The consensus is that Brendon Park is a family man. It was a fact that almost felt laughable. A joke in itself. Because there was no conceivable way someone so serious as Brendon could want children. Let alone have a wife. Not in the way people expected. Not in the way that resembled warmth.

He was arrogant, blunt to the point of rudeness, and incredibly demanding due to his high expectations. The only times anyone has ever seen him soften were in the cases that involved children. Even then it was minimal—five, simple words at most. They were delivered with the same controlled restraint he always applied to anything and everything.

But if you really looked, there was something about the way he handled children that didn’t fit the image others had of him. His movement was always careful—gentle in a way that felt unconscious. His voice never raised at them, his expression was softer, and he never rushed them. It’s almost eerie how at ease children seemed to settle in his presence.

Still this unanswered question often lingered: Was he even capable of loving?

It was rumored he was married. Had been for years prior to medical school. Many were quick to deny this because who could stand Dr. Park for that long? Love him?

You did.

You met Brendon during your freshman year of college. He was Biochemistry major, and the two you ended up in the same Introduction to Bioethics class. A general education class that neither you wanted to take but were required to.

You were eighteen. He was nineteen.

You sat in the back row. The front row was reserved for students who seemed confident in their intelligence. Students who raised their hands without hesitation and spoke as though they never doubted themselves.

You weren’t one of them. Because every time a professor posed a question, you knew the answer. Or at least you thought you did. But that little voice in the back of your head convinced you and told you otherwise.

That you were wrong. And if you were wrong, everyone would know you didn’t belong there. That they’d laugh at you for being wrong. Because you should’ve studied harder, prepared enough, been smarter.

So you kept to yourself and kept your head down. Made yourself invisible to avoid being the center of possible humiliation.

You studied everyday, prepared, and understood the lectures. Kept your notes neat enough for them to look printed.

Everything you got done was through effort, preparation. From spending hours hunched over your textbooks in the small kitchen of your tiny apartment that you grew up in. It was barely big enough for you and your mom. The walls were painfully thin to the point that the sound of the fighting couple next door could be heard. The heater only worked when it wanted to. Hot water was practically a luxury.

But it was home.

It was where you spent countless hours of studying while waiting for your mother to come home from working a late, extra shift at the diner. Highlighting definitions and concepts until the words began to blur and rewriting notes obsessively until you retained them.

It was purely hard work and dedication that got you sitting there in your Bioethics class.

Yet it didn’t erase the feeling of being one step away from being exposed. As if someone would fully realize that you truly weren’t supposed to go there. That you were pretending. That you simply got lucky.

But the irony was that you did belong. You simply didn’t know it.

And neither did the tall, awkward football player who sat next to you every single day until the end of the semester.

Brendon didn’t look like he belonged there either. He felt it too.

He was a biochem major, but not the kind students assumed could breeze through classes effortlessly. He wasn’t academically gifted like that or like most of his peers.

He was there because of football.

A scholarship earned in his final year of high school—something he rarely spoke about or really acknowledged.

Had it been up to him, he never would have accepted it.

College was never part of the future he imagined for himself. He would have graduated high school, quit football, and joined his father in construction. It wasn’t glamorous as getting a law degree at Yale, but it was familiar. Easy. Predictable. Realistic.

At the time, the scholarship felt like a mistake. A fluke. An opportunity meant for someone who yearned for it. Needed, wanted it more. Someone who was smarter than him.

He was Brendon Park: star quarterback, mediocre grades, and the first person in his family to go to college.

He remembered the day he came home from practice with the offer. The sky had already darkened by the time he walked through the front door. He sat across from his father at the kitchen table in the house that they could barely afford anymore. His father was still wearing his bright, dirty neon orange shirt and old jeans that were starting to tear.

The light on the ceiling caught the glass of the frame of his mother’s photograph. She was smiling at them from a different time. Beside her was a cream-colored vase filled with fresh tulips.

His dad never forgot. Not a single day since her death. It had been a tradition, an unspoken rule. He would always bring her a bouquet of tulips.

Tulips had been her favorite.

The house was quiet except for the baseball game playing from the television in the living room and the scrape of his fork against a plate. His father, David, let out an irritated grunt as he stared at the TV, his team failed to score base.

The folded offer letter had burned in his pocket.

Brendon stared at his dinner. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Could he even classify it as good news? For the first time in a long time, he felt nervous. Anxious even.

Across from him, his father lifted a familiar, green bottle of Heineken to his lips. Almost immediately, Brendon knew he had been caught. His father had noticed the way he pushed the broccoli around in his plate. He noticed his silence, his tense shoulders, and the way he isn’t paying attention to the game like he always did.

“What’s wrong?” His father asked.

Brendon swallowed thickly. Like he swallowed a stone. He placed the folded letter on the table in between their plates.

“I got offered a scholarship for football.”

The words came out quieter than he intended. They felt heavy. David lowered the bottle back down and leaned forward, his forearms against the wooden table.

“A scholarship?”

Brendon nodded. “For college. At a division 1 school.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Brendon had stared at his old man’s expression, waiting for a shift in it. To understand what he was thinking. To know what he was feeling.

If he too was doubting the news. Doubting if it was worth even taking the opportunity. Doubting him.

David leaned back and crossed his arms, staring at him back. “That’s a good thing.”

A strong part of Brendon disagreed wholeheartedly. He didn’t think it was a good thing. That it would be a waste of everyone’s time and resources. Money that could be well spent on a more deserving student.

“I guess.”

“What do you mean ‘you guess?”

“I mean…” Brendon looked down back at his plate, inhaling softly. “It’s a top university.”

“So?”

“So it’s not for people like me.”

Immediately, his father’s expression soured. And the feeling of regret for saying those words hit him. People like him implied his father. Or his own mother.

“What do you mean: people like you?” David questioned. His voice didn’t raise, it remained steady. Like he was trying to understand where his son was coming from.

Nervously, Brendon rubbed the back of his neck. He slowly looked up to meet the heavy gaze of his father. “For smart people. My grades aren’t great because I suck at school. I’m not smart enough for it.”

It’s silent again for a brief second as his father stares at him. Then, the sound of his father’s booming laughter fills the room. He’s astounded and it’s the type of laughter where someone said something so stupid. So ridiculous.

“You’re tellin’ me that a four-year university is offering you a scholarship to play for their school and you’ve decided that you won’t do it because you think they’re wrong?”

“Dad that’s not—“ Brendon tried.

“No.” His father shook his head and pointed his fork straight at him. “You’re doing it.”

He remembered feeling angry.

Upset that his father couldn’t see his perspective. That he couldn’t understand his reason. That he refused to acknowledge the reality of the situation. That Brendon wasn’t good enough to do it.

“But—“

“You got offered an opportunity that millions of people spend their whole lives wishing for.” David scowled. “And you’re thinkin’ about rejecting it just because you don’t think you’re good enough?”

“Because I’d fail!” Brendon snapped.

“Then fail.”

His father had stated it like it was simple, so matter-of-fact that Brendon thought he had misheard him. Like it wouldn’t be a big deal.As though failure wasn’t something to fear. As if it wasn’t the worse possible outcome. That it was okay.

“What do you mean ‘fail’?” Brendon scowled. “Isn’t the point of college to pass?”

“Sure.” David shrugged.

“What—“

“Go. Try it out. If you fail, you fail.” David shrugged. “And if you hate it, then you can come home.”

Brendon blinked. Why was his father so comfortable with the idea of him failing? Most parents wanted their kids to succeed. Demanded him to be better. Most would’ve pushed harder. Expected more.

Instead, his father sat there with a half-finished beer and empty plate, looking unbothered at the possibility of him failing.

“Look, son…” David sighed. “Construction will always be here. I’ll still be here.”

He motioned towards the letter. “But this opportunity—it’s not handed out like candy, yknow? Not for people like us.”

The words settled heavily between them.

“You don’t have to know if you’ll succeed, Brendon.” His father said. “But you have to be willing to at least try.”

The heaviness in his throat is back as if a log was placed there. He glanced at the photograph of his mother and the tulips next to her. He didn’t respond because he didn’t know how. His father took another sip of his beer and added,

“And if this fancy, university thinks you’re worth betting on, then maybe you should stop acting like you aren’t.”

Welcome Week had already come and gone—an organized week of events designed to welcome incoming freshman to campus. To celebrate the major milestone in every student’s life. There had been speeches about the sense of community through clubs, campus life, opportunities, and the importance of making lifelong connections.

There had also been an alarming amount of fraternities trying to scout him.

Brendon had no interest in joining them.

His father had driven him across the country under the guise of helping him move into his dorm. In reality, the two Parks understood and knew what it really was. It was a goodbye.

It was the final stretch before an entirely different life would begin.

The drive was filled with terrible gas station coffee, snacks, crappy roadside diner food, and conversations about sports, drama between the men at the latest construction site, and jokes. But there were things left unsaid that the two Park men wanted to say.

Neither of them knew how.

By the time they reached his campus, things still remained unspoken. His dorm was smaller than the bedroom he unfortunately left behind. There was barely enough space to fit all of his clothes in the narrow closet. The few boxes he’d brought were stacked neatly in a corner. His duffel bag of football gear sat by the door felt bulky and inconvenient, taking up more space than it should.

This no longer felt temporary. It felt permanent.

That was somehow worse.

His father stood awkwardly by the door after helping him unpack, his brawny body was stiff. This was the moment. Neither of them were good at saying goodbye.

David rubbed at one eye before pulling Brendon into a hug. It was awkward and yet, it was a familiarity that made Brendon not want to pull away. To cling to his father.

It was the kind of hug that only existed because not hugging would have felt wrong. But it was one that Brendon didn’t want to let go of. Even if it was stiff and painfully awkward.

His father’s rough hand patted his back. “Good luck, son.”

Brendon nodded as they both pulled away from each other.

“And remember what I said.” His father spoke softly.

The scholarship, the strong possibility failing, the possibility of succeeding, and the opportunity to be there. His father turned his body and reached to hold the golden door knob. David paused and he turned back to take one good look of his son.

His son was his splitting image, every feature belonged to him except for his eyes. His eyes belonged to his mother.

Brendon furrowed his eyebrows as he noticed his father’s hesitation. David’s eyes were red. Tired even. He looked older than Brendon remembered. But they were warm and they held something that he couldn’t quite name.

“Dad, did you leave something—“

“Your mother would’ve been proud of you.”

The words landed harder than anything else. And before he could even respond, his father shut the door behind him. Leaving him with to dwell in the silence and deal with the impact of his father’s last sentence. The room felt too empty and too quiet for his liking.

His mother would’ve been proud of him. The weight of those words pounded against the walls of doubt that he built and carried with him across the country.

Eventually his gaze drifted to his class schedule on his small desk. Biochemistry, his major. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had chosen it. It sounded interesting enough when he filled out his application, he supposed.

But now he’s surrounded by students who seemed to spend years of preparing for this. Students who had genuine interest in their field of study. Students who took opportunities for research and graduate programs. Who had a plan for what they wanted to do in the future.

Students that genuinely belonged.

Brendon Park wasn’t them. At least, he didn’t think so.

Because as he sits in his first Introduction to Bioethics class all the way in the back next to a girl—staring at a future he could no longer predict—all he could think about is that everyone seemed to know where they were going.

While he was still trying to figure out how the hell he even got there in the first place. Whether it was deserved.

-

It was the first official day of both of your first fall semester. Your first class had been Introduction to Bioethics.

His eyes were snapped forward as the professor made her way into the noisy, lecture room. There were about 300 students sitting and some rushed to look for a seat in the sea of heads. The professor introduced herself and soon came the round of ice breakers.

Students introduced themselves. Many of them spoke confidently—about themselves—of their dreams and aspirations. A lot of them had wanted to be doctors, lawyers, researchers, and scientists.

Some wanted to change the world.

But when it got to Brendon’s turn? He just gave his name and that he liked football. Quick and efficient because no one needed to know that he was uncertain about his future. That he didn’t know what to even do with a Biochemistry degree.

Then it was your turn, the girl that he sat next to. You had been nervous, voice trembling as multiple eyes turned to look at you as you gave your name and what you liked.

Tulips, you said. Before you immediately sat down with a quiet sigh of relief as the next name was called. Immediately, he understood you didn’t like to draw attention to yourself. That you preferred to keep yourself invisible, to get by without someone noticing.

But he noticed.

As the next two weeks passed by, every Monday and Wednesday, you found yourselves occupying the same seats in the back row without fail. It had became a routine at this point. Neither of you chosen this arrangement out loud. It was just a familiarity that you both clung to despite not having spoken a word to each other.

You would smile at him in greeting every time as he made his way towards his seat. He would nod in return. That was the extent of it all. You were not friends. You were just classmates that sat next to each other.

But somehow, you both learned so much about each other with so little information.

You knew he arrived to lecture pretty early with damp hair as if he just got out of the shower, just a few minutes before you and before the class would officially start.

And you knew he was some sort of an athlete. The duffel bag and the blue athletic ran down his forearm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. On some days, you caught a glimpse of the blue underneath the collar of his neck. Sometimes there the bruises. Mainly scrapes that would occasionally run on the chiseled line of his jaw.

You also knew that he read the assigned chapters before class started because he would reference them during the required discussions. You were surprised how serious he took the class. Because every single time he took out his textbook, you couldn’t help but notice the condition of it.

Every single chapter was highlighted. It had annotations floating above certain words and concepts. The margins were crowded with notes. Sometimes there would be a single question mark next to a definition or concept he didn’t understand.

Other times, there were brief notes scattered on the margins in tiny, hurried letters like:

“Ask Professor to explain.”

“Read again.”

“What??”

“Don’t understand.”

These were notes of someone attempting to be good at being smart. They showed the vulnerability that he kept hidden, to avoid looking like he didn’t belong there. It revealed that he was someone scared of falling behind, of missing something that everyone else understood—of failing.

You understood. You recognized the feeling. Your own notes resembled that.

He noticed things about you too.

That every lecture, you arrived 15 minutes earlier than most students even when you looked exhausted.

He noticed the way you’d flinch when the professor would call on you and your answer would make you sound unsure despite having studied hours and already having written the answer on your notes.

The hesitation was always something he noticed. That you were afraid to be wrong despite knowing the answer.

He knew you rewrote your notes. Not once, not twice, multiple times as if the first and second version of them weren’t good enough. That they could be better.

These were all just details. Small, insignificant things. The kind of thing you would notice if you were already paying attention to.

But the list of these details grew.

Soon, he would find his eyes searching for your familiar smile as he walked up to the back.

You would start recognizing the sound of his pencil scratching against paper when the professor would start speaking.

Neither of you acknowledged this. Neither of you needed to.

Because somewhere between the silence, you both started keeping track of each other without meaning to. Without it meaning anything.

It became simple awareness. And one Monday, just before class had ended and students were rushing out of the class. You stayed back, rewriting a line in your notes. Brendon had stayed back too. Staring at his notebook with furrowed eyebrows like he was thinking of something. Something that bothered him.

You didn’t look at him despite being well aware of his presence. Normally, he’d nod at you before walking down. Or let out a quiet ‘thank you’ if you lent him a pen or pencil before leaving.

You assumed he was going to leave soon like he always did. But he didn’t.

Instead, his voice came out quieter than you expected but the deep timber of his voice sent shivers down your spine. You don’t think too into it.

“Why do you act like you don’t know the answer?”

You pause your writing and you turn to look at him. “What?”

Brendon hesitated—for a second. Like he was reconsidering, regretting whether he should’ve said anything at all.

“The professor— when she calls on you, you act like you’re unsure of the answer.” He said.

A beat passed by.

“But you know it. You always know the answer. You just— You hesitate. Every time. Like it’s wrong.”

Immediately, you felt exposed. That he had noticed the part of you that you didn’t want anyone to see, to acknowledge. He opened a can of worms and just left it out on the table, attempting to understand the habit you thought no one saw.

Nervously, you swallowed. “I don’t hesitate.”

But it came out wrong. It came out too defensive before you could fix your tone. But Brendon— he didn’t say anything. He nodded like he knew you’d say that. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He should stay quiet. Should keep to himself—

“You do, though.” He said.

You could’ve laughed at the irony of this. Because you also noticed that he hesitated too when he got called on. That he’s unsure if the answer he says is correct despite diligently reading the chapters every night. Despite having evidence of that in his textbook.

Maybe you should’ve ended the conversation there. Put away your notes and packed your backpack and left. But you don’t.

Again, you say: “I don’t hesitate.” It sounds colder than you intended to. Still defensive.

“I wasn’t trying to—“ Brendon looks at you for a second before he turns away.

And it’s silent again as Brendon looked down at his notes. The normal rhythm of the room is gone now that it’s just the two of you. His notes are sloppy and they look like he tried his best in keeping them organized. His aren’t like yours—neat and impeccable to the point they look like they were printed. He almost looks like he was trying to make himself smaller for having started a conversation that already costed him more than he meant it to.

Then he quietly adds, “I just noticed is all.”

You inhale sharply and you look at him longer than you ever really had.

“That’s a weird thing to notice.”

It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t cold. It was just an honest fact. An observation.

A statement that was enough to elicit some sort of reaction in Brendon. His lips twitched and it looked like he was attempting to hide his expression before he turns to look at you with something that resembled a tiny, amused smile— no, smirk.

“Yeah,” Brendon shrugged. Like he didn’t have a better answer. “I guess it kind of is.”

“Do you notice weird things about other people too?” You slowly close your notebook.

He looked at you for a moment, like he was deciding whether to be honest or not.

“No,” Brendon said.

He paused almost questioning if his answer would be wrong. “Just you, I guess.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you stare at him with surprise. Immediately, he knew he shouldn’t have said that. His jaw tightens and he clenches the pencil in his grip as he averted his gaze from you.

He looked away from you quickly. Too quickly for it to not mean nothing. A faint warmth crawled up to the tips of his ears—subtle. Embarrassment.

“That came out wrong…” He muttered. “I didn’t mean it in a weird way– just—“

He stopped himself from talking more, from explaining. Because it would just make things worse if he continued. He’d only make you uncomfortable.

You didn’t respond right away. You just didn’t know what to say. You weren’t sure what he truly meant by that. But it seemed that he was kicking himself in the ass for it. That he regretted bringing it up.

“Why?” You asked.

It was simple. A one-word question. Something he should be able to answer easily.

But he doesn’t know how to.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. You were smiling at him, barely. It was small, practically unnoticeable. Encouraging. Like you were trying to coax the answer out of him, to understand what he meant.

You’re not making fun of him. You didn’t seem uncomfortable. You’re also not pulling away from him.

And somehow that made it worse.

“I don’t know.” He admitted.

Brendon Park was notoriously an asshole. everyone who worked at the PTMC knew that first hand. he could make you cry with just a single, unimpressed stare. he knew he was one. It came with the job of being a surgeon.

Surgery required the upmost precision because the human body was a machine. It required perfection and nothing less.

With a high stress job that required him to be perfect in every single aspect that he did, he expected the same thing from his colleagues. Including naive, stupid medical students and residents. He had no patience for incompetence-excuses.

Perfection meant everything to Brendon. It meant that there was no room for mistakes. Mistakes were a luxury reserved for people who weren't good enough. Every single decision made in his OR had to be deliberate.

Every incision had to be exact. He expected-no, he demanded excellence because anything less than that had consequences.

Residents called him ruthless. Others called him an asshole. What they failed to realize was that he simply had standards. Standards that they failed to reach. If they wanted him to coddle them, they should've chosen a different field of medicine. If they wanted encouragement, they should've stayed downstairs and sought out Abbot or Robby.

Because to him, excellence was expected not rewarded.

He had no time for coddling. He had no time for making other's feel better about themselves for their lack of discipline. He wasn't interested in intentions, potential, or excuses. Results and accuracy were all that truly mattered to him. The operating room wasn't a classroom. It certainly wasn't a therapy session. It was a place where the excellent thrived. It was a place where if you hesitated, you were done. It wasn't a place for the ordinary.

Because patients did not care if a resident's feelings were hurt. They did not care if you thought, if you didn't know, if Brendan looked at you like you were nothing.

What they cared about is if they would be able to walk again. They cared about whether their arm would be back to normal. They cared about whether they could play football again—if their career could potentially be over.

If someone couldn't handle criticism (and disdain in Brendan's case), then they had no business being in his OR. The scalpel didn't care about feelings. Anatomy didn't care about feelings. The unconscious patient with an amputated arm certainly did not care about feelings either.

And most importantly, neither did Brendon.

Because if he smelled a single hint of hesitation, then he was out for blood. Hesitation meant uncertainty. It meant that there was gaps in your knowledge that needed to be filled before you even stepped into his OR.

It meant that you didn't study enough, weren't prepared enough, and hadn't practiced enough.

You were simply not enough.

And Brendon did not need someone in his OR, being uncertain. Uncertainty led to mistakes. Mistakes that could have been prevented if you didn't second-guess the knowledge that should have been drilled within you before you entered his OR.

And for that matter, he expected excellency.

Orthopedics was precision. Measurements mattered.

Alignments mattered. Angles mattered. If a screw is placed a few millimeters off, a reduced fraction would not heal properly. It would be permanent. It would mean patients would live with the consequences that was created in his OR after everyone else got to go home like nothing.

He had spent years of studying until the backs of his eyes burned and until his mind felt numb. Years of refining techniques, repetition after repetition, understanding the human physiology-until precision stopped becoming an effort. It became natural to him and expectation.

And everyday, he maintained that standard. He expected the same thing from his residents, his fellows.

In his field, there was no room for guesses or approximations. A crushed femur or patella wasn't fixed with intention. It was fixed with alignments, measurements, and perfect execution. Because millimeters, angles, alignments, and stability mattered the most. Every single screw that's required to stabilize a bone had its own purpose. Its own position. Every reduction of a fracture had to be exact.

Years ago, when he had made a mistake-small, practically insignificant, fixable, and forgettable in everyone's eyes.

But he remembered it clear as day.

He corrected it immediately. His old attending-now retired-had laughed and patted him in the back. It's okay, he had said. Years of teaching unprepared, unconfident residents had made him accustomed to seeing mistakes.

But it wasn't okay. Not to Brendon at least. It didn't make him breathe easier knowing that his old mentor wasn't upset. It ruined his day. And he punished himself internally for making a simple, insignificant mistake.

He never made another one after that.

So yes, while his standards and expectations may be exceedingly high and unattainable in many eyes-Brendon saw no reason to lower them. He believed patients deserved excellence and nothing less. No one should expect that from him either.

He was respected, feared, and avoided. His word was absolute-it was law. Residents learned quickly to steer clear of him, to speak when spoken to, and to keep conversations very brief. He didn't want to have small talk. He wasn't interested in knowing how your day was or how you were doing today.

He preferred to conversations that were purely medical, nothing personal. It had to be the point, precise, and clear. Because if something could be said in five words easily, then it was unjustified for you to speak ten more.

And according to the unlucky ones, asking him if he had any plans on Christmas was apparently enough to land you on his shit list.

His OR wasn't silent because he expected silence. It was only silent because he was silent. The only noise that was constant was the sound of him brutally hammering a screw into the bone and the sound of music playing.

Music that depended entirely on his mood.

On very rare occasions, he did allow you, the anesthesiologist, to choose. Those were rare occasions.

Those were not moments of generosity. They were controlled exceptions and were rare for a reason.

(The day this happened, it took an ounce of willpower for the surgical crew to not openly gape at Brendon. To them, this was an act of generosity. They understood this was Brendon playing nice. A form of an olive branch. He was being nice!)

It wasn't a courtesy, or a gesture of familiarity but because you had earned a level consistency he respected. Because you both had a mutual understanding of precision, perfection. Your decisions were consistent. They were precise. You did not hesitate when it mattered and you didn't speak when it didn't.

You understood what needed to be done and you never faltered in your decision-making.

Everything you did was concise. Your actions were deliberate. Controlled. It did not matter if it challenged the dynamics of his OR. If it was correct, than it stood.

You did not disrupt it without reason.

He recognized the type of person you were because he was exactly like you. While he had his expectations in his department, you had yours within yours. He's seen you with your own students. You weren't as harsh as Brendon but your words carried their own weight. You didn't just correct mistakes, you exposed them. They lingered. They hurt. And your residents remembered them long after the moment had passed.

You upheld your own expectations. You wanted just as much perfection as Brendon because patients deserved excellency. They did not deserve mediocrity. They did not need to hear excuses. Because they did not care what you felt or what you thought. They cared if they would survive a surgery, if the operation succeeded, if they would feel the pain that would come from a scalpel under anesthesia. Because they trusted you with their lives.

Therefore, they deserve nothing but the best. More than the best.

You're sitting in your chair by head of the operating table, next to your anesthesia machine and monitors. You have a cross word puzzle book in your lap, held steady your pink clipboard. Like every other anesthesiologist, you're calm. But not in the way you blend into the background.

It's more deliberate than that. Your presence is quiet, not absent.

You do not position yourself to be noticed unless the situation requires it. You do not fill the silence with unnecessary speech like other anesthesiologists. You stay within your means, crossing out words with your pink highlighter, anchored to head of the table.

He's in the middle of reducing a fracture fragment when Brendon inhales sharply through his nose at the sight of blood filling the surgical field.

Immediately the sound of beeping fills the room. The numbers of the monitor are dropping significantly. You lower your puzzle book down on your chair. Your eyes shift to numbers beside, focused and immediate. You stand up.

Everyone near Brendon stiffens. They recognize it instantly that something was going wrong. You gaze over the surgical curtain and look at Brendon.

"BP's dropping." You state calmly.

He doesn't look at you. His eyes never stray away from his hands and what he's mechanically doing with them.

Without breaking a sweat or focus. Brendon motions to his surgical tech.

"Gauze."

There's a brief hesitation before she places it in his hands. He looks at her briefly, scrutinizing her for daring to even hesitate.

She freezes and quickly mutters a quiet, "Sorry.." He ignores her apology and continues what he's doing.

Again, you're looking at the monitors before looking back him. "Saturation is at 92."

"Noted." He says. He continues what he's doing. He's done this multiple times. He knows what he's doing and he knows what the numbers on the monitors say.

He doesn't panic, he isn't worried. He could tell that the resident next to him is sucking in his breath, sweating profusely. If he wasn't so focused, he'd roll his eyes. Fear would only cripple you in these case. And that meant making mistakes because you can't think.

You're still standing, staring at him expectantly as he works diligently to fix the current issue.

"BP is still trending down. 88 systolic."

"Cause?" Again, his eyes still don't stray away to look at you.

“Likely retraction. Volume is unchanged." You respond.

"Ease retraction."

The resident holding the retractors hesitates for only a second before he complies, loosening his hold. This mere second was enough for him know that hesitation didn't go unnoticed. He knows-just as everyone in the room knows-that this will be corrected later. Outside this room, in a different context, there will be consequences.

The sound of rushed beeping slowly dissipates into a more rhythmic sound. You look at the monitor one last time. Satisfied, you give a small nod at Brendon before grabbing your pink clipboard, then sit back down in the chair.

For a fraction of a second, his gaze wanders and it lands on you. You’re sitting there, pink highlighter in your hand as you cross out another word. You’re composed and unaffected by the tension that follows him.

It's silent again in the room. The only constant is the music. Tension and perhaps anxiety lessens in small increments. Even the resident exhales a small, very quiet sigh of relief and his shoulders lower.

Outside of his service, the silence was never the same.

You weren't always the anesthesiologist that would be assigned to his cases. Sometimes you were pulled in at nights with Walsh. Other times, you would be with Shamsi. Normally it was for a day where you wouldn't be on his case. It was never more than a day.

It often varied. You didn't seem to mind. You liked the variety. Every surgeon was different and the music taste was sometimes interesting.

But people began to notice something. When you weren't assigned to his case, the difference in Brendon was immediate.

Resident's noticed first. They noticed how the atmosphere shifted, how it deteriorated quickly under him if your presence wasn't there to stabilize the rhythm of the room. Small mistakes seemed to be corrected loudly. His silence was heavier, borderline uncomfortable. It was demanded.

Unfortunately for them, you wouldn't be on his cases for a week or maybe longer. You'd been on call for the night shift. It was then that they truly noticed the change in his behavior.

He became worse.

Your absence became the bane of residents' existence.

His OR, despite already having its own expectations, became brutal. It was unforgiving in the way where the most experienced scrub nurse that had been working under Brendon for years began to hesitate. Residents quickly learned that during your absence, things like breathing too loudly or moving too slowly would be enough to be scrutinized.

Sometimes, it would be enough for them to get removed off the case.

Brendon knows something is wrong with him. He understands that his behavior has been borderline aggressive, even for his standards. He finds himself feeling irritated by little things. Residents have been dismissed for insignificant mistakes he normally would have corrected. His routine felt disrupted and he didn't know what it was that was causing it.

At first, he blamed the cases. Then the residents. Then it was the schedule.

Until he caught himself lifting his gaze lift from his surgical field to the head of the operating table. Again.

And again, every single surgery. Only to find a different anesthesiologist sitting there. Not you.

Every time he would enter his OR, his eyes would instinctively search for your pink clipboard that would be balanced on your lap. Instead he was greeted by a book of sudoku.

The irritation would unfold almost immediately.

Brendon Park does not do idle chit chat. That is well known amongst his peers and those that work under him. He does not care about what is polite and what isn't. He doesn't care about how you are doing. He does not care about what your plans for Fourth of July will be.

He cares about getting to the point without beating around the bush. He cares about clarity and things that could be said within five words or less. He wants to know the vitals of patients. Whether the amputation sight was clean. What bones required surgeries.

But he finds himself wanting to speak to you. To indulge in the simplicities of small talk. Of knowing how your day is going. If you had any plans for Fourth of July. His interactions with you outside of the OR become simple.

Questions that are direct, they're straightforward and they wouldn't beat around the bush.

Of where you were. Of who had stolen you from right under his nose for their own needs.

He finds you sitting in the nurses' station in his department on a chair with a tablet in your hands. Next to you is a cup of coffee, to which he identifies is from the break room. Your pink clipboard is also next to you.

"You weren't on my service last week."

You look up upon hearing his deep voice and small smile appears on your face once you realized it was him. It's subtle. Uncomplicated. He thinks that you look beautiful.

The realization is immediate and unwelcomed. It makes him clench his jaw.

You turn your body fully to him and lower your tablet down to give him your full attention. If you're surprised that he started a conversation with you, you don't show it.

Most people did.

You look tired. Not physically tired-though he's sure that you are-but weighed down in a way he doesn't know how to identify. The bags under your eyes are slightly darker than usual. Your shoulders seem to carry a tension that certainly wasn't there a week ago.

He noticed it immediately from just this interaction. It's just noticeable. It's a detail that he's sure other surgeons would be able to notice. Small details, minor deviations, out of the norm. Just a change that other's possibly overlooked.

He hadn't.

A part of him questioned why he paid so much attention to this. He didn't remember the last time he paid this much attention to anyone outside of his OR.

Because that's what made him a good surgeon, he reason. Able to notice minute details like this while other's couldn't. That's all it is. It's so obvious.

"No, I was on call for nights."

"Neurosurgery?" He asks.

You blink in surprise. You didn't think he noticed you.

Rather, you didn't think he even cared enough to notice.

You nod in response, unsure whether to answer him vocally. The rumors of Park The Shark and his issues with small talk didn't go unheard for you.

Brendon studies you for another moment. He wants to ask you things. Things that were uncharacteristic of him.

Subjects that he normally strayed away from because he didn't care to know. But he wants to know. He wants to know so terribly that it's leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth. That makes him want to smack himself in front of a mirror because he isn't like this.

Past romantic interactions like this never left him like this. He feels like his body is malfunctioning and that he needs to somehow perform a factory reset because - this isn't him.

Attraction was simple. It was predictable. It was easy to understand and compartmentalize.

"You look exhausted." There is no sympathy in his tone.

It was a statement of fact. It was an easy observation.

The same way he could easily identify a hairline fracture on an x-ray.

Yet, this doesn't feel like it's meaningless.

Your smile widens into something more. He doesn't know how to describe it. It's genuine, he supposed. It's terrifyingly beautiful. He feels hooked, lost in it.

"I'm exhausted, yes. The night shift does that to you, yknow? Especially having to listen to jazz on repeat for days."

A grin pulls at your lips.

"I think I still prefer your playlist a lot more than other surgeons so far. Dr. Park."

You tilt your head up and look at him. And you really do look at him, your eyes scan his stone-cold face and observe him. You take all of him in. You're not afraid of him. You don't look like you want to run away from this interaction. Your shoulders are relaxed and you lean into your chair more as you really look at him.

You're amused. "I actually feel alive in your OR, Dr. Park."

Brendon stares at you. For a moment, he forgets to answer. The sense, the feeling of malfunctioning is stronger now. It's almost like he is unable to respond.

Which is the most concerning because he always has a response.

Finally, he inhales through his nose.

"That's because my playlists are actually better."

These words left him before he could think. Before he could stop himself from speaking them. It was dry, so matter-of-fact. He realized too late that it was his lame attempt at a joke. At teasing. But the horror is instant.

A brief moment of silence.

Your eyes widen ever so slightly for only a fraction of a second. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

Brendon doesn't react outwardly. But he registers the way your expression shifts from recognition to amusement.

He had made a joke. You laugh once more much more quietly until you settle down with a soft smile on your lips. You look like you've accepted something that he hasn't.

"Oh, yeah? I'll trust your medical opinion on that then." Brendon exhales through his nose but the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly. A detail that didn't go unnoticed by you.

The interaction didn't take long for it to be shared amongst his department. It only took one nurse and a resident to notice. A shift in tone they weren't supposed to notice. A sound that didn't belong in the halls that Brendon Park walked in. Laughter was shared between nurses, techs, and residents. It was never shared with Dr. Park.

But curious minds that had nothing better to do stayed curious.

They spoke in hallways. In the break rooms. In shared on-call rooms.

"Did you hear that Dr. Park made a joke?"

"What- There's no way!"

"Well, she laughed."

"And he smiled!"

A pause. A beat of disbelief. To them, it was just a rumor A pause. A beat of disbelief. To them, it was just a rumor made by one bored nurse and resident. Because there was no way that the renowned, asshole of an orthopedic surgeon with a major stick up his ass was capable of cracking a joke. Let alone making someone else laugh.

Or even smile.

But the consensus amongst his residents was clear.

"Brendan Park-The Shark-practically smiled."

The news spread quickly like rumors often do in hospitals. He hears about it the same way he hears other rumors. Indirectly. It starts with an R4 hesitating to speak to him. A nurse nearly smiles at him before deciding not to.

Even Abbot and Robby pause when they see him in the corridor of the ED. A joke was forming between them-Brendon can clearly see the way they glance at each other with knowing smirks.

But it never comes out. They focus on the incoming trauma that they called him to look over. He registers the way Ahemed tries to shift his position in front of the betting board. The way Perlah, Santos, and Princess stare at him and whisper to each other in Tagalog. The word "anesthesiologist" doesn't go unnoticed by him either.

He continues moving through the department as he always does-precise and unaffected in appearance. This was out of his control. Things were unraveling and he already disliked it.

He's sure you're aware of it as well.

If the way you looked at him sometimes-amused, calm, and equally unaffected by whatever everyone around you was overanalyzing —is any indication. You meet his gaze too easily in passing corridors. Long enough to mean something between the two of you. But not long enough for others to deem is provocative.

Because you both move on as if it meant nothing. As if it was just two colleagues greeting each other politely.

This, specifically more than anything, was what made people notice.

You smile when he nods at you in greeting. It's brief, practically unnoticeable because of the way your expression smooths over as if your smile was never there to begin with. It was deliberate. It was for him to notice.

But your residents noticed. They quickly pick up on it first. A glance of one of your R2s in his direction then one towards you when you pass by. Some will look at both you for a brief second before looking back down to their charts with a knowing smile.

As of now, you look better than the last interactions you've had. Your shoulders no longer seem to bear that tension you had before. He pauses in his stride as you both come across each other in an empty corridor.

"Dr. Park," you greet him. Your expression is composed-professional-but the small smile that seemed to be reserved only for him flickers in and out before you suppress it.

He nods at you. "Tomorrow. You're on my service."

You let out a soft exhale that resembled a quiet laugh, your smile widens briefly.

"You're getting very predictable, Brendon."

You said his name. It's simple. Casual but lands with more weight than it should. Brendon stops and for a moment, what he feels is akin to a robot malfunctioning—he really looks at you. His head is turned slightly to stare at you. He doesn't speak. He simply takes all of you in.

It's affecting him in a way he doesn't have a logical explanation to. He is well aware that these new found sensations in his body are becoming exceedingly difficult to compartmentalize, which is the problem. Because Brendon Park does not operate without it.

For the first time again, he isn't sure how to respond None of the options in his head feel correct. He could ignore it. He could pretend that he didn't hear the way his name rolls off the top of your tongue perfectly.

You hold his gaze, knowingly.

"Don't use my name like that." He isn't reprimanding you. He isn't upset by the use of his name. It's a more of a constraint for him. A warning of what would happen if you continue doing it.

You tilt your head slightly. You're clearly amused by him again. You don't step back or get intimidated by his response. You should. Everyone else would. You're studying him and it feels like you're stripping him down to his core. Like you know what he truly meant.

Somehow, he feels that's worse.

Brendon sharply inhales through his nose, his eyes still haven't left yours. A beat passes by.

"...Not here."

He doesn't elaborate any further. He doesn't explain what these last two words truly mean. He continues walking to the opposite direction of you. Leaving you left to your own thoughts, amusement rather.

His next surgery is with you. It's on Wednesday.

He knows this because he looked at the OR schedule ahead of time. Once. Then once more. Then again. Until he was positive that no one had changed your name overnight. He knows his behavior is ridiculous. It's unbecoming of a surgeon of his caliber.

Brendon Park does not need to double check a surgery schedule. He looks at them once and memorizes them and moves on. There was no need for him to triple check if your name was there.

You are assigned to his case and that should be the end of it.

But it isn't. Because he finds himself looking forward to seeing you in your chair and your pink clipboard. Seeing you cross out words you found in your crossword with the bright neon pink highlighter you always bring. To see the way you would smile at him-subtle and only meant for him. You are aware of the effect you have on him.

But seeing your name on his cases isn't important as the real reason he's been checking your schedule. For the past few weeks, everyday. And everyday for these past few weeks, you both had different days off. Nothing was aligned and lately, his residents have noticed the mood he's been in because of that.

But today he checked the schedule. Every Sunday, the schedules get updated. And immediately he goes to find your name-hoping to find aligned days off.

You're both walking out of his OR simultaneously down the corridor that led you to the elevator. You're both silent but maintaining the aura of professionalism you both normally keep. He waits to say something until you're both in the elevator.

"You have tomorrow off." He states. "And the day after."

Matter-of-fact as always. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It was accurate. It was direct. He knew your schedule because he memorized it.

You blink at him and you nod, slowly and for the first time-you are confused. This dance between the two of you has been predictable, in a way. You have learned the language that comes with understanding Brendon Park.

The nuances and the significance of his words, his attention.

You're not understanding him. His jaw clenches and he exhales slowly.

"You've been working a lot of hours." Brendon says. "Too many, actually."

And immediately, the fact was wrapped with concern.

No, it was care. His wording was precise. It was deliberate like it always was with Brendon. You finally understand and you look at him with more than amusement, you smile. This time it's wide and it wasn't subtle. It was loud.

You're beautiful, he thinks.

"You know, normal people would just ask me to get dinner, Brendon."

Brendon pauses and he stares at you. His gaze is heavy and his fingers twitch. He's sure of himself this time. For the first time, he knows exactly what he wants to say.

There is no hesitation. No uncertainty that would cloud his judgement and years of knowing. For the first time in a long time of knowing you, the answer comes easily.

"Would you say yes?"

You grin widens instantaneously. Finally, no more subtle glances in the OR. No more interpreting intent and words like they contained double meanings. No more pretending that what this is was purely professional.

Especially when the lines of professionalism have slowly blurred for the both of you.

You bring your palm forward and you squeeze his bicep.

You're bold but it doesn't matter anymore. Not when he already has the words he wants to say. The feelings he wants to express.

"What do you think?" You ask teasingly.

"You've been checking my schedule for weeks, haven't you?"

Brendon closes his eyes and exhales loudly. Then for the first time since you've known him, he looks at you with almost fondness mixed with exasperation.

"My schedule hasn't lined up with yours."

You stare at him with awe. Then you burst into loud laughter because he didn't even deny the fact. His response was an admission. That he was obsessively checking when your days off would align. To prepare for this.

"That's really your defense?"

"It's a factual statement." He responds.

"Yes-" You pause. "but you've been checking."

He holds your gaze and he clenches his jaw, inhales sharply at your statement.

"Yes."

His admission landed harder than anything you've heard.

It was real and it was profoundly like Brendon to not beat around the bush. To cut to the chase. To not make excuses. He was precise with his words.

The grin on your face couldn't get any bigger. This was the real you. The side that not many got to see. Just as this side of him was the side that no one but you got to see. It was reserved for you, jusy like the side you only showed him was reserved for him.

"Dinner." Brendon says.

You raise a brow at him. "Dinner?"

"And coffee." Brendon nods. "Tomorrow."

“Oh, and coffee? You really want to see me twice in a day, huh?” You grin. "So you're finally asking me out?"

Immediately, Brendon sighs and brings his hand to his face. "Apparently, yes."

You beam at him and you give his bicep one more squeeze as the elevator doors open to your floor. You wave at him as you exit the elevator.

"It's a date then!"

Warmth settles in the pit of his stomach as he stares at your face before the doors close. He presses his back against the wall and he looks down at the floor. It's quiet and it is just him. Slowly, a smile makes its way to his face and lets out breath that resembles a soft laugh.