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Y/N had given exactly one piece of advice to herself in the back of the production can, it was this: DO NOT CRY ON CAMERA BEFORE YOU'VE EVEN SAID YOUR NAME. 

Gipping onto this mantra, sandals in one hand, the hem of her cover-up damp with sweat she refused to acknowledge, while an assistant with a headset and a clipboard counted down from five on her fingers. Behind her, you could hear the voices and laughter, the noise that comes with a pool party that had been going on for exactly long enough that everyone already had a favorite person in mind. 

Y/N was the last girl in.

Of course she was. They’d saved her for the last, the way you save things you’re not sure what to do with. 

“Thirty seconds,” the assistant said, not unkindly, and pressed two fingers into her spine as if she could physically push confidence into her vertebrae. “You got this. Walk slow, smile at everyone, don't look at the cameras unless they tell you to.” 

“Right.” Y/N rolled her shoulders back. Twenty-three years old, a closet full of blazers that cost more than her first car, a corner office two floors below the partners at the largest communication company in Boston; she negotiated crisis statements for biotech CEOs, and she's even talked a senator’s chief of staff out of a press conference by sheer force of a phone call. She was not a woman who got rattled easily.  

But now she was extremely rattled. 

It wasn’t the cameras. It wasn’t even really the idea of dating someone on television, which she signed up for, on a dare from her best friend, and because she had spent two relationships being someone's eventually. It was the walk. It was knowing somewhere past the assistant were seven to eight girls who’d probably been doing Pilates since they were fourteen, who paked string bikinis like they were packing for a normal vacation and not for forty cameras and the entire internet and Y/N — Y/N, who’d cried actual tears of joy over the styling team finding a swimsuit that didn’t make her feel like a sausage casing — was about to walk into the middle of that and be compared. 

She’d survived worse. But she couldn’t currently remember what. 

“And … go!” 

The assistants parted a hedge in front of her. The heat hit her first, the thick Fijian heat that made the air shimmer over the pool, and the noise stopped, not fully, but enough that she felt it, the hush of a crowd deciding what they thought of you before you’d said a word. Y/N kept her chin up, shoulders back, and did what the assistant told her to do. She just let her eyes find the group draped over the daybeds at the far end of the pool deck. 

A tall guy with dark hair and a jaw that you could cut glass on, sprawled like he owned the furniture that one looked over first, gave her the kind of slow once-over that made her stomach flip in a way she immediately distrusted. Beside him, a guy who couldn’t stop laughing at something, easy and loud, the kind of laugh that made you want to know the joke. A golden-haired girl in a green bikini stood at the pool’s edge with her arms crossed, openly assessing. Another girl — long, dark-haired, pretty in a way that looked like it had never once had to try — was already sizing Y/N up head to toe, and Y/N felt that gaze land on her hips, her thighs, the soft curve of her stomach that no amount of shapewear fully hid, and she made herself keep walking. 

Day one, she told herself. You only have to survive day one. 

“Hi everyone,” she said, and was relieved to hear her PR voice come out smooth and warm, no shake in it at all. “I’m Y/N.” 

There was a chorus of hellos, the easy reflexive kind, a couple of girls drifting closer to do the obligatory cheek-kiss-slash-assessment that Y/N had learned as the villa ritual. She caught names as they came, Allie, the one in the green, who has a handshake firmer than most men; Sabrina, the dark-haired and watchful one, who said hi like she was deciding whether she would need watching; and Hannah, the soft-spoken, kind-eyed, who actually said “I love your earrings” in a way that sounded like she meant it. 

The boys hund back the way boys always did, sizing up the room before committing to anything, and Y/N made herself look at each of them in turn instead of letting her eyes catch and stick anywhere —  except they did stick, because the laughing one introduced himself and Tuckerm and the dark-haired one with the jaw uncoilded off the daybed in one motion, easy as water, and said “Logan,” like it was the only word he needed. 

He had a voice like a low note held for too long. Y/N felt it somewhere under her ribs and hated herself a little for it. 

“Y/N,” she said again, because apparently that was the only word she had. 

“Pretty name.” His mouth did something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but more interested than that, more like he’d actually looked at her and decided he liked what he saw, which couldn’t be right, which had to be a villa thing…right? The charm was turned up to ten because the cameras were rolling, and somebody had to make the new girl feel welcomed. Y/N had built a career reading people’s faces for what they actually meant under the circumstances, and she still couldn’t get a clean read on him, which annoyed her more than it should have. 

“Thanks,” she said, and meant to leave it there, but her mouth, traitor that it was, added: “Yours is pretty unsubtle. Very ‘star of the show.’”

A beat. Then Logan laughed, like really laughed, head back, surprised out of whatever easy performance he’d been running, and beside him Tucker said “Oh, I like her,” with the cheerful, unbothered delight of a man watching this friend get knocked off-balance. 

“Careful,” Logan said, recovering, dark eyes still on her, warm now in a way that made the heat of the day feel better. “You’ve been here ninety seconds.” 

“And already running the place. I’m efficient.” 

“I'll bet,” he said it low, almost to himself, and Y/N felt the back of her neck go hot and told her body firmly to cut that out. 

Dean, the broad-shouldered, blue-eyed man, looking at her with the friendly assessment of a guy who’d clearly grown up the most-liked person in every room he’d ever entered, wandered over to introduce himself properly. The moment loosened, turned back into ordinary villa small talk: where was she from, what did she do, had the flight been brutal? Y/N easily, Boston, PR,  yes brutal, and felt the conversation absorb her the way these things did, felt herself become one more person at the pool party instead of the last girl who walked in to be judged. 

She still felt it, though. The girls’ eyes were on her, doing math. The way Sabrina’s gaze flicked, just once, down and back up, assessing in a different language that Allie’s was openly curious. Y/N had spent four years of high school and most of college being told, with varying degrees of kindness, that she had a great face and a great personality and wasn’t it too bad about the rest, and some old, well-worn part of her brain did the same math right alongside them: eight girl, two of them probably go home this week, you’re not built like the ones who stay. 

She smiled anyway. She’d gotten good at smiling anyway. 

The villa, once the introductions wound down into smaller conversations, turned out to be the kind of beautiful that felt slightly aggressive, white stucco and infinity edges and a firepit that had clearly never seen actual fire-pit weather, all of it built for the cameras mounted discreetly in the eaves. Y/N found her single allotted suitcase already deposited in a shared room with three other girls’ bags fighting for closet space, claiming the bed nearest to the window, and went looking for a moment alone before the producers found some new activity to herd everyone into. 

She found it, sort of, at the railing above the pool, looking out past the infinity edge to where the watch went from chlorine-blue to the real, restless turquoise of the Pacific, a thin strip of sand, and the dark hump of some uninhabited little island sitting out past the reef. Somewhere beyond that, she knew, was the rest of the Mamanucas, and beyond that, an actual ocean’s worth of distance between her and Boston. 

“You’re hiding,” said a voice behind her, and she didn’t have to turn around to know it was Logan; she’d apparently already memorized the register of it, which felt like a problem. 

“I’m acclimating,” she said. “There's a difference.” 

“Is there?” He came to lean on the railing beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his arm, not touching her, careful about that in a way she noted and filed and didn’t examine too closely. “It looked like hiding from where I was standing.” 

“Where were you standing?”

“Watching you not-hide.” He smiled when she huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m good at noticing things.” 

“Is that your whole personality, or do you have a backup?”

“Hockey,” he said. “I play hockey. Professionally, depending on who you ask.”

“That’s a backup personality that cost a lot in dental work.” 

“You’d be surprised.” He turned slightly, and Y/N made that mistake of looking at him properly, like really looking, not the quick assessing glance from before, and found him already looking back at her, steady, like he had nowhere better to be and nothing better to look at, which was such a deeply unfamiliar sensation that she didn’t know what to do with her hands. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said, “and you don’t have to answer if it’s — I don’t know, against the rules, or whatever rules apply here.” 

“You can ask.” 

“You walked in like you were bracing for a hit.” He said it gently, no judgment in it, just an observation laid down plain between them. “I’ve been hit by a lot of large men on purpose for a living, I know what that looks like. What was that about?” 

Y/N’s first instinct was to deflect; she had four different deflections loaded and ready. She used them on reporters for a living, but something about the directness of the question, the lack of performance in it, made her actually consider answering honestly instead. 

“I thought I’d last about four hours,” she admitted. “Maybe less. I’ve seen this show. I know what the girls usually look like, and I love my body most days, I really do…but most days I’m not standing next to seven girls who look like they were built in a lab specifically for swimsuits.” She made herself laugh lightly, like it didn’t matter, the way she’d practiced not minding things. “I figured I’d get my little moment of villa small talk and then be the first one sent home, and at least I’d have gotten a free trip to Fiji out of it.” 

Logan didn’t laugh. He didn’t do the thing some men did, where they rushed in with compliments like they were defusing a bomb — no, you’re so pretty, don’t say that. He just watched her for a second, something working behind his eyes, and said. “For what it’s worth, I noticed you before you said a word. Not because I felt sorry for you. Because you walked in like you already knew something the rest of us didn’t, and that’s a hundred times more interesting to me than knowing exactly what to expect from somebody.”

“That’s a very smooth thing to say to the girl who just admitted she expected to get sent home.” 

“I’m aware. I practiced it on the walk over.” The corner of this mouth tipped up, self-deprecating, and something in Y/N's chest loosened that had been tight since the van. “Doesn’t make it less true.” 

She didn’t have a smooth deflection for that one. She looked back out at the pool instead, at Tucker doing a cannonball that splashed three people who shrieked with theatrical outrage, at Hannah laughing on the daybed with her knees pulled up, at the while gorgeous absurd machine of the show churning along around the, and let herself, just for a second, believe that maybe she wasn’t only going to get a free trip out of this. 

“I’m not asking you to.” Logan bumped his shoulder against hers, light, easy, an invitation rather than a claim. “I’m just saying I noticed. Do what you want with that.” 

“Noted,” Y/N said, and was unable to keep the smile off her face when she said it. 

That night, the firepit got lit for real, propane-fed and camera red, but warm against the soft tropical dark all the same, the sound of ways somewhere pas the hedges filling in every quiet beat of conversation, and the group folded itself onto the curved stone benches around it with the practiced ease of people who’d watched a lot of reality TV and kew exactly how to look good doing it. Y/N ended up wedged between Allie, who turned out to be sharper and funnier than her first-impression once-over had suggested, and an empty stretch of bench that Logan filled about four minutes later with a beer in each hand, one of which he held out to her without asking if she wanted it, just correctly assuming. 

“You’re persistent,” she said, taking it anyway. 

“I’m efficient,” he said, throwing her own work back at her, and she laughed before she could stop herself, a real laugh, surprised out of her chest. 

Across the fire, Tucker was holding court about some catastrophic road trop that has Sabrina laughing into her hand and Dean shouting “that is NOT how it happened” every ninety seconds, and Hannah had her feet tucked under her, content to watch occasionally catching Y/N’s eyes and smiling like they’d already agreed to be friends, which, Y/N realized with something like relief, they probably had. 

It didn’t feel like a competition, sitting there. It felt, for one suspended hour, like the kind of night you’d have with people you already knew, if the people you already knew happened to be unreasonably attractive and contractually obligated to fall in love with one of you on camera. 

She caught Logan watching her at one point — not staring, nothing intense enough to flag for the producers, just a glance that lingered half a second past polite — and when she caught him at it, she didn’t look away or pretend it hadn’t happened. He just held her eyes, unhurried, and let one corner of his mouth curve up, like he was perfectly happy to be caught. 

Y/N looked back at the fire, face warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the flames, and thought: okay. Maybe more than four hours. 

Leaning back against the locked door of his dressing room, he loosens his tie with one hand while you drop to your knees to start undoing his belt. His dress pants end up in a pool around his ankles while you choke on his thick cock until your eyes burn and your makeup starts to run in streams down your cheeks.

But you don’t care. You can fix it later before anyone notices.

It’s animalistic every time the two of you are together. On the couch. The chair. Against the wall. Bent over his dressing table. Fast and frenzied fucking, grabbing at each other’s bodies in a rush to feel each other before anyone notices you’re missing. Garrett has the stamina and physique of a man in his twenties, and he knows how to make you cum so hard that sometimes you think you’re going to pass out.

You’ve never been to each other’s homes.

If you meet outside of work, he always takes you to a hotel on your end of town that features a cocktail lounge that appeals to a mature clientele. He claims it’s his favorite place because the bartender knows how to fix his whiskey just right, his warm eyes twinkling in the low light of the bar as he watches you sip your drink.

You suspect he only takes you there so no will see you together. But he’s so handsome and charming that you let yourself get swept up every time you’re together, pushing those feelings down and burying them under the exhilaration that comes with the unfurling of your heart to the possibility of a new love.

Everything is going just fine until a new hockey commentator joins the broadcast—Adrien Blades, a hotshot former NHL player and famous agitator. Someone who made a storied career of getting under his fellow player’s skin, and as one of the set assistants told you in confidence, a real piece of shit.

Garrett and Adrien have a long history on the ice, a rivalry of sorts during their careers. They often end up arguing on air and it can get pretty heated at times, which makes for great ratings for the network. The audience loves the explosive banter and potential for fireworks—there’s been more than one occasion that Garrett has stormed off the set, sending social media chatter about the show off the charts.

Even though you don’t know much about him, Adrien makes you uncomfortable for some reason you can’t really place. That is, until one day when you’re pining his mic to his shirt and he compliments your skirt, letting his hand run down over the material. It’s a toss away comment and fleeting touch that nobody else sees or hears, other than you and Garrett.

When your eyes shoot to Garrett’s face, he doesn’t say anything or react. Just stares back at you with a blank expression like nothing happened and you can feel your eyes burning and your face heating in turn, so you just spin around and walk away.

As you dab your eyes in the bathroom stall you come to the painful realization that you mean nothing to Garrett. You’re just another of his many conquests, like all those other girls you’ve heard about.

You feel stupid for ever having let yourself feel special. What were you thinking? You’ve been sleeping together for months and he hides you in hotels and tiny cocktail bars. You’ve never even been to his house.

Later, once you’re feeling more composed, you’re not all that surprised when one of the camera assistants rushes over to inform you that there was a bit of a tussle between Garrett and Adrien during the broadcast, but you don’t see a sign of either man anywhere.

You realize with a dull ache in the pit of your stomach that Garrett must have left for home without seeking you out.

Despite telling yourself to stop, you keep checking for texts from him that never come. Finally you shut off your phone and leave it in your bag, deciding that not knowing he isn’t trying to reach out is much better than the reality of knowing that he isn’t. Or won’t.

To make yourself feel better, you decide to order some takeout from your favorite restaurant as a treat. The place is a bit pricey, but you figure a broken heart qualifies as a reason to splurge.

It’s raining by the time you approach the restaurant, but you still pause to look through the big front window at all the happy couples dining together, sighing at how lucky they are. You imagine how nice it must be to have someone who cares enough about you to want the whole world to know you belong to them. To be proud to claim you as their own.

And then you see him. Sitting at a table across from another woman. Unmistakable with his dark head of curls and well-tailored suit.

And she’s glamorous, sipping a martini in designer clothing and perfectly coordinated jewelry that glimmers in the candlelight. Her hair is immaculate, pulled back in a smooth bun that’s a touch severe but still elegant. She looks close to his age, polished and put together in a way you’ve never managed to achieve no matter how hard you try.

Whenever you attempt to wear something that sophisticated, you end up feeling like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s clothing.

And he’s smiling her. That warm, flirty smile that usually sets off a flight butterflies in your stomach, but instead your chest is tight and you can’t seem to catch your breath. His eyes are twinkling in the warm light as they continue to converse and smile. He never once looks up to see you watching in the window, which is good because you can’t seem to move.

At one point she takes a sip of her drink with a graceful swoop of her bejeweled hand while he signals for the bill, and in that moment you hate her with every fiber of your being but you’re also filled with envy because you wish you were her. She looks like the kind of woman Garrett should be with.

They make sense together.

Not wanting to be spotted as they leave, you turn away from the glowing window and pull the collar of your jacket up around your neck as you continue on your soggy way home.

i’m sorry please don’t be mad at me 😢 to be continued!!

You woke up with Dean’s arm around your waist, which would’ve been less horrifying if you hadn’t spent most of last night thinking about kissing him again — not that you were thinking about it on purpose, obviously.

You weren’t going to spend the morning lying there, thinking about Dean’s stupid face, his stupid mouth, and the fact that he’d somehow made cuddling feel like a personal attack. You were a grown woman with a working brain and several survival instincts; you were also perfectly aware that Dean was exactly the sort of person your mother would warn you about after five minutes.

Unfortunately, none of that changed the fact that his arm was heavy and warm over your stomach, his chest was pressed against your back, and every slow breath brushed the bare skin near your shoulder, where your shirt had slipped sometime during the night.

You lay there very still, staring at the wall like it might tell you what to do.

This wasn’t ideal.

Rule two wasn’t doing great either, thanks to the photographer telling Dean to kiss his girlfriend, and Dean looking at you like the fake part was suddenly the least believable thing in the room.

Rule three — the no-sex rule — was still technically intact, which meant you needed to move before your body decided to betray you.

You shifted carefully, lifting Dean’s arm with two fingers like it was a dangerous object; unfortunately, Dean had spent too many years getting hit by hockey players to be easily disturbed, so all he did was tighten his hold and pull you back against him.

“Where are you going?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Your entire body went hot. “Probably prison.”

Dean’s mouth brushed your shoulder when he laughed, and you hated the way your stomach reacted. “What’d you do?”

“I woke up in a situation.”

“Pretty sure you climbed into my bed.”

“It’s our bed.”

“Right.” His voice was still lazy, amused, too warm. “Our bed. That’s very generous of you.”

You tried to turn your head enough to glare at him, which was difficult considering he still had you trapped against him. “Don’t call me girlfriend before nine in the morning.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

You glanced at the nightstand. “Eight thirty-seven.”

“Then I’ve got twenty-three minutes.”

“Dean,” you warned.

He laughed, loosening his arm enough for you to roll onto your back. That was a mistake, because now you were facing him, and Dean looked unfairly good in the morning. His hair was messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep, one cheek faintly creased from the pillow; somehow, he still looked like the sort of guy who’d never had to try very hard to be forgiven.

He looked at you for a little longer than necessary, and for once, he wasn’t teasing or smirking; he was looking, and your throat tightened.

His mouth curved, saving both of you from whatever that had almost been. “You’re drooling.”

Your face fell immediately. “I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“It’s actually kind of cute.”

“You’re saying that to destabilize me emotionally.”

“Maybe.” Dean propped himself up on one elbow, grin widening when you shoved at his chest and mostly hit the blanket. “Is it working?”

“No,” you lied.

“Shame,” he murmured.

You sat up before he could say anything else that would make you want to throw a pillow at him or kiss him, two impulses that were becoming dangerously similar. You reached for your phone to check the time again, then remembered the schedule his mother had sent last night, because apparently, rich people treated family weekends like military operations with better catering.

“We’re supposed to have brunch with your parents in an hour,” you said.

Dean groaned, dropping back onto the pillow. “Cancel it.”

“You can’t just cancel brunch with your parents.”

“I can if I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m suffering.”

“You’ll survive.”

Dean opened one eye, offended. “That was mean.”

“You’ll manage.”

“I might not,” he said, still not moving.

You climbed out of bed, trying to ignore the way his gaze followed you across the room as you grabbed your clothes from the chair near the window. You’d changed into sleep shorts and an oversized shirt the night before, but now even that felt like too much exposed skin, because Dean was watching you like he knew exactly how close his mouth had been to yours outside the ballroom.

“Stop looking at me,” you said without turning around.

“I’m not,” Dean lied.

“You are,” you told him, still not turning around.

“You have no proof.”

“I can feel you looking.”

There was a pause, and when Dean spoke again, his voice was low enough to make your fingers still around the clothes in your hands. “Yeah?”

Your grip tightened around your clothes.

You hated him a little for that.

Fine, more than a little.

You turned around slowly, ready to say something sharp enough to make him stop. However, Dean was sitting up now, hair still a mess and sheets low around his waist, and whatever insult you’d prepared vanished when you realized he wasn’t smirking; that was the problem, because if he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it.

If he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it, because smug Dean was familiar. Irritating, obviously, but familiar. What you hadn’t prepared for was Dean looking at you quietly, like he wasn’t entirely sure what’d just changed between you.

“Dean.” It was supposed to sound like a warning, but it came out too soft.

His eyes moved over your face, and for one stupid second, you thought he might actually say what you were both pretending not to think. Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and both of you looked at it.

Dean let out a breath, almost like he’d been holding it, then reached for his phone. “My mom.”

You swallowed, looking away. “You should answer.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, but he watched you for one second longer before answering. “Morning, Mom.”

Whatever had been stretching between you loosened as soon as his mother’s voice came through the speaker, bright and cheerful and asking if you’d both slept well. Dean’s eyes flicked to yours immediately, mischief already creeping into his expression, and you pointed at him in warning.

“Don’t.”

His grin came back immediately. “We slept great,” and your face went hot.

His mother said something you couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made Dean’s grin get worse.

“Yeah, she’s awake. No, I didn’t wake her up. I’m a gentleman.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough that it almost hurt.

Dean looked far too pleased with himself. “She’s rolling her eyes at me right now, actually.”

“Dean,” you hissed.

“She says good morning,” he told you, still grinning.

“I absolutely did not.”

His mother’s laugh came through the phone, warm and far too pleased, and you suddenly understood why Dean was like this: he’d been encouraged.

By the time he hung up, you were already in the bathroom with the door half-closed, your face in your hands.

“This is entirely your fault,” you called out.

“Most things are,” Dean called back.

“Good,” you answered through the half-closed door. “Glad we agree.”

Brunch, unfortunately, didn’t make things better.

Dean’s family had apparently decided the two of you were adorable, which was a problem because Dean kept leaning into it like he had no idea you were fighting for your life. His hand found the back of your chair whenever he stood, his knee brushed yours under the table, and when he noticed you eyeing the fruit platter but refusing to climb halfway across the table for it, he passed it to you without missing a beat.

They were tiny things, fake things, the kind of things Dean could easily explain away if you asked him to. Except none of them felt fake enough.

His mother watched the two of you over the rim of her coffee cup, smiling in a way that made you deeply suspicious.

“You two seem more comfortable with each other today,” she said.

You almost choked on your orange juice.

Dean, because he was a menace, patted your back like this was not entirely his fault. “Careful, sweetheart.”

You glared at him, which only made his smile turn angelic.

“We’re very comfortable,” Dean replied, giving your shoulder another innocent pat.

You kicked his ankle under the table; his smile twitched, but he didn’t break.

His father glanced over the top of the paper he was pretending to read, looking between you and Dean with quiet amusement. “That’s good. Comfort matters.”

Beside you, Dean went still in a way you didn’t understand. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but you were sitting close enough to catch the slight pause of his fingers against the rim of his glass before he forced them to move again.

You looked at him, but Dean kept his eyes on his plate. That was new. Dean didn’t avoid looking at people; if anything, he made a sport of holding eye contact too long.

His mother kept talking about the charity gala that night — donors, family friends, how lovely the ballroom looked after the decorators had finished — but most of it blurred together, because Dean had gone too quiet beside you.

When brunch finally ended, and his parents walked ahead to greet someone in the lobby, you slowed your steps just enough for Dean to fall into place beside you.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said.

Dean looked down at you like he was grateful for the easy joke. “You keep saying that like it’s illegal.”

“For you? Quiet feels suspicious.”

His mouth curved like he meant to make a joke out of it, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”

You snorted. “You’re much better at lying when you don’t mean it.”

“That’s offensive.” Dean looked genuinely insulted. “I’m an excellent liar.”

“You’re an excellent flirt,” you told him. “That’s a different skill set.”

Dean looked at you then, his attention sharpening just enough to make the hallway feel too narrow. “You think so?”

You stopped walking; after a beat, Dean stopped too. People moved around you toward the elevators, their voices echoing against the high ceilings, but for a second, the lobby narrowed down to Dean: his loosened collar, the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the look on his face like he wanted to turn the whole thing into a joke but couldn’t quite make himself do it.

“You know you are,” you told him.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his eyes still on yours. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

You didn’t know what to say. Dean seemed to realize he’d let something slip, because his face closed up in that smooth, practiced way that made you wonder how long he’d been doing it. He nodded toward the elevators, like that settled everything. “Come on. We’ve got a few hours before my mother starts hunting us down with a seating chart.”

And just like that, whatever had been there was gone.

The next few hours should’ve been easy.

You showered, redid your hair twice, and texted Allie because you needed someone to remind you that Dean Di Laurentis’s mouth was not a life choice.

you: this is becoming a serious problem allie: define “this” before I get involved you: dean allie: oh, babe. that became a problem the second you agreed to fake date him you: deeply unhelpful allie: doesn’t make me wrong you: dean keeps looking at me allie: with his eyes? terrifying you: allie. allie: okay, sorry. what kind of look? you: like he keeps forgetting it’s fake allie: and you? you: don’t do that allie: do you? you: i hate you allie: yeah, that’s a no

You tossed your phone onto the bed after that, mostly because Allie had no respect for your suffering.

Dean was in the shower when you started getting ready for the gala, which should’ve been a relief; instead, the room felt too quiet without him. You could hear the water running through the bathroom door, the occasional thud of him moving around, and apparently, that was all it took for your brain and body to ally against your better judgment.

You blamed the kiss, or the almost-kisses, or the bed; maybe you blamed the way Dean had danced with you the night before, his hand warm against your back, his smile too convincing for something that was supposed to be pretend.

By the time Dean came out in dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, hair damp and towel slung around his neck, you were already in your dress, trying very hard to fasten the clasp of your necklace without looking at him in the mirror.

You failed, obviously.

Dean went still in the bathroom doorway, and when you looked at him in the mirror, the necklace chain slipped loose between your fingers.

“What?” you asked, suddenly very aware of yourself.

Dean didn’t say anything, which should’ve been satisfying. Dean Di Laurentis rendered speechless felt like the sort of thing you were supposed to document for future reference, but instead, your face heated and your stomach twisted, because for once, there was nothing smug or playful or practiced in the way he looked at you. It was just quiet, careful, and dangerously close to wanting.

“Dean,” you said, careful now.

He blinked, like he had to force himself back into the room, then cleared his throat and walked toward you. “Your necklace.”

You looked down at the chain in your hands. “What about it?”

“You’re going to strangle yourself with that thing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re twisting it.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

You huffed, but when he held out his hand, you gave him the necklace, because arguing with Dean while he was standing there half-dressed and damp-haired felt unsafe for your dignity.

Your breathing went shallow, which was embarrassing because Dean was literally fastening a necklace, not doing anything that warranted a full-body betrayal. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided to provide the image anyway.

Dean’s fingertips grazed the back of your neck while he clasped the chain.

You looked at him in the mirror, and Dean was already looking back at you, his hands still near your neck; neither of you moved.

“There,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You touched the pendant at your throat, mostly because you needed something to do that wasn’t looking at him. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” But he still didn’t move.

His hand dropped from your neck, but he stayed close.

That was what kept happening: the act should’ve ended, the line should’ve been redrawn, and Dean should’ve gone back to being smug enough that you could breathe properly around him. Instead, he stayed.

You turned slowly, only to find him close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.

“You should finish getting dressed,” you said.

His eyes flicked down to his unbuttoned shirt, then back to you. “I am dressed.”

“You’re half-dressed.”

His mouth curved. “Technically, more than half.”

“Dean.”

His mouth curved like he wanted to make it a joke. “You nervous?”

“No,” you said, too quickly.

“Liar.”

You frowned at him. “About the gala?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Your pulse jumped, and of course, he noticed; Dean noticed everything when it gave him the upper hand. Except this time, he didn’t tease you for it.

He only stepped back, giving you room at last, then reached for his tie from the chair like nothing had happened.

“Come on,” he told you, his voice lighter now. “Let’s go convince a room full of rich people that I’m boyfriend material.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out too soft to pass for a joke. “That might take a miracle.”

Dean looked at you as he looped his tie around his neck. “Good thing I brought you, then.”

The charity gala looked exactly like the sort of event Dean had probably been attending since he was old enough to be bribed into a suit.

The ballroom was all gold light and white tablecloths, polished floors, and champagne glasses, expensive perfume mixing with the scent of fresh flowers. A string quartet played near the far wall while people in gowns and tuxedos moved through the room, kissing cheeks and shaking hands and laughing politely at jokes that almost definitely didn’t deserve it.

Dean slid his hand into yours just before you stepped through the doors, and when you looked down, he squeezed once, so soft it felt less like part of the act and more like something meant only for you.

“You good?” he asked.

The question was casual, but his voice was not.

You looked up at him, surprised to find something sincere beneath all the charm.

“Yeah,” you said, still looking at him. “You?”

Dean’s mouth quirked. “I was born for this. Rooms full of people pretending to like each other and calling it networking.”

“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’ve said sadder,” he said, as that helped.

“You’ve definitely said stupider.”

“Definitely,” he agreed.

You smiled despite yourself, and his eyes flicked to your mouth before he looked away.

There it was again, that tiny slip, that almost-moment neither of you seemed able to stop creating.

You walked into the room with his hand in yours, trying not to think about it.

For the first hour, everything felt easy, which was exactly the problem, because fake dating Dean had started to feel easy, too. He introduced you to family friends as his girlfriend, one hand warm at your waist like the word belonged there, and you smiled until your cheeks hurt. Every so often, he leaned down to mutter something terrible in your ear about a donor’s toupee or a woman’s personal vendetta against the shrimp tray. You had to pretend not to laugh, because his mother was watching from ten feet away like she was collecting evidence.

At some point, Dean’s father pulled him into a conversation about law school contacts, and you ended up near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne you were mostly holding for aesthetic purposes.

That was, unfortunately, when Nathaniel Pierce appeared.

You didn’t know him, but unfortunately, you recognized his type immediately: rich, polished, and smiling like someone had spent his entire life rewarding him for being mildly charming. He introduced himself as a family friend, though the way he glanced over at Dean made it clear he was less interested in being friendly than in being competition.

“So,” Nathaniel said, “you’re Dean’s girlfriend.”

“That seems to be the rumor.”

He laughed like he was already enjoying himself. “I have to admit, I didn’t think Dean was the serious girlfriend type.”

You took a sip of champagne, mostly to hide your reaction. “He’s full of surprises.”

“I’m sure.” Nathaniel’s gaze moved over you, not rude enough to call out but not subtle enough to miss. “Though if he ever stops surprising you, you know where to find me.”

Your brows lifted. Before you could answer, an arm slid around your waist, warm and familiar.

Dean.

You felt him before he said anything, his hand settling against your hip, his body warm and tense beside yours.

“Nate.” Dean smiled like he wanted to bite someone. “Didn’t know you were still doing this.”

Nathaniel’s smile stayed in place, but only barely. “Doing what?”

“Flirting with women whose boyfriends are standing ten feet away.”

The air between them went tight enough that even you noticed. You looked at Dean, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. He was still smiling, perfectly polite to anyone who wasn’t close enough to hear the warning underneath, but you felt his fingers flex once against your waist.

Nathaniel laughed, but it came out too forced to sound careless. “Relax, Di Laurentis. I was just being friendly.”

“Yeah?” Dean tilted his head toward the other side of the room. “Try being friendly over there.”

For one long second, they just looked at each other, both of them still smiling like this was a normal conversation.

Then Nathaniel lifted his hands in surrender, his smile still too wide. “Good seeing you.”

Dean waited until Nathaniel was out of earshot, then looked down at you. The jealousy was still there, not hidden well enough for either of you to pretend otherwise.

You stepped out of his hold.

Dean’s expression shifted immediately. “What?”

“You don’t get to do that, Dean.”

His brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely toward Nathaniel’s retreat. “The whole possessive boyfriend thing.”

Dean stared at you, genuinely thrown. “He was flirting with you.”

“So?”

“So?” Dean repeated, as the word had personally offended him.

You lowered your voice because there were people everywhere. “We’re not actually together.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, and you saw it then, the moment your words landed.

“We’re here together,” he said.

“For the act.” In front of you, Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again.

You hated the flicker of hurt that crossed his face because you’d put it there, and what you hated even more was that part of you wanted him to argue; to say it wasn’t just for show, to say something.

Instead, Dean looked away first, jaw shifting like he was trying to keep himself from making things worse.

“Right,” he answered.

Your chest tightened. “Dean—”

But his mother appeared before either of you could fix or ruin anything further, smiling brightly for someone who’d clearly just walked into the wreckage of a conversation. “There you are. They’re starting the next dance, and your father owes me one, but he’s pretending to be busy.”

Dean’s expression shifted instantly, smoothing into something polite, and you hated how good he was at putting the mask back on.

His mother glanced between the two of you. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Dean answered smoothly.

“Fine,” you managed at the same time.

She smiled like she didn’t believe either of you. “Wonderful. Then dance.”

You blinked, already shaking your head. “Oh, I don’t really—”

“Mom,” Dean warned, but she was already pushing gently at his shoulder.

“It’s Sinatra.” She said it like that, and it explained everything. “Don’t waste it.”

Then the music changed, slow and familiar, and the room seemed to soften around it. You recognized the voice before you recognized the song: Frank Sinatra, low and sweeping through the ballroom speakers, the melody romantic and almost mournful. The kind of song that made the chandeliers glow warmer, and the room fall farther away, like everything outside the circle of light had stopped mattering for a few minutes.

Dean’s mother only smiled.

“The World We Knew,” she said, softer now, and then she was gone, pulled onto the dance floor by Dean’s father, who’d apparently accepted his fate.

You looked at Dean, and Dean looked back. Neither of you spoke. Then he held out his hand.

You looked at his outstretched hand. “Is this part of the act?”

His face was unreadable for half a second before his voice went quiet. “Does it matter?”

It should’ve mattered, and maybe it did. You took his hand anyway.

Dean led you onto the dance floor, and the second his hand settled at your waist, you knew this had been a mistake. Not because he was bad at it, but because he was good at it. He moved like he’d done this before and held you like he hadn’t held anyone quite this way, which was exactly the kind of thought that would get you into trouble.

“You know how to dance,” you told him, mostly because silence had started to feel too intimate.

“I’m rich.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It answers most things.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “Of course it does.”

His hand tightened slightly around yours. “My mom made me learn when I was eleven. She said charm was only useful if I could survive a ballroom.”

“Your mom’s terrifying.”

“She really likes you.”

“That actually makes her more terrifying.”

Dean laughed softly, and something in your chest tightened at the sound. For a while, you let the room move around you while Dean kept you steady. Couples turned slowly under the gold light, glasses clinked from the tables, and Sinatra’s voice softened the edges of the room until the whole night felt dangerously easy to regret.

Dean’s thumb brushed once against your waist, and when you looked up, he was already watching you.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he told you.

Your breath caught, but you still asked, “The dancing?”

His mouth twitched, faint but there. “No.”

You swallowed his name like it might stop him. “Dean.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t look away.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”

“I think I do.”

“You’re not supposed to be doing this.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “You mean dance with you?”

“Make this feel real.”

The words were out before you could stop them.

Dean’s expression changed, something vulnerable breaking through before he could smooth it away. For once, he had nothing clever to hide behind, and you wished he did.

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. “Maybe you’re not the only one having a hard time remembering it’s supposed to be pretend.”

The room tilted slightly, not literally, probably, but it felt close enough. Your fingers tightened around his, and Dean felt it immediately. His eyes dropped to your mouth before lifting again, like being decent had suddenly become very difficult. You hated that his restraint made you want him more.

“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, but his hand stayed at your waist.

“Then why did you?” Dean swallowed, his eyes still on yours.

For one second, you thought he might answer, but then the song ended. The room applauded politely, and just like that, the moment was over.

Dean stepped back, but his hand lingered in yours for one second too long. That was almost worse.

The rest of the gala passed in a blur of polite conversation and too much champagne, though you only had two glasses, because being drunk around Dean felt like adding gasoline to a fire you were already failing to control. Dean stayed close but careful, his hand brushing your back when needed, his smile there for everyone else and gone whenever he looked at you.

By the time you finally made it back to the hotel room, the silence between you felt unbearable.

You walked in first, slipping off your heels beside the bed and reaching for one of your earrings before you even turned around. You needed something to do with your hands, something normal, because Dean had shut the door behind you and was standing there in his loosened tie, still looking at you like the dance had never ended.

“You can stop looking at me like that now.” You tugged one earring free with more force than necessary. “No one’s watching.”

Dean was quiet for a second before he answered. “I know.”

Your fingers stilled around the second earring.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He was supposed to smirk, say something obnoxious, remind you this was fake, and make it easy for you to hate him again.

Instead, he stood by the door, his gaze steady and his voice low, and suddenly the room felt much smaller than it had before.

You carefully set the earring down. “Dean.”

“I know,” he repeated, but this time it sounded different, like he was too tired to pretend he didn’t.

You turned to face him. “You keep doing this.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Doing what?”

“Blurring the lines.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I’m the only one?”

You crossed your arms, mostly so he wouldn’t see your hands shake. “I didn’t ask you to get jealous.”

“No.” He took a step closer. “You just looked at me like I’d no right to be.”

“You don’t.”

“I know.” He took another step closer anyway.

“You don’t get to act as you mean it when this is supposed to be fake.”

Dean stopped a few feet away from you, close enough for you to see the frustration in his face and the way he was holding himself back. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Is it, though?”

Your breath caught, and Dean saw it.

His voice softened, which made everything worse. “Tell me I’m the only one who forgot we were pretending.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Dean’s expression shifted, like your silence had hurt him, even if it told him what he needed to know.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, but there was no victory in it.

You hated how quickly you reacted when he moved closer. The awareness of him had become unbearable, the space between you crowded with every almost-kiss, every touch that had lasted too long, and every time he’d called you his girlfriend and made it sound true.

“Rule three,” you said, because you needed to say something, and the rules were the only thing still standing between you and doing something that would change everything.

Dean stopped immediately, like the words had hit something solid in him.

His eyes searched your face, and all the heat in him turned careful. “Then say no.”

Your throat tightened because he’d made it sound simple.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t smile.

He just waited.

“Say no,” he repeated, quieter this time, “and I’ll take the floor.”

Your heart twisted, and you hated him for that too: for making it impossible to pretend he was pushing you, for making the choice yours, for wanting you badly enough to shake and still being willing to walk away if you asked him to.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered.

Dean let out a slow breath.

You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. “I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth before he forced it back to your eyes.

“You sure?” His voice was quiet—no joke, no tease, no easy escape.

You nodded, even though your voice shook. “Yes.”

Dean crossed the last of the space between you, and even then, he didn’t rush. His hand came to your waist first, warm and steady, and when he kissed you, there was nothing fake about it.

The first one had been necessary. This one was not.

This one was slow at first, almost careful, like Dean was giving you every chance to pull away. But your hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and whatever restraint he had left snapped just enough for him to pull you against him.

The sound he made against your mouth made your fingers tighten in his shirt.

You backed into the dresser, and Dean followed, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other stayed at your waist, holding you close without caging you in. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it too, as the dance, the gala, and every fake smile had only made it harder to stop.

Your fingers caught in his tie, pulling him closer.

Dean huffed a laugh against your mouth. “Still bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Dean kissed it off your mouth, which was rude, effective, and deeply unfair.

His fingers found the zipper of your dress and stopped there. When you opened your eyes, Dean was watching you, his breathing uneven, his forehead almost touching yours.

Dean’s voice was quiet. “Tell me now. If you want me to stop.”

Your chest ached at the softness of it.

You shook your head.

“I need you to say it.”

That was unfairly attractive. The care. The restraint. The fact that Dean, who joked through almost everything, was looking at you like this was the one thing he refused to get wrong.

“Don’t stop,” you told him, holding his gaze.

Dean’s jaw tightened. Then he kissed you again, slow and hungry, one hand holding your waist as the other pulled the zipper down inch by inch, leaving your back exposed beneath his touch.

The dress loosened slowly, slipping from your shoulders as his hands drew it down, his fingertips brushing bare skin the whole way. He took his time with it, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath your skin, until you felt exposed before you were even undressed. When the fabric pooled at your feet, Dean stepped back just enough to take you in.

For once, you wished he’d say something stupid.

He didn’t.

His gaze moved over you, and for once, he looked almost helpless.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice came out rough.

It was simple. No smirk. No line. Nothing for him to hide behind.

You swallowed hard. “That was dangerously sincere.”

“It was.” His eyes stayed on yours.

You looked away because the room was suddenly too warm, and Dean was suddenly too close to all the things you were trying not to feel.

His fingers brushed beneath your chin, gentle as he turned your face back to his. “Hey.”

You made yourself look at him.

“I mean it,” he told you, his eyes steady on yours.

The next kiss was rougher because you needed it to be, all teeth and heat and his body pinning yours to the dresser. You needed heat over honesty, needed his mouth on yours, his hands dragging over bare skin, the solid weight of him against you before you could think too hard about what any of it meant. Dean seemed to understand, or maybe he needed the same thing, because he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed without taking his mouth off yours.

You hit the mattress with a breathless laugh, and Dean followed you down, tie hanging loose, shirt half-open, hair falling over his forehead.

“This is a terrible idea.” Your hands slid into his open shirt anyway.

His mouth curved, but there was too much heat in his eyes for the smile to feel harmless. “Probably.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of talking me out of it.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.” His mouth brushed yours. “Not stupid.”

You laughed, and he kissed your jaw, your throat, the bare skin above your bra, until the sound broke into something much less composed.

Dean took his time with you, and that was the part you didn’t expect.

You’d expected confidence, because Dean had enough of that to supply a small country. You’d expected teasing, dirty comments, hands that knew exactly where to go; Dean Di Laurentis had never looked like someone who had to think too hard in bed.

You hadn’t expected patience.

Not this kind.

He kissed you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be, like learning what made you gasp mattered more than proving he already knew. His hands moved over your body with a focus that made you dizzy, slow, and deliberate, and entirely too aware of every reaction he pulled from you. When his mouth moved lower, and his fingers slipped beneath the lace, dragging through the wet heat of you, the smug satisfaction that crossed his face should’ve made you want to wipe it right off.

Instead, you grabbed at his shirt and dragged him back up to kiss him, because if he looked at you like that for one more second, you were going to fall apart before he even touched you properly.

Dean laughed against your mouth, smug even now. “Impatient.”

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Is that a request?”

“It’s a complaint.”

He sat back long enough to pull his shirt off, and you immediately regretted being brave, because Dean without a shirt was exactly as distracting as Dean with a shirt, only with fewer barriers and significantly more evidence that hockey was a public service.

Your gaze moved over him before you could stop it.

His grin returned, softer this time. “You good?”

“Absolutely not.”

His grin widened, gentle but entirely too pleased. “No?”

“I’m annoyed.”

“My body annoys you?”

“Mostly your face.”

He laughed as he leaned down again. “That’s fair.”

After that, it got less funny. Mostly because Dean’s mouth returned to your skin, his hand slid between your thighs again, and suddenly the only thing in your head was the slow drag of his fingers against you. He was good, not in the careless, practiced way you’d expected, but in the attentive way that made every reaction feel noticed. He listened to every sound you made, watched every change in your face, kissed the inside of your thigh when your breathing hitched, and kept telling you how good you were until your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“You okay?” His eyes found yours, careful even now.

Your chest rose and fell too quickly. “If you stop now, I’ll be furious.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “Good to know.”

Then he didn’t stop.

By the time he moved back over you, your body felt loose and overheated, your thoughts scattered somewhere between his mouth, the drag of his hands, and the way he kept saying your name as it belonged there. Dean kissed you again, slower this time, and you felt how badly he wanted you in the tension of his body, in the slight shake of his hand against your hip before he forced it steady.

“Dean.” His name came out unsteady.

His forehead came to rest against yours. “Yeah?”

You looked at him, and for one second, the fear came back.

Not of him.

Never of him.

Of the rule you were about to break the morning after. Of the fact that wanting Dean had started to feel less like a mistake and more like a truth you weren’t ready to say out loud.

He saw the fear cross your face immediately.

“We can stop.” His hand stilled at your hip.

You shook your head, holding his gaze so he would believe you. “I don’t want to.”

His eyes closed for a second, and when he opened them again, they were darker, softer, far too honest.

“Tell me again,” he whispered.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Dean kissed you as he believed you, then reached blindly for his wallet on the nightstand without taking his mouth far from yours. You looked away while he got the condom, not because you were embarrassed exactly, but because there was something too real about the ordinary practicality of it. Then he was back over you, and there was nothing ordinary about the way he looked at you.

“Still with me?” His eyes searched yours.

You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”

His mouth brushed yours, his voice low enough to wreck you. “Good girl.”

The words should not have sent heat through you as fast as they did.

His breath caught, and then he was smiling against your mouth like he knew exactly what that had done to you. “Oh?”

“Don’t.”

“Noted.”

“Dean.” It came out too breathless to be a warning.

“I said noted,” he reminded you.

“That was a smug face.”

“I felt smug.”

You would’ve argued, but then he moved, slow and careful, and whatever you’d been about to say disappeared beneath the feeling of him.

Dean watched your face the entire time, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto as much as you did. When your breath caught at the stretch, Dean stopped immediately, his jaw tight as his eyes searched yours.

“Okay?”

You nodded quickly, your fingers tightening around his shoulder. “Yeah. —Give me a second.”

“You can have as long as you need.”

You turned your face slightly, hiding against his neck. “You’re being too nice to me.”

Dean went still above you.

Then his mouth brushed your temple. “Get used to it.”

You laughed, though it came out shaky.

Dean moved only when you asked him to, and the first few times were slow enough to make your chest ache. It was intimate in a way you hadn’t prepared for: the eye contact, the quiet sounds, the way Dean held himself back, as if taking care of you mattered more than losing control.

Eventually, Dean’s restraint slipped, and the slow, careful pace turned into something rougher. Not completely. Never enough to make you feel unsafe. But enough that his breathing went rough, his grip on your hip tightened, and every measured movement started to feel a little less controlled.

The room became warm and tangled sheets and Dean’s voice low against your ear, telling you how good you felt, how pretty you looked under him, how long he’d wanted this. How badly he was trying not to lose his mind over it. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and his composure cracked, his breath catching hard against your neck.

“Fuck.” His head dipped for half a second. “Don’t do that unless you want this to get embarrassing for me.”

Despite everything, you smiled. “You mean embarrassingly quick?”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there he was again: pure Dean, cocky enough to make you feel steadier somehow.

“Careful.” His mouth brushed yours. “I’m still very committed to proving a point.”

“What point, exactly?”

“That we should’ve broken rule three earlier.”

You laughed, but it broke into a moan when his hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding exactly where you needed him. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you through it as his fingers kept moving, and the pressure built so fast you had to cling to him.

“Dean,” you gasped, and he heard it immediately.

Of course he did.

His pace faltered just enough for his eyes to find yours, one hand still firm at your waist, the other braced beside your head like he was holding himself back by force. “I’ve got you.”

Your chest tightened around the words, which was deeply inconvenient considering your body was already busy falling apart for him. “You always say things like that.”

Dean’s mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss, not quite anything gentle enough to survive. “Yeah?” His thumb moved between you again, slow and deliberate, and your whole body clenched hard enough to make his breath catch. “Maybe I mean them.”

That was what undid you.

Not just his hand, though that was not helping. Not the way he moved inside you, careful until he wasn’t, controlled until the control started slipping at the edges. Not the praise against your mouth or the weight of him over you, or the rough sound he made every time you pulled him closer. It was the softness underneath all of it, the part he kept letting you see by accident. The way Dean looked at you was like he was done pretending, like this had stopped being about rule three the second you said yes.

The pressure broke all at once, sharp and overwhelming, pulling his name from you in a sound you would’ve been embarrassed by if you’d been capable of embarrassment. Your nails dug into his back, your thighs tightening around his hips, and Dean held you through it, mouth pressed to your temple, voice low and wrecked as he told you he’d you, that you were okay, that you were so fucking pretty like this.

He followed not long after.

You felt the moment he lost the last of his control: the way his body went tense over yours, the way his hand gripped your waist, the way he buried his face in the curve of your neck as he could hide there. Your name left his mouth rough and unsteady, like something he’d been trying not to say all weekend and had finally run out of strength to keep in.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The room was too warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, the air between you ruined in a way that felt impossible to fix neatly. Dean’s weight was still over you, not crushing, just there, solid and familiar and dangerous for reasons that had very little to do with sex anymore.

Eventually, he lifted himself onto one elbow, just enough to look at you.

His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his mouth swollen from kissing you, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis didn’t look smug or polished or like trouble in an expensive suit. He looked young. Unsteady. Like someone who’d finally broken the thing he’d been joking around for days and had no idea what to do with the pieces.

“You okay?” His voice was quiet.

You nodded, still trying to remember how breathing worked.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no teasing in them. “Words.”

Your heart twisted because, of course, he remembered. Of course, he was still careful now, when it would’ve been so much easier for him not to be. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His face softened, and he kissed you once, slow and gentle, which somehow felt more dangerous than everything that had come before it. The sex, at least, had given you something to do with your hands. This just made your chest hurt.

Then Dean pulled away carefully, disappearing into the bathroom before you could figure out what to say. The loss of him was immediate and ridiculous. You hated that too.

He came back with a damp towel a moment later, his expression focused in a way that made your throat feel tight. He cleaned you up gently, one hand resting on your thigh like he was making sure you knew he was still there, and you stared at the ceiling because watching him be careful with you was starting to feel like a personal attack.

You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to cry or kiss him again.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

When he finished, Dean tossed the towel aside and climbed back onto the bed, then stopped.

Actually stopped.

He hovered there for half a second, looking down at you like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do now. As if he’d spent the entire night touching you, kissing you, taking you apart with his mouth and hands and body, but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you after.

That was unfair.

That was so unfair, you almost hated him for it.

You lifted the blanket without looking at him. Dean slid in beside you immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, his arm coming around your waist with a carefulness that made your chest ache all over again.

His chest pressed against your back, just like that morning.

Except now everything had changed.

And somehow, horribly, nothing had.

Dean’s thumb moved slowly against your hip. His mouth brushed your shoulder once, then again, soft enough that you could’ve pretended it was accidental if you needed to.

You didn’t need to.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You closed your eyes. “Yeah.”

His arm tightened just slightly, not enough to trap you, just enough to make you feel held. “Good.”

You let yourself sink back into him.

Just for a minute, you told yourself.

Just until your heart calms down, just until you could remember that this was fake, that rules existed for a reason, that sleeping with Dean Di Laurentis in a hotel room during a fake dating weekend was objectively one of the worst ideas you’d ever had, there would be consequences eventually. There had to be. People didn’t cross lines this big and get to pretend the floor was still exactly where they’d left it.

But Dean was warm behind you, careful and quiet and too much like something you weren’t allowed to want.

So you let yourself pretend.

Not for long.

Just long enough to fall asleep.

Morning arrived with sunlight and consequences.

You woke before Dean, which felt unfair, considering he’d been the one to ruin your life first. His arm was still around your waist, his face tucked close to the back of your neck, his breathing deep and even against your skin. At some point during the night, he’d tangled his legs with yours, and the intimacy of it hit you so hard you went completely still.

That was the problem.

It wasn’t the sex. Not really.

The sex had been confusing and reckless and very much against the rules, but you could almost explain that away if you hated yourself enough. Tension. Attraction. Too much champagne. Too many almost-kisses. A weekend of pretending, finally catching up with both of you in the worst possible hotel room.

This was worse.

This was Dean holding you in his sleep like it was normal. This was waking up safe and warm and wanted, with no audience and no excuse. This was the kind of thing you couldn’t blame on the act, because no one was watching.

Carefully, you shifted under his arm.

Dean stirred behind you. “Mm?”

You froze.

His arm tightened for one sleepy second, pulling you closer on instinct, and your stupid heart nearly climbed out of your body and offered itself to him with both hands.

Then Dean woke up properly.

You felt it happen: the change in his breathing, the stillness that moved through his body, the way the room seemed to remember itself around both of you. His hand was still on your waist, but now he knew it was there.

For one long second, neither of you said anything.

Then Dean cleared his throat softly.

“So,” he said, voice rough from sleep, “we’re definitely blaming the wine, right?”

The words landed wrong.

Not because they were cruel. Cruel would’ve been easier. Cruel would’ve given you something clean to react to, something sharp enough to cut the whole thing loose.

This was worse because you heard the nerves underneath it.

You knew Dean well enough by now to recognize the joke for what it was: too quick, too light, thrown between you like a life raft because casual was what Dean did when things got too real. He was trying to make it easier. Trying to give you both a door to walk through before either of you had to admit there was something to leave behind.

But all you heard was regret.

Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.

You sat up, pulling the sheet with you, and Dean’s hand fell from your waist. The loss of it was immediate, which made you hate yourself a little.

“Right,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “The wine.”

Dean sat up behind you. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.”

You hated that phrase the second it left your mouth.

It’s okay.

The same lie people used when things were absolutely not okay, but saying so felt too humiliating. The kind of lie that made everything easier for the person hearing it and worse for the person saying it.

You reached for your shirt from the floor, keeping your back to him as you pulled it on. Your hands were steady, at least. That felt like a small victory, even if the rest of you felt like it had been turned inside out.

Dean said your name quietly.

You closed your eyes.

For one night, sleeping with Dean had made everything feel simple. Not fake. Not real. Just simple. His hands, his mouth, his voice saying your name like it meant something. His arm around you afterward. His breathing against the back of your neck.

Now morning had come, and apparently both of you were still better at pretending than telling the truth.

“We should get ready,” you said, standing before he could answer. “Your parents wanted breakfast before we leave.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

That almost made you turn around.

Almost.

Instead, you walked into the bathroom and shut the door softly behind you. Only then did you let yourself breathe.

Outside, Dean stayed quiet.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had knocked.

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If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.

If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.

While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.

You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.

Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.

Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.

You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.

SULLY 1 min ag0

The shark is looking for his next meal.

Where the fuck are you?

There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.

Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.

The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.

‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.

“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.

The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.

Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”

“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.

This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.

Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.

“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”

You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.

Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.

“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”

You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”

Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.

It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions. 

“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”

The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.

You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.

To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“

“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”

Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“

“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience. 

You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”

“Of course not—“

“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.

No one dared.

He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.

And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.

You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray. 

While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards. 

When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.

Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.

You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.

In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life. 

Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents. 

When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.

“I am so sorry, Dr–”

“ER needs an ortho consult.”

His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you. 

He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”

You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you. 

The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.

As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.

When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?

With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning. 

Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–

“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room. 

Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace. 

Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.

“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room. 

Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.

Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.

Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.

Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing. 

“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.

She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”

“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”

There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.

Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”

You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”

“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.

Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”

You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind. 

“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”

“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”

“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.

You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.

Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble. 

Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”

If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either. 

The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.

“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.

You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”

You weren’t dallying.

If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.

You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”

“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”

If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.

It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.

“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said. 

Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.

That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached. 

You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time. 

With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.

You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”

“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you. 

Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“

“Sleep?”  Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.

Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.

Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”

His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in. 

Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?

After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,

When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.

SULLY 1 hr ago

Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.

The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got. 

You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.

As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor. 

Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back. 

You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep.  The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.

Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.

She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.

You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.

The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message. 

“How’s the patient?”

You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.

He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”

Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.

You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“

Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park?  Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.

“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”

He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.” 

You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.

“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”

The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.

Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.

God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.

You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.

It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.

Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.

The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.

Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.

It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.

Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin. 

She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”

“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.  

“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.

You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”

She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”

Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”

You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”

She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”

“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.

“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation. 

‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.

“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.” 

When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”

“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”

You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”

Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”

She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.

It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.

You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”

“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”

He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”

“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using. 

‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.

Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”

When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.

His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”

You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.

He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip. 

“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.

“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”

Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition. 

You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.

When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”

“Seriously?”  You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.

Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.

There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”

“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.

“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.

He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”

“Get to the point.”

He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”

Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”

He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”

Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”

“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”

“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”

You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.

It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious. 

Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”

You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”

“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift. 

She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”

“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”

“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”

You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously. 

While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.

That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.

Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”

You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”

Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.

“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.

“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.

“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.

“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”

“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction. 

She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”

“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.

You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.” 

“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.

The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.

When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”

Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”

“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities.  “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”

“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises. 

Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.

“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.

The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller.  “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”

She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”

“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”

“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you. 

You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”

“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.

You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”

Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”

Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”

When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.

Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.

You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work. 

There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.

Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound. 

When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”

“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”

“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”

“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.

“I’m not your attending.”

Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”

With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”

Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”

Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.

“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”

Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment? 

She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”

There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.

“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”

For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”

“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out. 

She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”

She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.

“See you around, daredevil.”

To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’ 

By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.

It did get him off your back a bit.

He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion. 

They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.

Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg. 

You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.

Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words. 

What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.

The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.

You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park. 

Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.

When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you.  “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”

With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”

“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.

“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.

“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”

He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.

“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”

His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words. 

It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.

“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place. 

Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.

“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.

With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.

“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume. 

He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”

You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.

Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you. 

You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once. 

It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program. 

It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover. 

When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.

Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.

“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.

You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was. 

Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."

A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.

You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.

It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.

That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.

It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.

As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.

“Come in.”

When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.

Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard. 

In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.

He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all. 

You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.

Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”

The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”

“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.

Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest. 

If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.

“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”

It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.

“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.

You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”

“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”

You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept? 

Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit. 

“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.

“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth. 

The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement. 

“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”

Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow. 

You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”

“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.

“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”

“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”

Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?

“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart. 

The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher. 

“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”

There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.

“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious. 

“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge. 

Too brilliant to apologize.

“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.

He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.

Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”

That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.

Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”

“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”

There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”

Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.

Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.

With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”

When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?

When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.

Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.