come to secret woods.

dc heroes

First Dates to Forever by @lechelovestoyap featuring Clark Kent/Reader

This is a lovely commission that I asked Leche to write for me and she absolutely delivered; this fic has me smiling every time I go back to read it. I guess I’m just in love with Clark Kent again all over again :]

Starving by @kryptidfiles featuring Clark Kent/Reader (18+)

Jae has me out here folding for bro……..unbelievable……..this is an INCREDIBLE smut fic with apologetic, horny Clark and I’m on my way to re-read it right now lol

The Puddle Predicament by @iridescentlightshow featuring Jon Kent/Gn!Reader

I adored this fic with the touching affection that is captured in every line of this fic. Give it a read!

Class Is In Session by @bat1nsignia featuring Kara Zor-El/Reader

This one is so very heartfelt and loving and there’s such a darling, beautiful atmosphere to this fic—give Insignia’s fic a read!

Good Boy by @frostedpinkicing featuring Bruce Wayne/Reader (18+)

Absolutely delicious fic featuring Bruce with a mommy kink…….something I never realized how badly I needed…..WHEW

Conspiracies, Conspiracies by @batslvrr featuring Vampire!Bruce Wayne/F!Reader

This was so lovely and intricate to read, everyone please go give Nor’s turn a good look and give her all the flowers for this one!

He Swears His Life To You by @bloomcissa featuring Knight!Bruce Wayne/Reader

Now this is some real heat…….need me some him Cissa…….or at the very least a few thousand more blurbs of this………

Rooftop by @spectorgram featuring Dick Grayson/Villain!Reader

OOOOOOOO the dynamic and the detail in this one is top-tier……….I love the gradually building tension and banter……give Nove’s fic a read!

Dick Grayson Getting Cucked by Wally West by @nagumolvr featuring Dick Grayson/Reader/Wally West (18+)

Pretty much everything that it says in the title but oh my god…….sometimes seeing is believing my friend. 100/10

Risk by @lushberrys featuring Bodyguard!Jason Todd/Reader

This is an ongoing multi-chapter fic that Lizzy is cooking up that makes me want nothing more than to have that big beefy man protecting me with those strong arms of his…….is it getting hot in here? That just me???????

Color Me You by @luviery featuring Jason Todd/Reader

The way that I would best describe this delightful, wonderful story is a warm hug that envelops you with the growing radiance of the sun. You gotta read this multi-chapter fic by Luvie I beg of you.

Pawns by @skeeets featuring Jason Todd/Reader

Kim really wrote a masterpiece with this absolute banger of a fic that hews to the angsty side and is brought to life with the beauty of her words—go read it NOW!

Simple Things by @filmcamerasanddice featuring Jason Todd/Gn!Reader

There’s something really special about the way that Reg writes Jason and his protective nature, so you’re doing yourself a disservice if you don’t go and read this fic right now!

One Night Only by @infinictus featuring Jason Todd/Reader

You ever sit on the edge of your seat just absolutely immersed in tension? Well, I owe Anx money now because DAMN this one had wondering will they…..WILL THEY…………oh man I love me some Todd…….

Distraction by @kqinoraswrites featuring Jason Todd/Reader

There is something so genuine and touching about this fic and it really just invokes this warmth every time that I read it. :)

This Seal’s Got Attitude by @fanfictionwarrior-chills featuring Tim Drake/Selkie!Reader

This fic truly defies description—it is a masterclass in building emotions, romance, and it’s everything any Tim Drake fan could ask for; PLEASE go read it.

My “Husband" by @inkievoid featuring Tim Drake/Reader

Miscommunication leads to some goofy, endearing shenanigans between you and your man Tim Drake. This fic gave me a big ol’ smile on my face after I read it and it will for you too….PROMISE

Letting Her Cut Your Bangs by @kooriandr featuring Stephanie Brown/Reader

Len does some amazing fics and this fic recommendation is a plea on my hands and knees begging her for more Stephanie Brown fic because every time she does it you can feel the absolute love, the tenderness the EMOTION that is evoked………Len please one william dollar

Fade to Black by @pixelbfs featuring James Gordon/Gn!Reader

The way I’ve been looking high and low for a James Gordon and Neil scratched that particular itch so well……if you don’t give me that dilf……..WHEW

Gal Gardner Picks You Up At A Party by @kaydekarios featuring Gal Gardner/Reader

Ugh…….WOMEN……….GAL GARDNER……….I will be off in the corner rereading this fic an approximate 49734302143789021 times

Hiding Behind Your Hands by @luvmailing featuring Guy Gardner/Reader

Val captures Guy’s character so well and I’m always in love with him whenever I read one of their fics. Justice for Guy Nation is always served well here hehe

Weight Gain by @gothamcitypublicworks featuring Guy Gardner/F!Reader

Sheev holds up Guy Nation in a noble cause and this fic is such a delightful, sweet treat of a fic that I always grin at reading whenever I come back to it :)

500 Miles by @kitkatscabinet featuring Hal Jordan/Reader

You like pain? You like getting your heart ripped out? GO READ THIS, I’m busy lying on the ground staring at the ceiling for the next few hours……catch you later……

Construction Work by @weeniesausage featuring Hal Jordan/ConstructionWorker!FtM!Reader

This fic has such rich detail, such lingering emotion, such evocative emotions that it invokes of two people falling in love……oooh I love this one so much :)

Trial and Error by @froggibus featuring Wally West/Reader

I love me some delicious delicious angst mixed in with a heaping serving of yearning and love that makes you hurt so bad you’re in pain…..and boy does Froggi deliver with that one here. Two words: OOF OUGH. Three more: READ IT NOW

Secret Recipe by @gglouise23 featuring Wally West/Reader

You ever eat something that just floods you with that sweet rush of affection from head to toe? This is the visal, readable version of that. Please go check it out!!!!!!!

Bleached Beard by @gr0und-zer00 featuring Oliver Queen/Wife!Reader (18+)

ZERO BRINGS THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED: MORE OLIVER QUEEN!!!!!!!! absolutely delicious smut that I have had the privilege of reading wih my own two eyes and I will read again and again :)

The Muse of Venus by @bonesofapoet featuring John Constantine/Artist!Reader (18+)

How do you condense poetry into prose in such few words, featuring our snarky resident magic user? You read this incredible fic by Kas and you come back and let me know how much you adored it just like I did. :)

Genie in a Bottle by @wonderrheartt featuring Roy Harper/Reader/Wally West (18+)

GODDAMN this was some absolutely delicious food. I love gingers I love men I love this incredible fic!!!!!!!

dc villains

Tear You Apart by @colonelfish featuring Eobard Thawne/Reader (18+)

Now this one is a special, wicked, nasty dirty fic featuring that rotten scoundrel Eobard Thawne…..and I LOVED every word of it HEHEHEHE

Manila Envelope by @batwngs featuring Talia Al Ghul/Reader

Z is a real wordsmith and every time you read her stories you just can’t help but be immersed in the absolute delight it is to watch her way with words; this fic is no exception!

marvel heroes

I Dare You To Try by @batsycline69 featuring Steve Rogers/Reader

Mags really knocks this fic out of the park; there’s something so inherently soft and lovely about this fic and I just adored reading it, give it a looksee!

Fell in Love With A Stripper by @c-nstantine featuring Steve Rogers/Black!Stripper!Reader

Athena is doing the lord’s work with this fic of having Steve Rogers fall deeply, insatiably in love and I cannot emphasize how much I adore this fic!!!!

Touch Starved by @biglychee featuring Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

The biggest Lychee always delivers when it comes to a Bucky fic and you are doing yourself a favor by reading this delicious fic about a subby Bucky and dom!reader…….DAMN

Triple Beds, Triple Disorders by @devisedplan featuring Bucky Barnes/Reader

The same bed trope never ever ever ever gets old and I can’t help but love Devised’s excellent take on this one with a certain surly soldier……..HMMMMMMMM :)))))

Nightcrawler Headcanons by @sagebrush-and-sadness featuring Kurt Wagner/Reader (18+)

I cannot emphasize how Veta has such illustrative way with words and undivided devotion to our fuzzy Blue Elf Kurt—this is a masterpiece of a headcanon fic.

The Very Injured Caterpillar by @vigilantekisser featuing Matt Murdock/Kindergarten Teacher!Reader

As a teacher this story hit very close to home and also felt very realistic and grounded while also maintaining a healthy amount of humor and romance; Joey does an excellent juggling job of putting them all together and having me walk away well satisfied from this excellent fic!

Matt Finds You All Tied Up by @cerenawoe featuring Matt Murdock/Reader (18+)

This is so deliciously dark I can’t help but come back and reread it for the same rush of endorphins I had the first time I read it. >:)

Carried Away by @lilacst4rs featuring Johnny Storm/Reader (18+)

This is such an excellent take on a softer side of Johnny that isn’t just for show, and I truly enjoyed reading about him in this exemplary fic. Give it a read!

Safe and Starry-Eyed by @wordbunch featuring Ben Grimm/F!Reader

Ben Grimm is a man who deserves a soft love, a happy ending—and Ana provides it all AND MORE!!!!!!

X-Men Headcanons by @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger featuring X-Men Angel, Rogue, Cyclops and Wolverine

This is so indulgent and lovely to hear Dreamer’s take on such beloved characters and did I have a big ol’ smile on my face reading this? YEP and you will too if you read it hehe :)

Sharing a Bed With Fem!X-Men Members by @stanbullseye featuring Rogue, Jean Grey, Emma Frost, Madely Pryor, Sue Storm

We don’t get enough for the gals and this one certainly filled the thirst I needed to slake for the wonderful Marvel women………give it a gander my friends

marvel villains

Shhh! by @halfofmysoulsblog featuring Venom/Black!Reader (18+)

Oh this fic is so fucking hot it steams; all I have to say is that were it me……welll………….I would be certainly blessed indeed…….

Benjamin Poindexter Headcanons by @hypnospatron featuring Benjamin Poindexter/Reader (18+)

Dex is a nasty, shameless man and this fic by Hypnos is just such a beautiful demonstration of the wicked man that I would let tear me apart. 100000/10

When You’re Lost In the Dark by @futuremrscameron featuring Bob Reynolds/Reader

Seeping with broody atmosphere, with delicious detail that makes you feel as though you’re actually walking down darkened city streets, with such poignant emotion, Courtney really kills it with this and I need her to write more PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

Worst Time To Start Your Period by @haljordansnumberonefan featuring Bullseye/Reader (18+)

Aehtlama is a pro at writing for this devious man and this fic certainly demonstrates her incredible writing skill………give it a look my friends…….

resident evil

Househusband by @slowerghost featuring Leon Kennedy/Reader

Now this fic is an absolute ray of sunshine that shows how wonderful it would be living with Mr. Kennedy. Big fan of this fic and you should be too!

Cracking An Egg With Chris by @starberrymatcha featuring Chris Redfield/Reader

This is a cute adorable warm blanket of a fic featuring some objectification of Chris Redfield…….not that I’m complaining……..SHEESH

Nemesis by @gilverrwrites featuring Nemesis/Reader (18+)

Val wrote a fic that I’ve been silently dreaming of for forever……please enjoy this while I go beg her for more……

Secret Service by @theebladestar featuring Ashley Graham/F!Reader (18+)

Goddamn BladeStar always cooks with whatever fic that they cook up and this smut is so fucking perfect.......need me some Ashley Graham bad..........

supernatural

Sam Winchester With The Tongue by @pittsick featuring Sam Winchester/Reader (18+)

I love me a flustered Sam Winchester and this fic delivered everything I could have wanted. Absolutely delicious serving of a fic and I humbly request more.

His Lips by @cherryvvave featuring Dean Winchester/Reader

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve looked at Dean Winchester like this but Cherry really has re-opened my eyes…….and brother they ain’t closing after I read this one……….MAN

the pitt

Touchstarved by @stargirlfics featuring Michael Robinaitch/Reader

Amalia has me folding for another white man because this fic had every detail sizzling off the page. MAN

Too Sweet by @novatheory featuring Brendon Park/Reader

Nova wrote such a lovely and heartfelt fic with just a vulnerable tenderness lingering in between the lines; I absolutely loved this. :)

I Can’t Believe You by @ficdelusioncore featuring Jack Abbot/Reader

There is something so healing, so romantic, so cathartic, and so beautiful about this fic about someone who refuses to see love right before their very eyes.

invincible

Like A P%rn Star by @sobbingscripter featuring Omni-Man/Reader (18+)

I come back to this fic every so often just to imagine……..just to indulge in this fantasty……….Nolan just one chance PLEASE

When Did You Get Hot? by @queen-of-gotham featuring Mark Grayson/Reader (18+)

Am I really going to watch this show in record time just for all of these attractive men? YES and now everyone can say thank you Gotham and go read this fic immediately!!!!!!!

Remnants of Privacy by @splodencible featuring Rex Splode/Stripper!Reader (18+)

Good lord……..good lord Maddie………….all the blood in my body………another nail straight into the coffin for me to devote a few days to watching this show……….MAN

outlast trials

Pusher by @doqt33th featuring Pusher/Reader (18+)

This is the very fic that made me fold for Pusher single-handedly and I need you all to join me in love forthis freak. good LORD

Operant Conditioning #2 by @acapelladitty featuring Dr. Easterman/Reader (18+)

Ditty had an integral hand in helping me fall head-over-heels for this manipulative bastard with a receding hairline……soooooo fucking good my friends…….SO GOOD

transformers

Singularity by @doqt33th featuring Mirage/Reader (18+)

Holllllly fuck this fic is an absolute banger. No words can possibly edscribe this you just gotta read it yourself my friend

You Knew I Loved You, Right? by @t-a-a-1 featuring Optimus Prime/Reader

Now this one absolutely hangs heavy with angst and unrequited love……oh man is this one a masterpiece…..

Everything Is Alright—Scenario: Pretty by @revelboo featuring Shockwave/Reader

A very cute blurb of married life……or uh something humorously close to it. Love this one!!!!

star wars

Lovesick by @petalonthepavement featuring Din Djarin/Reader

God this fic had me with my hand clapped over my mouth with a smile on my face, waiting to see what would happen next………..please please read it for some delightfully poignant fluff!!!!

When the Rain Falls by @starburstbarnes featuring Luke Skywalker/Gn!Reader

I think when you’re lucky enough to find excellent, detailed and such romantic fluff like this fic displays, you never let it go. Please check this out!!!!!

team fortress 2

7 Minutes In Heaven featuring the TF2 Squad by @finniestoncrane featuring the TF2!Squad/Reader (18+)

Finnie paints such a delicious steamy picture and man do I need me some THEM ALL AT ONCE DIABOLICALLY DELICIOUSLY AND DEDICATEDLY

Dating Headcanons with Engineer and Pyro by @eatfeet69 featuring Engineer/Reader, Pyro/Reader

Nate always serves some of the best TF2 content on this app and this lovely fic is no exception—especially when it features two of my favorite mercs HEHEHE :]

YKMET & the price of flesh

What a Ride by @rotrabbitrot featuring Strade/Reader

This fic Neo wrote had me on the edge of my seat in the best way possible and wanting more…….you gotta see this deliciously evil fic as soon as you possibly can I BEG of you!!!!

Step on Me by @danishpastri featuring Derek Goffard/Male!Reader (18+)

Holy……..words defy how delicious this multi-chapter fic is. You gotta read it and………let me know what y’all think because it’s a TREASURE hehehehehe

Dennis who had been sweet, kind, and who had truly listened. 

“Well, I’m just trying to make a nice display for these. Lately they’ve been really popular with a few recent wedding orders, and for parties,” you explained. 

He nods, listening to your explanation. Watching as you adjust them in the window display. 

“I didn’t realise people used them as decoration,” he added whilst you hum in acknowledgement, before he continued, “They sort of make me think of home.”

“Oh, and where’s that?” you asked, glancing over at him, “Do you mind grabbing the cotton from the bench for me?”

“Sure,” He nods, walking back over to the desk, while he answers, “I grew up in Nebraska, a small town, Broken Bow–”

“Can’t say, I’ve heard of it,” you called out whilst leaning over to rearrange and move some things. 

“I’m not surprised. It’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere. But it was home. Farmers country, the cotton makes me think of back then. Not that we grew cotton but seeing it in this natural state. Makes me think of the simplicity of home, and the beauty that came with it,” he rambled on before stopping by you to hand over the cotton branches. 

You nod, smiling as you listen to Dennis before adding, “I get what you mean, roses and lilies are beautiful but there’s something about cotton blooms and wildflowers that I’ve always loved, because of its simplicity”

You break off one small twig with a cotton bloom, holding it in your hand as you admire it, “While it’s not technically a flower, it’s believed that they represent good fortune, about giving and taking–cherishment. I think whether people know this or not, it might be why they gravitate towards it for weddings,” you smile softly, before handing the small little bloom to Dennis. 

“Woah,” he murmurs out, taking in your words. 

You laugh softly, taking the time to let your eyes linger on him, “I promise not all flowers symbolise hatred”

“No, it’s just that–It’s really amazing how you know all of this,” he compliments sincerely. 

Whilst heat rises up your neck, bashful from his sweetness, “Says you–I can’t imagine the amount of things you need to know as a doctor–now that, is really impressive” 

A warmth blooms in his chest. Flooded by nerves once more. “Thanks,” he scratches the back of his head. 

And then in the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of Oli, whilst he frantically waves at you, just out of sight from Dennis’ purview. 

“Uhh–,” you step down from the window, brows furrowing in question, holding up a hand, “Oli seems to need my help with an order or something–I’ll be right back.” 

He blinks a little questioningly, glancing behind him only to see Oli avert his gaze, a poker face morphed upon his features. 

“Sure, I’ll just be here,” Dennis nods, watching as you hesitate for a moment, before ducking into the back following Oli. 

"So,” Oli leaned back against the bench, rows of flowers waiting to be placed in the store filled the storage space, alongside spare sheets of wrapping paper and new rolls of ribbon. 

There was a glint in his eyes, a knowing look. 

You looked over, "So?"

"He’s adorable,” he commented with a raise of his brow, observing you and your reaction. 

You laughed quietly, tilting your head whilst looking at him, with a small shake of your head, “He is sweet–Is this really why you called me back here?"

Noticing you becoming antsy. 

Oli cut to the chase, "He’s trying to ask you out."

"What?" Your eyes widen, stumped from his words, if Oli had simply slapped you it would’ve had the same effect. 

Shocked. 

Mind racing with questions. 

"I've seen enough awkward men in this shop to know the signs,” Oli said with just a hint of smugness. His lip quirking up at the corner. 

You denied, "He was not."

"He absolutely was,” 

You looked back towards the door, where just behind it Dennis stood…waiting for you…

Dennis who you had only met last night. 

Dennis, who Cassie had talked about to you, saying how nice he was…how friendly he was…

Dennis who had come in today…for what reason you still didn’t know…

You settle beside Oli, leaning against the bench. 

Simply staring at the door.

Wondering what you should do…

"...You think?" You question once more. Still stuck in a cycle of disbelief. 

"I'd bet my next pay cheque,” He grinned, before adding, “Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re hoping for the same thing, otherwise why else would you shove me in the back while he was here?”

…You’re silent for a moment, mind racing with endless possibilities. 

The what ifs of it all. 

Stuck in this limbo of the unknown…

“What should I do?” your words are quiet, nervous, unsure. 

Oli turns to you, grasping you by the shoulders, looking you in the eyes, “You are going to go back out there and talk to the cute doctor guy in our store who came to see you–and you are going to make sure you get his number, and if he leaves without the promise of date with you–then, well I’ll–” he thinks for a moment, trying to come up with the perfect threat. . 

“I’ll take my holiday leave right now for the next few weeks and you’ll be left without your favourite staff member to boss around”

“You wouldn’t,” you retorted. 

“Oh, try me,” he remarked, “And I know how many wedding orders we have coming up”

“...You really think he was trying to ask me out?” you question, eyes searching for some clarity. 

Oli sighs, with a pat on your shoulder, “Hun, I know so,” he pushes you back towards the door, “Now we’ve kept the boy waiting, so go back out there and get a date–He’ll be lucky to have you”

“Thanks Oli,” you said softly. 

“Anytime,” he nods. 

You take a deep breath in, hoping for a little courage, before you step back out. 

Eyes landing on Dennis who was admiring a ready made bouquet, vibrant in colour and taking in the beautifully delicate scent. 

His eyes flicker up when you reenter. 

And whether it was your mind playing tricks on you or not…

It felt as though they sparkled once they met yours. 

Smiling softly, a little nervously, you walk towards him. 

His hands twist and fidget for a moment, before he tucks them into his pockets. A sheepish look crosses his features. 

Once stopped beside him, you lean in slightly. Just entering his space just a little…Just a bit more than what could be considered simply friendly…

Just trying to get a grasp on whether Oli’s hypothesis was true or not. 

“This one’s one of my favourites. I love the fullness of the hydrangeas, how it balances the delicateness of the creamy little delphiniums, alongside the blush pink peonies, and the little tulips simply peaking through helps complete it–don’t you think?” You ramble on, trying to fill in the quiet air…

“They’re beautiful,” with your attention planted firmly upon the delicate flowers, you hadn’t noticed how Dennis’ gaze settled on you…the flowers were beautiful, that was true. 

But truly…

Dennis was talking about you…

How your beauty simply amplified whilst you talked about what you loved most. The passion seeping through seemed to make you sparkle. 

Radiant. 

Glowing. 

“Do you know what they all symbolise?” he asked, honestly he simply wanted to hear the passion in your voice.  

“Well this one’s perfect for young love, or anniversaries, or simply wishing someone well, because the peonies represent good luck, romance, while the little tulips add a sense of warmth, as they represent affection and care,” you smile softly, pointing out the flowers. 

“And the hydrangeas?” 

“New beginnings and joy, they’re some of my favorites. The white delphiniums hold a similar meaning,” you explain. Lifting your eyes to meet his, a little startled by how close he was. 

Both stunned to simply gaze at the other. 

Eyes softening. 

He sucks in a deep breath, quiet, trying to steady his thoughts, trying to find some coherent way to ask–

“Would you go out with me?” You asked, the words falling from your lips before you could stop them. 

Eyes widening in shock at your own boldness.

At your own confidence. 

It felt like your heart stopped. 

Fucking hell–stupid Oli for getting your hopes up–for making you think this was something more than it was–for thinking you had a chance–for thinking–

Dennis’ eyes blink in surprise. 

He had to stop himself from clearing his ears, worried he heard you wrong. 

“Like a date?” He questioned.

You nod, biting your lip, “Yeah–like a date…Only if that’s ok–”

“I’d love to,” he cut you off. His smile widens, beaming across his face, before he lets out a soft laugh, “Would you believe that’s why I came today”

Your eyes crinkle at the corner, your smile stretches across your face. 

Dennis swore you were simply gorgeous in this moment. 

While the sun filtered into the room, filling the space with warmth, with comfort. The vibrant blooms all around you. 

It was definitely a sight to see. 

“I was going to ask why you had come by, clearly it wasn’t for the flowers,” you joked lightly. 

And then Dennis’ panic sets back in once more, brows furrowing worry seeping in, scratching the back of his head, “I can’t take you anywhere fancy–even though you deserve to go some place special”

You grasp his hand softly, with a small shake of your head, “I don’t need anywhere special–I just want to get to know you, besides, we’ll go halves,” you offer. 

He nods, your words easing his worry, “Then can I pick you up tonight?” 

“Sounds perfect, I close up at 6,” you answer, before reaching for your phone, handing it over to him. “Might be useful if I had your number”

He takes it gently, nodding, “Yeah, definitely.” 

Dennis simply couldn’t believe it. 

He had a date. 

With you…

Now he just had to make sure he didn’t screw this up…

…

And despite Dennis’ nervousness. 

An accidentally spilled drink. 

And him tripping over his own feet. 

Your first date together went well. So well in fact, that it had led to a few more dates. 

And a few more after that. 

Until you were steadily dating. 

If one were to put labels on it, you were his girlfriend, and Dennis was your boyfriend–and thought that never failed to make him smile. 

Learning more and more about each other. 

About each other’s dreams and aspirations. 

About your pasts and upbringing. 

About your likes and dislikes. 

Picking up on the little habits that each other had. 

How Dennis tended to scratch the back of his neck when he was nervous and bashful. 

The way his face would form into one of a dopey smile whenever he got lost in admiration of you. 

How his brows would furrow, fingers tapping lightly when in thought its rhythmic mimicking that of whatever song had gotten stuck in his mind. In the midst of studying or simply reading over a menu. 

The funny little faces he'd pull without even realising it, making you laugh gently.

And Dennis noticed how after a day's work. 

You’d always manage to have threaded stray flowers or pens in your hair. Simply tucked in without thought. 

He noticed how whenever you had chocolate you simply always had to have water straight afterwards. 

He picked up on your little vocal stims, even with a simple phrase or a single word you’d begin to lowly sing whatever song had popped up into your mind. 

Eventually when he had gone to your apartment, he had noticed that in between most of your books lay pressed flowers, stacks upon stacks. How your home was filled with random little nicknacks, all of which painted a picture of who you are. 

He had steadily begun to fall in love with you. 

And one day, when he had brought you to Amy’s farm. A place you had visited many times before with him. 

A place that brought you both comfort. 

Giving you an insight into the kind person that Dennis was. He had been so excited to bring you here the first time, heavily reassuring you that Amy was simply a friend. 

And when you had arrived, she had pulled you into her arms, into a tight hug, smiling brightly. Sending Dennis a knowing grin, “So this is why you’ve been so happy lately” 

She had quickly wormed her way into your heart, both of you finding new ways to tease and joke around Dennis. 

You’d spend many hours there whenever you could, helping Amy with little Theo, often letting your gaze linger upon Dennis–while he worked around the farm…

Admiring the way his muscles seemed to flex and glow beneath the sunlight. 

It was safe to say you enjoyed those days. 

And today, you had dragged Dennis to the farm. 

Not to work on it, or do chores. 

But instead to go on a date with you. 

Dragging him through the fields, and the woodland on the property, your hand intertwined with his, a basket in your other arm, already bursting with wildflowers you had plucked along your walk. 

Before setting down in a peaceful clearing. You work through the flowers, before starting to weave a little flower crown, Dennis sits opposite you, his own set of flowers in hand as he tries to learn from you. 

Spending time with you was his favourite pastime. 

Something he always looked forward to.  

He sighs, finding his fingers entangled, unable to properly weave his flowers. 

You lift your eyes, letting out a soft laugh at the sight. His lips pulled taut in slight annoyance. 

“You can stitch up a patient, but you can’t manage to make a flower crown,” you note the irony. 

“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” he complains lightly. 

You scooch over to his side, resting your head on his shoulder, your hands settling over his, helping guide them, slowly making the beginnings of a flower crown, “There–see it’s not so hard,” you smile gently. 

Dennis tilts his head down to look upon you, a warmth blooming in his chest, a feeling of home settling inside him. 

A feeling he had grown to crave. 

Whenever he was with you, he felt at peace. 

He felt sure of himself. 

“I love you” 

Those three little words, so small, and yet so profound. Filled with deep sincerity, uttered with such certainty. 

He gazes lovingly down at you. 

Your eyes lift to meet his. 

Breath caught in your throat, shaken by the absolute devotion swirling around in his eyes. 

The clarity of it all coming to the forefront of your mind. 

Your lips curl up into a sweet smile, leaning up swiftly, letting your lips meet his, soft and gentle. His hand reaches up to cradle your face, the gentle swipe of his thumb against your cheek. 

Holding you with such tenderness. 

Parting ever so slightly, noses just brushing each other, you murmur gently, “I love you,” filled with just as much devotion. 

The smile that spreads across his face shines as brightly as the sun above. 

Beaming proudly. 

Sweetly. 

As though it was the greatest gift he had received. 

You could stay forever in this moment. Simply in each other's embrace, tucked amongst where all the wildflowers grow.

A simply beauty.

And yet.

The perfect place to profess your love for the first time.

Your relationship had blossomed, so beautifully. As beautifully as the flowers in your store, as radiant as sunflowers, as sweet as honeysuckle. 

As gentle as the cotton blooms you had been arranging when this had all begun. 

It felt as though this were a love so everlasting. 

A love like the evergreen trees that surrounded you both. 

Always in season.  

…

But all seasons change. 

Even evergreen trees shift ever so slightly with the passing seasons. 

And while you had been living out these sweet developments and changes within your relationship. 

Most of those around you both had been none the wiser to the relationship you had cultivated together.

Oli always had a cheeky grin, always seeming to know whenever you had spent time with Dennis. Sending you little teasing looks whenever he knew you were texting Dennis. 

But to everyone else, it was a secret. 

It may not have been planned to be a secret. But overtime, it was simply something neither of you thought to bring up. 

Being swamped by flower orders and busy running your business, and inundated by patients of all sorts in the ER, certainly made it difficult to find time to chat with coworkers. 

You had been in the midst of working upon some floral arrangements for a birthday order, when Cassie had come into your store. 

In her hand she held steaming cups of coffee, one for her and one for you. 

She leaned against the bench with a gentle smile, “I thought I’d stop by to say hi,” placing the coffee cup on the bench, “And to keep you caffeinated with something other than instant coffee”

You snort, taking the cup gratefully, “I’ll have you know I just got an espresso machine for the store…I just need to figure out how to use it”

Cassie laughs at your words. 

“Busy day?” 

“Surprisingly yes, I don’t know what it is today, but it seems like every guy in town has to apologise for something,” you joked, before going on to ramble about a particular customer who had very very specific demands. And guilt practically drenching him entirely. 

While listening to your story, Cassie can’t help but notice your sweater. 

A sweater she’s sworn to have seen Whitaker wear…and while it might’ve been a coincidence. 

It’s hard to deny the fact that there’s an eerily matching tear in the fabric…

And then Cassie is reminded of how your demeanor had shifted ever so slightly as of late. 

How you no longer rambled on in a lovelorn manner…

Instead. 

You seemed to have been glowing lately…

Perhaps even a little. 

In love.

Cassie’s eyes widen just a fraction, a small smile spreading across her lips. Nodding along to your story. 

Come to think of it, even Whitaker had been acting differently as of late. The way he’d smile fondly at his phone in the few moments he could afford a brief respite. 

While she wouldn’t pry. 

Cassie had a feeling that you and Dennis might be a little something more than friends. 

She knew you two would get along..

And while Cassie had caught onto this juicy bit of news. 

Dennis’ coworker, roommate, friend, had been completely oblivious to this fact. 

Sure she had noticed him spending more time out of the apartment–but she just thought he was spending it at Amy’s farm. Or at the very least thought he was giving her a bit of privacy. 

And sure she had noticed how he seemed to have less and less clothes around the apartment–but she just thought he had done a deep clean out. 

And sure he had been a bit happier–but she truly didn’t think too much of it. 

Trinity had been completely in the dark about his blossoming relationship…Until in the midst of a shift. 

He had scratched the back of his neck, eyes flickering around the room, nervously sanitising his hands. 

Maybe if he did this in a public setting it would go down a bit smoother…was his justification…or at the very least if it turned bad, he was already in the ER…

“So…” He asked awkwardly, “How’s the shift been?” 

She arched a brow, glancing up at him. Both separated by the bench between them, standing at the hub. 

“Spit it out Huckleberry,” she said, looking back down at her notes. 

“I’m not sure how to say this, but–” he sucks in a deep breath, before blurting out, “IthinkImightbemovingoutsoon–well,actuallyIdon’tthinkI’mmovingout–I’mactuallyplanningonmovingoutand–”

“What the fuck?” she asks, eyes darting up to look at him. 

“I’m probably going to be moving out soon…”

“To where exactly?” Santos questioned, brows furrowing, a sharp look directed his way. 

His hands twist and fold together, fidgeting slightly, “Uhh–I’m moving in with my girlfriend”

She almost chokes from his words. She clutches onto Javadi as she passes by, shaking her, pulling her attention towards Dennis, “Listen to this, Huckleberry has a girlfriend”

“Uhh–”

“Why didn’t you mention this?” Javadi asks curiously. Stumped by the newfound information. 

Santos blinks still in shock, “Wait–No. No. You would’ve told me. Wouldn’t you–please tell me you were going to tell me,” she asks. 

And the words get stuck in Dennis’ throat, unable to speak. Feeling all coherent thoughts leave him beneath Santos’ sharpened gaze. 

“Damn you Fuckleberry! I can’t believe this. Can’t believe you tried to pull the wool over my eyes,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t know how they do things in Broken Bow, but here you don’t just spring your roommate with moving out and saying ‘oh uh I actually have a secret girlfriend’–”

He bites his lip, sheepishly interjecting, “I thought you knew” 

“Well I didn’t!” She exclaimed. 

Javadi does her very best to stifle the laugh threatening to escape her whilst she watches this unfold. 

Dana leans in, with a raised brow, “What’s going on?” her gaze flits between a fuming Santos and shrinking Dennis. 

Everyone’s eyes flickering over to watch the scene unfold. Their curiosity getting the better of them.

Santos huffs, “What’s going on is that Fuckleberry over here has been keeping secrets–”

“–If it helps, you’ve met her,” Dennis adds, offering a small smile. 

Santos’ eyes widen, blinking in shock before a look of realisation dons across her features. Her eyes flicker over to share a look with Javadi, before snapping her head back towards Dennis. 

“It’s that florist isn’t it! I told you to ask her out, and now you reward my helpfulness by keeping it a secret!”

“In my defense…she asked me out,” he muttered quietly. 

“How long,” her arms folded over her chest, looking at him determinedly. 

“...A few months…sort of since the day after the class,” he answered, a tinge of guiltiness seeping into his response. 

“That was almost a year ago!” she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “As if this can’t get any worse”

Cassie interrupts while she passes by, “Oh, I’m happy for you both, it’s nice to know that you’re together, I knew you’d get along well,” there was something behind her words. 

A sense of knowing that Santos’ catches onto. 

“Did you know about this?” she raises a brow, her gaze settled upon Cassie. 

She only shrugs, “No. Well, not really–I just had a feeling.” 

Santos looks at him again, “This whole time I thought you were going out to help Amy at the farm. Was it all just lies?” The question is sincere and yet softened by a little humorous touch. 

He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck averting his gaze, “Well. That's some of the time, Y/N normally joins me–looking for wildflowers and helping out around the farm too…But other times I’m out with her…” 

A lovestruck smile forms upon his face whilst he talks about you, the memory of you entering the forefront of his mind. 

His chest warms at the thought. 

So comforting and soothing. 

So undoubtedly in love. 

He couldn’t wait to be able to go home to you. His home was wherever you were.

Santos simply plucks his phone from his pocket, holding it out to him, “Call her–I need to make sure this is all real.” She taps her foot a little impatiently. 

While those around them snicker softly, Princess and Perlah sharing amused looks. 

Dana with a shake of her head, a small laugh escaping her as she mutters quietly to Robby about what had unfolded. 

“Fine,” he says, taking the phone to call you, and before he could stop Santos, she had pressed the speaker button. 

“Hiya Love,” you answered sweetly, “How’re you–”

He interrupts you before you can continue, his face burning not from embarrassment but from the sheer amount of attention settled upon him, “Hey sweetheart, um, you’re on speakerphone”

“Oh…why?”

“Uh–” 

In a swift action, Santos leans across and plucks the phone from his hand, “Hey Y/N”

“Hi Trinity?” you respond, questioningly. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, all good. Was just asking, are you really dating Huckleberry?” she asked, waiting for your response.

“I take it he said he was moving out?” 

“Perhaps”

The sound of your soft laughs echoes over the phone, “Don’t be too hard on him, please. I’ve got a date with him after work,” you say between laughs. 

“So it’s true,” Javadi said, eyes widening. 

Both of them peered up at Dennis, stunned by the news. 

“This is crazy–” Javaid uttered under her breath. 

Santos only asked, “Why?” 

“Why what?” you replied. 

“Why Dennis?”

“Well–He’s very sweet to me, considerate. I really do love him,” You answer honestly. 

Santos sighs, before letting a small smile creep up onto her features, “Good for you.”

“Thanks–Now I have got to go, could you put Dennis back on the phone for me?” you say. 

Santos passes it back to Dennis, who quickly turns the speaker phone off, trying to maintain a little privacy despite it all. 

“Uh huh,” he mumbled. Your words simply muffled, unable to be heard by those around him, “Sounds good–alright. Have a good day–I will, yes–Love you” 

He says softly, a bright smile spreading across his face, a twinkle lighting up his eyes. A calmness draping over him, while he hangs up on you, tucking the phone away. 

Santos nods satisfied, before wagging her finger at him, “Don’t ever try to hide anything from me again” 

He nods, endeared by her care, despite her prickliness, he knew she cared. 

“Y/N says she’d love to have you over once I’m moved in properly,” he says. 

“Good.”

“Ok–As interesting as this might be, we’ve got patients to see and an ER that’s backed up,” Robby interrupts ushering them all away to disperse. 

…

And truly Trinity was happy for Dennis. 

Glad for him. 

She could see how happy you had made him. Changes that were all for the better…

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t peeved by his secretiveness. 

So it had brought her to stand before you on one of her days off. Peering at you, looking you up and down. 

You raised a brow at her, expectantly, “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to buy a bouquet that says fuck you. Something that’s a bit more subtle than orange lilies…maybe something more for betrayal,” she requests, her expression filled with the utmost seriousness. 

You hold back your laugh, “No problem–I had a feeling you might be coming in. Though I am surprised it’s for a bouquet”

She only shrugs, “You’re the one who said it's sometimes easier to speak through flowers”

You smile, nodding, “Touche,” your eyes scan around the store, before clicking your fingers, “I think I have the perfect flowers.”

A glint in your eyes whilst you work upon the bouquet…Despite Trinity not saying who they were for, you had a very good feeling as to who they were for…

And that very evening. 

When Dennis enters your apartment, taking in the delicious aromas of your cooking. 

He enters your view, in his hand he holds a bouquet of flowers, bursting with vibrance, perfectly arranged. Wrapped with pale cream paper, and a blue ribbon.  

The very bouquet you had arranged for Santos. 

“Can you believe that Trinity gave me flowers, said she was sorry for blowing up at me, aren’t they nice?” He says, showing them off to you, beaming with a smile. 

He moves with ease, plucking one of your many vases, as he fills it with water. 

“Dennis…” You say softly, laced with a small laugh. 

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, after having placed the flowers in the vase, now displayed beautifully upon the little dining room table you had. 

“These ones symbolise betrayal,” you stated with a small grin. 

Laughing at the stunned expression that instantly floods his features. As though he were slapped in the face. 

“Yellow roses and carnations, alongside those snapdragons, are associated with betrayal,” you add. 

“...That explains the grin she was wearing…” He says. 

You lean up to press a kiss to his cheek, before he tilts to catch your lips with his. You sigh, squeezing his hand slightly, “Don’t worry, I have a feeling she’ll come around–the daisies in the bouquet also represent friendship,” you shrug lightly, “I could make an apology bouquet for you to give her if you want? It might help”

“I love you,” he sighs, melting into your hold. Nuzzling his nose into the side of your head. 

Relishing the feeling of you in his arms, so perfect, so sweet. 

“I love you too,” you smile gently. 

It was safe to say. 

That this relationship was blooming as beautifully as the flowers you arranged daily. You couldn’t wait to see what sort of bouquet it would form into…

And Dennis.

Well he was excited to finally share all of life's highs and lows with someone. Especially because that someone, was you.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this fic and all its sweetness (perhaps I'm simply allergic to writing anything not remotely fluffy or sweet-who knows haha) Anyways I loved the idea of the relationship being secret and having such a stunned reveal, along with having Trinity give Dennis a bouquet, inspired by the floral arranging class. And just ugh-the idea of watching Dennis on the farm will haunt me in the best ways. So I hope you enjoyed its gentle sweetness!! Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in this collection of stories / or for the next part ✨

Read the next instalment of the Bouquet of Love Stories 💐

-> Read Next...Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader: WIP / Paging Dr Daisy (Part 3)

For a Dennis Whitaker centric series check out Tread Lightly 💗 Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!

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Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point. 

So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake. 

(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.) 

Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number. 

It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers. 

In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord. 

He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand. 

Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department. 

Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.

It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them. 

The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.

“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.

Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”

“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed. 

The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark? 

Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys. 

It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident. 

You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest. 

“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.

You press your lips together. 

Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.” 

It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.

He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up. 

Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you. 

Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you. 

Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)

“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”

“Does that make you the human I tasted?” 

You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”

Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.

The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.

“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”

“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon. 

“You don’t want to?” 

You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.” 

“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to. 

“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.” 

Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg. 

He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created. 

Instead, you answer for him. 

“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.” 

Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour? 

Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.” 

There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at. 

Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.) 

Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics. 

You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.” 

You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark. 

What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration? 

Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off. 

“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add. 

Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?” 

“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.” 

(Risqué insult, but it paid off.) 

“Do I look like I go to Pilates?” 

You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?” 

Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter. 

Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?” 

“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.

It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.

Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you. 

He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.” 

“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.” 

Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.

He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you. 

Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.

You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.

Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.

Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.

The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.

The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.

You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself. 

You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?

You walked directly into his chest. 

When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him." 

But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly. 

What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.

He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"

You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said. 

He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face. 

Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up." 

You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER. 

So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times. 

That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity. 

You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.

You : Colles. You free?

You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.

You didn't look at the screen.

You should have looked at the screen.

Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"

You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"

"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs." 

You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."

Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture." 

"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it. 

Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him. 

You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back. 

He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day. 

Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"

"Did you get my text?"

"What — what text?"

The floor dropped out from under you. 

"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —

Dr. Park Ortho.

No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity. 

Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.

Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.

Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.

Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.

The third though. 

You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display. 

It's you. 

The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it. 

Until now. 

Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.

Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.

You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here. 

Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.

A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness. 

"Present the case, doctor." 

"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.

"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice. 

Without any other choice, you followed him. 

When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once. 

Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face. 

"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."

Transferring was the only option left for you now. 

"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it." 

Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'. 

That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you. 

You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious. 

Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.

Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"

Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal. 

You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly. 

Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.

"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you. 

"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure. 

He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."

Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator. 

Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet. 

Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.

"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.

"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" 

If only he knew. 

The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing. 

By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.

Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.

Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time. 

Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.

"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."

With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in. 

Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.

"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"

"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."

That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"

"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."

"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.

Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show. 

"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."

"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."

Park the shark? Coming down to see you? 

You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one. 

You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then. 

His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side. 

There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.

A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.

He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place. 

"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."

You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest. 

The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back. 

But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely. 

Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.

You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.

You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.

Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.

When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.

"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.

"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at. 

"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him. 

He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.

You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had. 

A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.

He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"

Smug fucking bastard. 

"Shut up."

He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."

"People sigh."

"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."

"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago." 

"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."

Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you. 

The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.

Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.

Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."

When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."

You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"

Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"

Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.

You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.

The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."

Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.

He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"

"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.

He looked up. "What was that?"

"N-nothing."

"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?" 

You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"

"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"

"What?"

"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."

"I do not."

"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee.  "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."

"W-what?" 

A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating. 

"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand… 

"Don't say adorable."

"Why not?"

"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"

"Mhmm."

"— medical professional."

"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument. 

The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel. 

"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"

Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.

Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"

It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?

Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.

"W-what?"

"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"

You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically. 

Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.

Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."

"That's not what I asked, was it?"

"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."

You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.

"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl." 

Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.

Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him. 

As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants. 

There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now. 

Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it. 

It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison. 

His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.

One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl. 

Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan. 

Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."

The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers. 

Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.

"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.

His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about. 

Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.

When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste. 

Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud. 

"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that. 

One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips. 

The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him. 

His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.

"Brendon —"

He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.

He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."

Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought. 

With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips. 

The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment. 

When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop. 

He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.

A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.

"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"

"Stop it."

"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.

"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.

His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.

"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.

His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.

"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after. 

The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.

This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.

By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice. 

When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.

"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.

"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.

"You're ticklish."

"I'm not ticklish."

"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."

"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"

Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.

He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"

That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"

"At the hospital. People look at you."

"They do not."

"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."

Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things." 

You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention. 

He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."

"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.

"Sure you don't."

"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome. 

"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest. 

Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open. 

He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.

"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower. 

"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.

You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it. 

Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.

He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?" 

A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.

He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."

"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly. 

Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.

"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."

"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."

"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"

It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for. 

The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him. 

Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.

"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.

"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.

"Words, baby."

"Move, Brendon."

The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.

Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.

It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.

His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip. 

"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"

"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you. 

The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.

He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.

On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.

A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.

"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.

"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else. 

"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart? 

You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words. 

His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.

Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —

Oh. 

Oh. 

The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."

Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."

Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that. 

Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.

You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.

If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."

Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."

You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.

He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him. 

The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.

"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.

You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.

Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone. 

Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.

So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced. 

This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep. 

"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."

"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."

"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.

Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.

He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip. 

You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.

Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.

"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.

"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."

"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were. 

"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.

You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."

His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"

"Well. He is my attending."

"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant. 

"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."

"I'm not."

"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."

His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."

A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.

"Watch it."

You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it. 

Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding." 

"I'm not hiding anything."

"You're smiling. I can feel it."

"Shut up, Brendon."

you and jason are at some party and yet, despite how much jason might hate them, he loves what you’re wearing. so much so, he couldn’t bear other people's eyes seeing what was his.

you’re all over him, grinding against him with no care for who is watching, whispering against his jaw about how desperate you are for him to just take you then and there. it might’ve been what you had to drink, or maybe you just love seeing how much he can take before he snaps.

either way, you’re unable to bite back the excited giggle as he takes a hold of your hand and guides you towards the bathroom. the door slams behind him and you stumble into the sink, watching his chest rise and fall with each bated breath. 

“jay,” you whisper, stepping forward and sliding your hands down his chest and over his abdomen.

“don’t,” he tenses, jaw clenching.

“don’t what?” you tilt your head, lips ghosting against his neck. “hmm? you’re so tense.”

jason exhales through his nose, cursing under his breath before pressing you against the wall. his big hands grip your waist, chest pressed against yours as his lips attack your neck. he groans against your skin, licking, nipping and sucking at whatever his lips could reach.

then, without warning, he pulls back and spins you around. your hands brace against the wall as he scrunches your dress up around your waist. his cock throbs at the sight of your skimpy underwear, the fabric soaked through and clinging to your folds. 

he presses his fingers against the ruined lace, sliding up and down and applying just the tiniest pressure over your clit—making your hips jolt. you roll your hips into his hand, aching for his touch, his mouth, his cock, anything.

he chuckles lowly, hooking a finger into the band of your panties and dragging them to the side to expose your dripping cunt. he watches hungrily, absolutely captivated as you flutter and clench around nothing—your folds glistening with need.

you tremble against him as he wraps an arm around your waist and slides his fingers between your folds, lightly circling your clit. the moan you let out is lewd and desperate as you roll your hips again, seeking more, seeking him.

“jay, please,” you whine breathlessly. 

his cock twitches painfully, aching to be buried deep inside you. it strains against his jeans, the damp fabric sticking to him uncomfortably. his whole body feels alight, his breath warm against your shoulder as his control hangs by a thread.

you shudder as he slides a finger inside you, your cunt sucking him in and coating the digit. your head falls against the wall as he keeps the pace slow, thrusting his finger in and out with steady precision. 

he adds a second finger, stretching you a little and feeling you clench around him. your slick drips down to his palm as he drags his fingers out almost all the way before plunging them back inside.

you feel each knuckle as he sinks them deep inside, your cunt squelching sinfully as he curls his fingers just right. it's tantalising, you want more, you crave more, you need more, yet jason isn’t giving it to you. you push back against his hand, thighs shaking, only for his fingers to slip out entirely. 

groaning frustratedly, you go to turn your head around but jason gently presses his hand to the side of your face, keeping it against the wall. you go to protest but hear the sound of his belt being undone.

your heart pounds as the zip of his jeans sound throughout the bathroom. you don’t dare move, or even breathe. you hear his jeans hit the floor and it’s not long before jason brushes the hot head of his cock between your folds. 

you whimper as he coats himself in your arousal, the swollen head bumping against your clit with each slide. his precum mixes with the mess between your thighs, the sound so sinful it has jason biting back a groan.

the sound of fabric tearing has you confused until you see your underwear thrown on the floor beside you. a wave of pleasure courses through you and you’re unable to stop the tiny whine that escapes your lips. 

your voice is broken and breathless as you plead and beg for him to give you what you wanted. your words slur together as you moan his name, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance. 

finally, jason pushes inside. the stretch is instant, the searing burn has your lips parting and a gasp tumbling free from your throat. he’s just too big. you don’t think you’ll ever get used to his size—no matter how many times the two of you fuck.

your cunt flutters around him, trying to adjust to the stretch as jason forces you to take all of him. he buries himself to the hilt, bottoming out with a harsh grind of his hips. his hands settle on your hips, fingers digging into your skin.

he sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. but jason doesn’t let you fall. he keeps a firm grip on your hips—possessive almost—as he forces you to take every brutal snap of his hips.

every stroke of his cock is so deep it feels like he’s in your throat. you clench around him, and his rhythm stutters for a second before he drives into you harder and faster. you’re losing your mind—you don’t even think you could recall your own name right now.

the two of you are barely holding on—your orgasms fast approaching. you’re soaked beyond comprehension, your slick dripping down your thighs and onto his balls. and as for jason, his last thread of control snapped ages ago. 

“fuck, sweetheart,” jason pants, his head tipping back. “taking me so—fuck—taking me so well…”

his words are all you need before your orgasm crashes through you. it steals the air from your lungs and makes your vision go white. your cunt pulses around him, so tight he can barely move.

the after shocks makes your body jerk and jason feels every ripple, every shudder and every weak tremor you produce. but he doesn’t stop.

“s’good,” he groans, fucking you through your orgasm. 

you whimper, his cock is too much. you can barely breathe from how he’s still fucking you hard and deep—every thrust sending you closer and closer to the edge once again. your moans turn into desperate, high-pitched whimpers but jason doesn’t slow down. if anything, he fucks you harder—if that was even possible. 

he’s close—so fucking close—he can feel it, the tight pull in his gut, his rhythm breaking. his body jerks as he thrusts deep, his hips snapping forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he reaches his orgasm. 

“f-fuck, doll,” he chokes out, attaching his lips to your neck.

hot ropes of cum spill deep within your cunt, filling you completely. so much so, it seeps out around his cock—thick, filthy strings leak down your thighs and mix with the mess he made of you.

the feeling undoes you—the second you feel him release inside you, you shatter. another orgasm tears through your body causing you to sob, your whole body tensing and back arching in pleasure. 

your cunt squeezes around him, sucking every last drop and milking him for all he's got. he groans, hips jerking and cock throbbing as he spits more cum inside you—stuffing you full. even as he trembles, he keeps moving. 

each deep, slow, languid stroke leaves you breathless, until you’re both shaking, until neither of you can take it anymore. jason stills, his cock still buried deep inside you, his body pressed against your back, lips parted as he tries to catch his breath. 

“yo!” you hear someone shout from the other side of the door. “you two done fucking yet?”

You’re a kid. Staring into an old tv, the picture you left it paused on now burned into the screen. A new feeling swells in your chest, something cold and sharp that has your heart clawing its way out of your ribs. You’re going to be in so much trouble.

You’re a teenager. Staring at the car in the driveway, a new scratch on the side of it. It was an accident, you hadn’t meant to. That feeling—panic—comes back. You’re going to be in so much trouble, they’re going to kill you.

You’re an adult now , those days far behind you and yet, you’re stuck staring at the shattered remnants of Bruce’s favorite mug with wide eyes. Crouched on your knees in the kitchen, you try your best to sweep up the shattered shards into your palm only for them to slice through your skin.

With a wince, the pieces clatter back to the ground and break even more. Your hopes of being able to glue it back together again die on the spot.

It’s just a mug, the reasonable part of you screams.

You’re going to be in so much trouble, he’s going to yell at you, you’re going to die—

You don’t remember leaving the house, or abandoning the coffee you were making for when Bruce got back from patrol. You’re not sure how you ended up here—in the cold morning rain, in some alley by a convenience store standing entirely still, at the mercy of Gotham.

The 6am sun is barely rising, blotted out by the heavy clouds. Bruce must be home by now, must’ve seen the mess you made. You wonder if he’s angry, if he’s sweeping up the mess in a rage and planning what awful things he’s going to say to you.

At least for now, you’re blissfully unaware of it all. You left your phone, your keys, everything behind. 

You dig your fingers into your palms and stare at the brick wall next to you, examining the chips and weatherworn edges.

Something’s wrong.

Bruce feels it the moment he gets home. A lack of warmth, your warmth, to greet him when he gets back. It was a nightmarish evening, his body already aching from the strain he’d put on it.

You’re not waiting for him in the kitchen like you usually do, a cup of coffee in your hands despite his insistence that he’d rather you sleep in. Instead, he finds a shattered mug on the ground and globs of blood on the pieces, the front doors left open.

Your phone is on the floor next to the mess, your keys on the counter, your other things still hanging in a bag by the door.

Cold dread sinks into Bruce’s chest. Something is definitely wrong.

He doesn’t bother to change out of his suit as he storms around the house looking for you, his search coming up empty. There’s no sign of you anywhere. No bloodied bandages from cleaning yourself up, no note, nothing. 

It’s like you turned into a ghost.

He expects relief when he checks the cameras, or at the very least, something to take the edge off. His dread only grows when he watches the footage of you leaving the manor, still in your pyjamas, barefoot walking into the rain.

He cursed when the cameras catch you walking off the property, all traces of you lost to the city. Bruce clenches the edges of his desk, keeping his breathing steady as he wracks his brain for where you would’ve gone.

He doesn’t enjoy any of the options he comes up with.

Bruce finds you an hour later, still barefoot and in your pyjamas, standing in an alley in the rain. You’re soaked through and shivering, staring blankly at a wall.

Bruce calls your name, landing behind you with a loud thump. You don’t react, don’t even flinch at the loud noise like you usually would. His frown only deepens.

“Your hand,” he says, “are you hurt?”

He inches his way towards you, careful not to scare you in what is clearly a fragile state. Bruce says your name again, a little softer this time, a little more concerned.

He’s close enough now to cover you with his cape, draping it over your head and letting the material keep you dry. Well, dryer than you were.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his body. You barely react, eyes still glazed over. He rubs a hand over your forehead, half brushing away the water droplets and half checking your temperature. You’re freezing.

“Are you hurt?” He repeats.

You blink slowly, catlike. “I’m sorry.”

His grip tightens. “Why?”

“I—” It all hits you at once, tears pooling in your eyes. “I broke your mug.”

“I don’t care about that.”

It’s enough to stun you out of your tears, out of the catatonic state you’ve been in for the past hour. “What?”

“The mug,” he repeats. “I don’t care about it. I can always buy another one.”

“But…I broke it.”

He takes advantage of your sudden lucidity to grab your hand, examining the slice across your palm. It’s thick and fairly deep, though it’s stopped bleeding now. He breathes a partial sigh of relief.

“We need to clean this, let’s get you home.”

“You’re not mad?”

He looks at you seriously. “The only thing I’m even remotely upset about is that you got hurt and didn’t take care of yourself.”

You can only stare at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. 

 Bruce pulls out a pair of your sneakers out of nowhere, passing them to you. “Come on, let’s go home.”

You’re sitting on the counter in the warmth of Bruce’s bathroom, your soaked clothes replaced with a baggy old shirt he uses for training and a pair of fleece lined sweats. They’re cozy, and more importantly, warm. 

Bruce’s lips are pulled into a tight frown, your hand held in his as he examines the large gash across your palm. He’s already cleaned it out, meticulously picking out the broken off pieces of glass embedded in your skin. 

“I’m going to cover it for now,” he explains. “Just try and do your best to not put too much pressure on it, okay?”

You swallow and nod, watching his thick fingers get to work wrapping your hand in cottony gauze.

He pauses for a moment, levelling you with a serious look. “I mean it, okay? No putting extra stress on your hand. If you need something, I’ll get it for you.”

“But—”

The look he gives you could cut through steel. “But nothing. You're not hurting yourself to avoid inconveniencing me.”

That shuts you up instantly, both the devotion and the severity he says it with stunning you into silence. You let him continue wrapping up your hand, finishing up and pinning the tail to your palm.

Bruce pats it gently, letting his hand linger on your thighs. 

“I really am sorry about the mug,” you say quietly.

“That mug will never mean more than you.” He looks up at you, dark lashes framing beautiful eyes. “Don’t ever think for a second that it does.”

You hum in agreement, sliding off the counter to your feet. They ache slightly from having them bare on the gravel. Bruce snakes an arm around your waist, beckoning you into his chest.

His lips brush over your forehead. “I love you.”

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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.

He'd slept better than he slept most days, lulled by the steady chatter of the police scanner. But no amount of sleep ever made up for the exhaustion that came from a job like this- exhaustion that had followed him from med school to the army all the way to now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rested- really, truly rested- but he'd learnt long ago how to function without it- how to push through the haze and focus on whatever was in front of him.

Like now. Finding his mate. Figuring out what fresh hell the night shift had in store for him.

He found Robby at the nursing station, leaning against the desk as he frowned down at the tablet in front of him. He looked tired, but not unusually so- just that familiar, soul-deep weariness that came with running an ER day in and day out. His glasses had slipped down his nose slightly, resting precariously against the bump where it had been broken one too many times, and Jack felt the brief, automatic urge to push them back into place, or smooth away the lines between his brows.

Instead, he just made his way over and settled himself next to Robby, bumping his shoulder.

"Evenin'," he greeted.

"Evening Jack," Robby replied, tilting his head to look down at him over the rim of his glasses, "Back so soon?"

"Oh, you know me," Jack said, "Can't stay away from this place."

Robby snorted softly and returned to his chart while Jack dropped his bag and leaned down onto the desk, resting on his forearms as he scanned the department.

"How's it been?"

Robby shrugged, still focused on the tablet. “There’s been more of that drug you mentioned. We managed to get a sample to the lab, but even they couldn’t tell us what it is. We do know it’s being cut with fentanyl - and it’s getting passed around like goddamn party favours.” He paused, and Jack glanced over. Robby had straightened slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Had three fentanyl OD's this afternoon. Lost one of them."

Oh. 

"How old?"

"Seventeen."

Oh.

"Shit," he murmured, leaning into Robby's space to try to catch his eye. Robby wouldn't meet it. "I'm sorry Mikey. That's never easy."

"Yeah, well-" Robby pushed off the desk and started walking, clearly unwilling to talk about it anymore. Jack let it go.

But Jack knew he'd take that death home with him, just as he'd taken every death home with him since he started this goddamn job- especially the kids. No matter what Robby told the residents, you never really got used to the ones you couldn’t save. 

Especially the kids.

They walked in silence for a few moments before Robby started again.

"How d'you sleep?" he asked.

“Better than usual. Never enough.” Jack shrugged as they passed North 5. "But I'm ready to go."

Robby's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "You always are, brother."

They moved through the department, rounding informally as they went, checking in with residents and nurses in passing. It was the last hour of the day shift, and the ER had that familiar, slightly frantic edge to it- everyone pushing to wrap things up so they wouldn’t have to stay late. They would anyway. They always did.

As they walked, Jack found himself keeping an eye out for you. You were someone who liked to come in early, settling yourself before your shift officially started. More often than not, by this point, you’d be by the coffee machine in the break room, nursing a cup and trying to drag yourself awake. Jack liked those moments- the quiet, half-asleep conversations before the department tipped over into chaos. He wondered, absently, if he’d catch you there today, if he might get the chance to ask how you’d slept. He thought he’d like that.

"Looking for something?" Robby asked mildly, but with a slight twist to his mouth that betrayed his amusement.

"I'm… just seeing who's clocking in for overtime."

"Oh-hoh," Robby laughed, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were coming for my job, brother."

"Who says I'm not?" he shot back, nudging Robby's shoulder again.

Robby barked a laugh, glancing down at him with an easy, familiar fondness- finally meeting his eye again. "Have it. I'd like to see you and Gloria go head-to-head over schedules. Could get Ahmad to bet on that."

Jack grinned and shook his head. “Nah. I'll leave you to handle that particular nightmare."

"Mm-hm," Robby muttered, stepping aside to let a group of nurses rush past with a gurney. "Just one of my many talents." They walked a few more steps before he added, quieter, “She’ll be here.”

And there it was: that mutual understanding that existed when it came to you. Just a small thread in their bond, almost too fine to notice, but always present. Jack didn't need to respond. He just let it settle as it always did- understood, left alone, but never quite forgotten.

And then they moved on.

“So, we actually have some free beds,” Robby said, already shifting gears as he launched into handover.

Jack focused on listening, filing it all away into his tired mind: ICU full, no surprise there; two psych beds open upstairs; all ORs staffed and running. Trauma Bay One was closed for deep cleaning.

Just a normal Thursday.

But even as Robby finished handover and the clock hit 19:05, you still hadn't shown up.

Now that was unusual. You were always early- twenty minutes, minimum. Ten if something had gone wrong. Jack glanced around the nurses' station- although most nurses were handing over to their night shift counterparts, the day shift psych nurse was still sitting at her computer, typing something up- with no you.

Odd. He and Robby exchanged a look, then, without a word, started another slow pass through the department. Jack even ducked into the staff lounge for a coffee on the off chance you'd decided coffee was a necessity even if you were late, but there was no sign of you there either. By the time they circled back, the psych nurse was bundled into her winter coat, checking her watch with an impatient huff.

Still no you.

Robby had a slight downturn to his lips- not quite a frown, but approaching one.

"I wonder where she is." he commented, glancing around.

“Probably traffic,” Jack said, not believing it for a second. But if Robby worried, Robby would stay- and Robby needed to go home. Jack wasn’t about to let what was, realistically, probably nothing derail his mate's already fragile sleep schedule.

"You want me to-"

There it was.

"I want you to go home," Jack cut in.

"But if something's wrong-"

"It's probably nothing." Jack said firmly, "but I'll have Lena give her a call anyway."

Robby didn’t look convinced. His eyes drifted past Jack again, scanning the corridor like he might have missed something. It was that same stubborn streak- only this time it wasn’t just about the job. It was about you.

But Jack waited him out. He was good at that.

Slowly, reluctantly, Robby started pulling on his coat, packing his things away with the kind of deliberate delay that made Jack want to roll his eyes. Robby made a half-hearted attempt at conversation with a couple of nurses, but Jack glared at them until they left them both alone. Eventually, there was nothing left to stall over.

“You sure you don’t want me to stick around?” Robby tried, one last half-hearted attempt.

“Yes. I can’t remember the last time you left on time; let’s keep it that way.” Jack tipped his head toward the exit. “Go home, Mikey. Get some sleep.”

Robby hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But call if you need anything.”

Jack gave his hand a quick squeeze, then watched him disappear down the hall. A little bit of his heart followed him out.

Jack let out a quiet breath, then turned his mind back to the situation. Shift to run, errant nurse to track down. He turned to Lena, who was already typing away at her computer at the centre of all the chaos of the nursing station. She glanced up as he approached, one eyebrow lifting.

“You heard from our favourite psych nurse?” Jack asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual. No need to cause panic.

Lena shook her head. “Nothing. Unlike her, isn't it?"

Jack frowned, trying to ignore the discomfort in his stomach. If something was wrong, Jack was sure you would've called in to let Lena know.

 “Can you give her a buzz? See where she’s at?"

Lena nodded, already reaching for the phone. "Already on it," she smiled a little at Jack, "I'll track her down, Cap; don't worry."

Jack felt a brief, familiar flicker of relief. Lena was good- damn good- and fiercely protective of her nurses. If something was off, she’d get to the bottom of it.

She raised a second eyebrow at him.

Right. Shift to run.

He turned away to the group of night shifters who were gathering around for huddle. It was a good lineup tonight- Ellis and Toomarian on, Henderson as senior. With Lena running the floor, things were in good hands.

He got through huddle as quickly as possible, passing on all the little things he needed to have a functioning ER.

“Remember,” he said, the words automatic even as part of his mind stayed elsewhere, “trust your gut, and trust each other. We’ve got a good team tonight.”

A few nods- impatient more than anything. They wanted to get moving. Fair enough.

He wrapped it up quickly, watching them break and scatter, then lingered just long enough to make sure nothing immediately needed him.

Nothing did, so he made his way back to Lena.

19:25.

“Any luck?”

Lena shook her head, a faint crease forming between her brows as she wrote something down on a chart. For Lena, that was as close to concern as it got.

“Rings through. No answer.”

Jack winced, then pushed the reaction down. You'd probably slept through you alarm or something- wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last.

And yet.

Just like the traffic excuse, something just didn't feel right.

“Keep trying,” he said. “And if you can’t get her, maybe try her flatmate. Hayley? Hazel?”

“Hannah,” Lena corrected immediately. “She brought in brownies from her that one night shift.” She flicked him a look over the top of her glasses. “Hey. You worry about your residents and I'll worry about my nurses, okay?"

Jack raised his hands in surrender, backing off with a huff of quiet amusement.

The night moved on from there.

EMTs burst through the doors not 5 minutes later, calling out stats as they wheeled in a trauma, and Jack snapped into motion. There was something almost comforting in it- the chaos, the immediacy. The world narrowed to vitals and interventions, to what was right in front of him. No space for unanswered calls when someone was bleeding out on your table.

They kept coming after that, one after another, the next hour blurring into a relentless sequence of controlled crisis. Stab wound. Car crash. Gunshot. Fast. Messy. Exactly the kind of work that demanded everything and left no room for anything else.

They came in fast and messy- just how he liked them. His residents were doing well tonight, and he felt a sense of satisfaction as he talked Toomarian through a tricky intubation.

The second he had a moment to breathe- 20:30- he went looking for Lena, lifting an eyebrow in question the moment he found her.

“Nothing,” she said immediately. Her expression had tightened. “Got hold of her flatmate. Said she left for work at the usual time. She should be here.”

Was it bad that Jack felt a grim sense of satisfaction that his gut feeling was correct? Maybe. Probably.

“If she’s not here in thirty minutes, we report her missing,” he said decisively. It might be early, but this didn’t add up- and it was cold as hell out there.

He wasn’t taking chances. He could see it in the way Lena's eyes kept darting to the door, could hear it in the hushed whispers of the other nurses as they worked around him. 

You were well liked in the Pitt: funny, good at your job and fiercely protective of your fellow staff members. That you were missing was throwing them all off.

As Lena walked off, Jack took a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe. His leg was already starting to ache- too damn early in the shift for that- and his head felt crowded, thoughts slipping, again and again, back to you.

Damn it.

He dragged in a breath, then another, forcing himself- finally- to use the grounding exercises his therapist had been pushing on him for months. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Slow. Controlled.

It helped. Just enough that when Toomarian reappeared at his side, asking to present a case, Jack was able to turn back to the work with something like focus, locking onto it with the same single-minded intensity as before.

It lasted just long enough to feel stable.

"Jack!"

Lena’s voice cut through the department hard enough to snap his attention up. She was hurrying toward him, face pale in a way that immediately made something in his stomach tighten.

“What?” he asked instantly.

She swallowed, stopping just short of him. “Just got a call from EMT.”

That alone wasn’t unusual. The look on her face was.

Jack’s stomach dropped a fraction. “What is it?”

Lena hesitated- just long enough to matter- then forced the words out. “Hit-and-run. Downtown. Young woman. Police found her on the roadside- alone."

She didn’t say your name. She didn’t need to. Still, he needed to check.

"Did you get a description?" 

She nodded. "It matches."

For a moment, everything tilted. The noise of the department seemed to fall away, narrowing down to that single point.

You.

Hurt.

Bad enough for an ambulance. Bad enough for Lena to look like that.

"ETA and status?" he got out, voice rough.

“Three minutes,” Lena said quickly. “GCS six. Multiple rib and limb fractures. Probable internal bleeding. Severely hypothermic-core temp eighty-five. She’s been down in the snow for two hours at least."

Two hours.

The number landed heavy, sickening in its weight. Two hours of lying on the freezing ground, bleeding and hurt and alone and waiting for help that never came- and he had been here, moving from patient to patient like it was any other shift.

It was horrible. It was cruel. And it was completely fucking unnecessary. 

Rage rippled hot and sharp beneath his skin at the asshole who’d left you there like trash on the side of the road- he cut it off hard. There wasn’t time for this. Not now.

“Alright,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Let’s get ready. Trauma 2, full team. I want X-ray and CT standing by, O-neg on a rapid infuser. Full hypothermia protocol- Bair hugger and warm fluids ready. Page Garcia-tell her to be ready for the OR.”

Lena was already moving before he finished, shouting out orders. The department snapped into motion around them, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate: quieter, sharper. A colleague coming in like this was never just another case. This was one of their own.

Jack let himself notice for a full five seconds before he turned away, heading straight for the ambulance bay. The cold hit him the second he stepped outside, sharp enough to steal his breath, but he barely registered it through the adrenaline. His focus narrowed to the sound growing in the distance- a distant wail that gradually filled the space around him until it was all he could hear, echoing in time with the frantic beat of his own heart.

God, he needed to get it together.

He’d worked in war zones with less than this- less equipment, less backup, less time. He'd stood over bodies with nothing but his hands and his wits and whatever supplies he could scrounge up from the nearest wrecked vehicle. This was nothing new. And yet, none of it made a damn difference in this moment.

Even though he could only claim you as a colleague, maybe as a friend at most, he knew this bone-deep, visceral fear was far beyond what he'd feel for any other nurse. No, this fear was something he only ever felt for Robby. 

And that scared him.

He tried the breathing again. 

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.

Come on, Abbot, just fucking breathe. Don't think about the woman lying in the cold, scared and alone while blood leeches into the snow around her. Don't think about her blue lips and shallow breaths or the way she might have reached out, hoping someone would see her. Don't think-

It wasn't working. Panic was crawling up his throat, sharp and paralysing, the kind he hadn't felt since the desert, since the roadside where everything fell apart. His mind flashed with images that didn't belong there but felt terrifyingly real: your face pale and bloodless, your body crumpled and still against the cold ground.

That was when his army instincts kicked in- a soldier's response that came too late for himself but just in time for you. He shut it down. Whatever his mind was reaching for- fear, rage, something softer, more dangerous- he pushed it into a locked box he'd built years ago in a place that had been hotter, louder, dustier and just as unforgiving. He would feel it all later. If later came at all.

Instead, he forced his focus back where it belonged, to the medicine, running protocols in his head- hypothermia, massive transfusion, TBI management- lining everything up so there would be no hesitation when you came through those doors.

Seconds stretched, but he counted them anyway, steadying his breathing, locking himself into the rhythm of it.

Then the sirens screamed, and the ambulance burst through the bay in a spray of snow and gravel. Before the doors had even opened, Jack was moving forward, eyes locked on the rear of the vehicle, already taking you in.

"Female," the paramedic called out, half-barking as they rolled you off the ambulance, "approximate age thirty, found in roadway. Hit-and-run driver unknown. No ID on scene. BP 70/30, heart rate 110, o2 sat 85 on fifteen litres. GCS six. Pupils unequal, sluggish. Abdomen’s rigid- we’re thinking splenic rupture. Uneven chest movements. Multiple fractures, ribs and all four limbs. Core temp 86 now- we've been trying to warm her up, but it's slow going."

Yeah, he could fucking feel that as he reached for your wrist to check the radial pulse, which was weak, fast and thready. Your skin was ice cold, waxy and pale. Blood had soaked through the blankets they'd wrapped around you, seeping out and dripping onto the gurney as they moved you from the rig. Jack risked a glance at your face- slack, unresponsive, blood matted in your hair- and some part of him just cracked at the sight. He tightened his grip for just a second, forcing himself to feel the pulse beneath his fingers as a sign that you were alive- then he let go.

"What's the drip?" He kept his voice steady, sharp, clinical- all he could afford to be right now.

"Warm saline, wide open. We've given two units O-neg too but her blood pressure's still tanking."

"Why didn't you intubate?"

"Tried," the paramedic grunted. "Jaw's too stiff from hypothermia."

Jack nodded, already adjusting the plan in his head as they started moving inside.

“Trauma Two,” he called, “Let’s move.”

The team was already waiting as they rolled you through the doors, swarming in from all sides with practiced speed. He noticed Garcia somehow already standing by, and he nodded to her gratefully as he took his place as trauma lead.

“Alright, let’s get those clothes off. Full head-to-toe. EFAST now. I want cross-matched blood started immediately- Ellis, start a central. Lindsey get the rapid warmer going- let's push some heat into her.”

Everyone moved in unison, cutting away your clothes with practiced speed as the gurney locked into place. As more of you were revealed, Jack’s stomach clenched even harder.

Deep purple bruises flowered across your ribs, your limbs twisted unnaturally, the breaks clear and ugly even before X-ray. Your skin was too pale, your breathing laboured and shallow- the left side of your chest barely moving. Your abdomen was distended- he probed it tentatively, feeling the firmness underneath that screamed internal bleed. Broken ribs on both sides. 

"Alright, watch the chest wall," he called to the team, "ribs are shattered. We could puncture a lung just looking at her wrong."

He kept scanning your body- noting the way your head lolled too loosely to one side, the unnatural angle of your right arm. He reached for your face, tilting your head back slightly to check your airway, to see if anything obstructed it, but his breath caught for half a second as he found himself looking down at you properly.

He'd grown used to seeing you at work- composed, smart and always a little amused behind that dry wit of yours. But this? You were reduced to this: cold and broken beneath him. The image burned itself into his memory, raw and vivid in a way that made his chest ache.

It was too close. Too much.

Jack forced himself to look away, blinking hard to clear his head. He found Lena at the end of the gurney, her eyes wide with worry as she glanced up at him.

He nodded once, tightly, then lifted his voice again.

"EFAST now- let's see how much blood we're dealing with. I want a chest tube on the left and I want to get her intubated before she drops any further- but watch the jaw, they couldn't get it in the field."

"Abbot," Ellis said, standing ready with a central line kit, "There's a soulmark cover. I need it off for the central line."

"Scent blocker too," Lena cut in from the head of the table, where she was holding your head steady, "You need it off?"

Jack hesitated, but only for a second. 

"Yes," he said quickly, hating the word even as it left his mouth. "Get 'em both off."

Soulmarks and scent were private, intimate- and exposing yours in front of the whole trauma team felt wrong on a level that made his skin crawl. But there wasn't a choice. He needed access, and he needed to know what they were dealing with- even if that meant watching them peel back your most vulnerable secrets under the glaring lights of the trauma bay.

He saw Lena nod, her fingers quick as she peeled the covering away and then ripped the scent blocker off.

The effect was immediate. The scent hit him like a physical force- sharp, acrid, saturated with fear. Omega. Distressed, hurt, scared omega. 

Jack’s breath caught hard in his chest as something instinctive surged up- hot, violent and utterly irrational. Someone had hurt you. Broken you. Left you out there to die.

The urge to tear something apart flared fast and bright. For a half second, he felt himself slip and then he wrenched it back, forced himself to focus.

Around him, the room had fallen into a hush, and Jack opened his eyes to find everyone frozen- Ellis with the ultrasound raised mid-air, other members stopped in motion, staring in shock. He glanced down, following their eyes.

And everything stopped.

Because there, staring up at him from your chest was a mark. Robby's mark. His mark. The one Robby had touched so many times, kissed and traced in the privacy of their bed, thinking it was just theirs- but there it was, stark against your skin for everyone to see. Identical in every way.

Time seemed to fracture. Jack felt the ground tilt beneath as sound became a useless, broken thing. Someone let out a shaky breath; another cursed under their breath- low and sharp. His own pulse roared in his ears.

Soulmate. You were his soulmate.

And he hadn't known. He hadn't- fuck. He had no idea.

In the space of half a second, he went from fear to disbelief, then straight into an all-consuming panic that tore through him with the force of a goddamn freight train. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could see was you- broken, bleeding, dying- his mate. The word echoed in his skull, a foreign concept suddenly made real and devastating. This wasn't just a colleague anymore; it wasn't just a woman he respected and admired from afar. This was the one person destined for him and Robby, the piece of their bond they never knew was missing. And you were lying on a trauma table, slipping away while he stood frozen in horror, helplessly watching your life drain away onto the sterile white sheets beneath you.

“Alright, that’s enough.” 

Garcia was there suddenly, stepping into his space without hesitation, snapping her fingers once in front of his face. Jack blinked at her, slow to process the words. She wasn’t yelling, but it felt like she was.

“You need to get it together,” she said sharply, “or you need to get out.”

“What?” The word felt strange in his mouth, disconnected. His mind was still on you- pale, broken, your scent everywhere, your soulmark burning into his vision like it had been branded there.

Garcia nodded once, like that confirmed something she already knew.

“Abbot. You are compromised.”

Jack frowned.

Compromised.

The word didn’t fit- not the way she was saying it. Like he was unreliable. Like he wasn’t functioning. He was functioning. He was fixing it. They were fixing you.

"Abbot," she said again, firmer. "Step back. You are delaying her care."

No he wasn't. He was helping. His brain was just catching up with his body, that was all. There were things that needed to be done- tubes to place, fluids to run, blood to transfuse- though right now he couldn't quite remember which came first. The plan was all jumbled, scattered across his mind like the pieces of gravel he could see embedded in your legs.

"Right, I'm taking over." Garcia all but shoved him out of the way, taking over with all the assurance only someone of her skill could. "Ellis, keep prepping that central line. Henderson, intubate. Toomarian, tell me what's going on with that abdomen." The team around him responded without question, falling into step behind her as she started calling out instructions.

Jack blinked, dragging his attention toward her with effort. “What? No- I’m- ” He shook his head once, like that might clear it. It didn’t. “I’m fine. I can do this.”

"You're not fine!" she called over her shoulder, too busy monitoring the intubation to look up, "That is your soulmate on the table, Abbot, and I do not have the time or patience to argue with you about treating her. I swear, you'll thank me later."

It wasn't that he was arguing, exactly; it was that every instinct he had was telling him to stay, to fix this, to be here for you. But Garcia had stepped between him and you, a small but unmovable wall as she kept giving orders.

And Jack Abbot wasn't used to being kept out of a trauma. He worked them- and for good reason. He knew what he was doing in a trauma bay, even with the ground shifting beneath his feet.

He moved, almost unconsciously, trying to angle for a better view around her. You'd been rolled slightly onto your side so Henderson could intubate. They were securing your airway now- Jack could see the tube going in, the breath sounds crackling over the ventilator. He tried again, moving around the edge of the bed to get a look at your vitals board on the other side. Still shockingly low BP- still barely responding to fluids.

"Dr Abbot."

A nurse- Lindsey?- was standing in front of him now, one hand on his chest, pushing him back. He looked down at the hand- then back at her, confused. Why was she blocking him? He was only trying to help, to do his job.

"Dr Abbot," she said, voice a little softer, eyes watching him carefully. "You should step outside."

"I don't need to step outside," he insisted, though the words felt thick and clumsy. The room was getting crowded- so many people around him now, moving fast but not letting him any closer. He could still see you over their shoulders; blood was being pumped in fast now, but still your BP wasn't budging.

He just- he just needed you. To touch you, to calm you, to tell you everything was going to be alright because he was here now and he was never, ever going to let anything hurt you again-

"Someone get security." he heard Garcia say, her voice hard but oddly distant, like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. "He's not going to leave."

Leave? Why would he leave? Jack shook his head, trying to get his feet under him. No. He was fine. The world just needed to stop spinning for a minute and he'd- 

Hands landed on him a second later- firm, practiced, impersonal. Someone at his shoulder, another catching his arm. Their touch was clinical but unwelcome, an intrusion that Jack's instincts registered as threat even through the haze of panic clouding his mind. Jack let it happen for all of three full steps before his body caught up, muscles tensing under restraint as years of combat training surged to the surface.

“Wait-” The word came out strained, his focus snapping back to you as the distance between you widened by inches. “No, just- give me a second, I need to- ”

The need to get back to you surged again, sharper this time, cutting through everything else. He twisted against their grip, not fully aware of it until they tightened their hold in response.

“Jack,” someone said- Lena, maybe- but it didn’t quite reach him.

All he could track was the space opening up between him and the bed.

Wrong.

The thought hit hard and immediate, overriding everything else. Wrong to leave. Wrong to step away. Wrong to let anyone else between him and-

“I need to be in there,” he said, still trying to keep his voice steady even as panic clawed at the edges of it. “I need to-"

He pulled again, harder this time, breath unsteady, control slipping in a way that felt both distant and terrifyingly close. He twisted hard against the guards’ grip, muscle memory kicking in on instinct. He knew how to do this- how to shift his weight, how to break a hold, how to turn someone else’s strength against them. And for a second it worked- the hold loosened, just slightly- and then his balance went. 

The prosthetic didn’t give the way his body expected. His footing slipped half a beat off, just enough to throw everything out of sync, just enough to cost him the advantage.

And then he was being dragged back, back toward the door before he fully registered it. He could hear Lena and Darius, the night shift head of security, and Jack knew he'd fucked up if Darius had been dragged into it. Still, all he could focus on was you, on the life fading from your eyes as you lay there on that bed.

"No-"

His arms were wrenched behind his back, tight enough to hurt, and he was dragged into the corridor, the glass doors slamming shut between him and the trauma bay. He kept his eyes on you, unwilling to look away even for a moment, until Darius stepped in front of him. He was a mountain of a man, ex-military like Jack, with dark eyes and an unflinching expression. For a split second, something sharp and reactive surged up-an instinct to push past him, to remove the obstacle- but Jack blinked hard, forcing it back. He wasn’t in the field anymore. And Darius was not an enemy.

They'd sat in too many VA meetings together for that.

Jack let out a shaky breath and forced himself to meet Darius’s eyes. Tried to sound rational even though the inside of his head was anything but.

"You need to listen to me," he gritted out, voice taut. "I am the night shift attending in charge of this ER. That is my patient."

"Uh-huh. And I'm the queen of England," Darius shot back, deadpan. His hands stayed firm at Jack’s wrists, keeping the pressure steady as Jack struggled to regain control.

Jack pressed on, desperate and unthinking. "I am the most qualified person in this damn ED-"

"Not in this state you’re not," Darius cut in, unimpressed. His eyes flicked down once, tracking something Jack couldn't see- his breathing, the shaking of his hands- and Jack flushed hot with shame. He knew what he must look like. It wasn't good.

Darius’s voice shifted then, slightly less hard. More like he was trying to talk him off a ledge instead of off a patient. "Jack. My man. Listen to me." Darius turned them both so Jack was facing away from the doors, forcing his focus away from the chaos inside. Jack fought it, craning his neck to catch even a glimpse of you- then gave in, grudgingly, when Darius didn't budge.

He stared at the wall opposite instead, trying to even out his breathing while Darius kept talking. "You're not doing yourself or her any favours right now. Whatever is happening in there- they've got it."

"She's my soulmate." It came out broken, but he needed Darius to know- to understand that what was happening in that room wasn't just another patient. It was everything. 

Darius’s expression barely flickered. He'd seen enough soulbonds play out in his own time- the best and the absolute worst- to know what this looked like.

"I know," he said, calm as ever. "But you're a doctor first, and this is a hospital. Let them do their job."

Jack exhaled roughly, body sagging a little in Darius’s hold as the fight ebbed out of him. Not because he believed it- because there wasn't another option. He couldn't push his way back in there without making things worse.

"Jack?" Lena was standing at his side, cautious in a way she rarely was. He turned to her, then took in the rest of the corridor properly for the first time. The department was oddly quiet, staff keeping a wide berth as they sneaked glances his way. Some of the nurses were whispering amongst themselves, but when he caught their eye they quickly looked away. 

Scared. They were scared of him- or at least of what they'd just seen. He swallowed, forcing down the bitterness of it. He hadn't meant to- 

Fuck.

"Jack," Lena repeated, anchoring his gaze on her, "I've called Robby. He's on his way in."

Robby. Jesus, Robby. In all his panic, Jack hadn't even thought to call his mate.

 "He's-" his voice cracked, and he swallowed, hard. He hated his voice for coming out so unsteady. "Did you tell him?"

"About the soulmarks or about you making a scene?" she asked, trying for a smile but failing miserably. He shook his head once.

“Both,” she answered anyway. “I called her flatmate and her parents too. Flatmate’s on her way. Parents are in the UK, so…” She let it trail off.

Jack nodded jerkily, grateful for her quick thinking. He'd forgotten all about anyone else, the other people who loved you and would want to know what was happening. He hadn't thought beyond the four walls of the trauma bay and he hated himself for it.

“Alright.” He drew in a slow breath, forcing it deeper the second time when it hitched. “Alright.”

He turned back to the window, locking himself into stillness by sheer force of habit, of training. One breath in. One out. Again.

Darius eased back another step. “You good here, boss?” he asked quietly.

No. Not even close. But he wasn't going to go feral again. "I'm fine."

Darius hesitated for a moment before stepping back, giving him space but staying within reach. "I'll be right here if you need me."

Jack acknowledged it with another nod, his eyes already fixed back on your too-still body, half eclipsed by the flurry of staff working on you. Every rise of your chest was a victory, every bleep of the monitor a blessing.

In. 

Out.

Still alive.

His shoulders ached. Something along his ribs protested every time he breathed too deeply, and he knew, distantly, that he’d feel all of it later when the adrenaline dropped.

But it didn't matter. Nothing outside that room did.

In.

Out.

Was that a fucking chest tube?

He narrowed his eyes, tracking Garcia’s hands as she worked- incision, insertion, already securing the line to suction. Good. That was good.

In.

Out.

The doors of the ambulance bay banged open, and Robby strode in like a whirlwind, his eyes searching the scene before landing on Jack. Robbie took him in at a glance- the dishevelled hair, the wild eyes, the lingering scent of rage and terror- then he was at his side in seconds.

“Jesus, Jack,” His hands came up, firm and grounding, framing Jack’s face. "The fuck happened?"

Maybe Jack didn't deserve it after the shit he'd just pulled, but he leaned into the touch anyway.

"Hit and run." his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw. “Two hours, at least, alone in the cold before someone found her,” he forced out the words, squeezing his eyes shut at the flash of images that came up with them. “Broken ribs, broken limbs, ruptured spleen at least. GCS 6. Left lung collapse-"

Robby made a soft noise in his throat and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Jack's shoulders and holding him tight. Jack buried his face in Robby's neck, breathing in the scent of vanilla and woodsmoke, trying to get out that acrid, bitter scent of terrified omega.

"She alive?" Robby asked after a few beats.

"Think so," Jack replied, his voice muffled against Robby's coat, "They dragged me out. Said I was compromised."

"You were." Robby said without hesitation, stroking a hand over his hair. "And they were right to do it."

He knew that. He did, but it still made something resentful roll through his stomach as he nodded.

"She’s our soulmate," Jack whispered then, like saying it out loud would confirm it and sink it in further, as if the truth of it wasn't already splitting him open. Robby drew back, taking in the way Jack still trembled, the way his eyes kept darting back to the trauma bay.

"You're sure?" he asked, as if there was any room for doubt after the scene Jack had caused.

Jack pulled back slightly, just enough to look Robby in the eyes. "I'm sure."

Robby exhaled slow through his nose, then dropped his gaze to the window behind Jack, his arms tightening around him. There was nothing gentle about the way Robby watched the scene through the glass- no softness, just that same grim resolve Jack knew too well.

"Fuck."

Jack closed his eyes again, leaning his forehead against Robby's shoulder. “Yeah,” he breathed.

There wasn't anything else to say.

They both turned their attention back toward the trauma bay then, Robby with his arm still draped over Jack's shoulders, keeping him anchored while they watched the team work. The frantic activity hadn't slowed, though the panic had edged back into something more controlled- the absence of a feral alpha probably helped, Jack thought grimly. Garcia was at the centre of it all, running the case like she always did- calm, precise, unflappable. Logically, he was aware they were damn lucky she happened to be covering the night shift at all. Emotionally, he was still working his way past being pulled out of the bay at all.

Jack fixed his attention back to you, back to any bit of you that was still visible beyond the scrum of people at work. He tried not to let his gaze snag on the broken angle of your arm or the blood still seeping through the bandages on your chest, focusing instead on the small movements- the rise and fall of your ribcage as the ventilator pushed breaths into you, the way someone adjusted your blankets so that only a sliver of you was exposed. Small signs that you were alive and that people were still fighting to keep you that way.

Beside him, Robby went still. Jack didn't realise anything was wrong at first- because everything felt wrong right now- until Robby's hands slid off his shoulders and he straightened, stepping closer to the window. His hand twitched upward like he meant to press it to the glass but stopped just short, fingers curling against his palm instead.

Oh. Right. The soulmark.

Jack swallowed hard, watching as Robby stared through the glass- not at you, but at your chest. At the familiar mark that had belonged to them and only them for so long, now laid bare for Robby to see. Jack waited for the same ferocity that had taken him to rip through his mate- and it came, only differently. Not feral aggression- just something sharp and pained and unguarded in his eyes, an open wound of realisation.

Robby breathed your name- soft, almost silent, like a curse or a prayer. It was hope and agony wrapped into one, and the weight of it nearly took Jack to his knees again. Then-

"Lena!" Robby called out, sharper than he probably intended.

Lena appeared at his side almost instantly, her face tight with apprehension. "Yeah, Robby?"

"Walk me through it," he said, voice heavy. "Everything."

And so she did. In rapid fire detail, walking Robby through every intervention since you arrived: the intubation, the chest tube, the massive transfusion protocol already underway.  There was still no response from you, but your vitals were climbing ever so slightly.

“Spleen's gone,” she said. “We're just packing her abdomen now to stop the bleed- they'll take her up as soon as she's stable enough for transport. Pulmonary contusion on the left, broken ribs on both sides, skull fracture with a small subdural- neuro is aware and standing by.” She paused, glancing between the two of them. “They'll be taken her up as soon as they've packed her abdomen."

Robby nodded once. Then again, sharper, like he was trying to force the information to settle.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

For a second, it looked like he might hold it together. Then Robby turned and slammed his palm into the wall.

"Fuck!" The sound echoed down the corridor, too loud for the hour, too raw- and the whole department was watching them, again.

"Hey!" Darius, still nearby, made a warning noise, stepping forward instinctively. "Don't you start too, man. We just got your mate under control."

"Yeah, alright!" Robby bit back, the anger turning to seething frustration. He hit the wall again- softer this time but no less frustrated - and then leaned forward, both hands braced against the plaster as if it was the only thing holding him upright. "Damn it!" he bit out, "Damn it all to hell. Why didn't she say anything?"

And that was the question, wasn't it? Because you had to have known. Neither he nor Robby were shy about changing in front of their coworkers, not with how often they got blood on their clothes. You must have seen their marks. And said nothing.

Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to make sense of it but failing. "I don't know, Robby," he said finally, stepping forward to rest a hand on his back. He wasn't sure which of them needed comfort more right now. "I don't know."

Just then, the doors to Trauma 3 open and a stretcher came barrelling out, Garcia and the team racing alongside as they made their way to the elevators. 

You looked so fucking small on the gurney, almost swallowed by the blankets and tubes and lines crisscrossing over you. There was still blood on your face, your mouth held unnaturally open around the ventilator tube, your torso an odd, bulging shape where they had packed the wounds. But you were breathing- they had made sure of that- and that small, mechanical rise and fall was all Jack could hold onto.

"Garcia!" Robby shouted, stepping away from Jack with renewed purpose as he rushed after the team. "I want updates ever fifteen minutes, you hear me? Fifteen minutes, or I'm coming in that OR myself."

Garcia didn't break stride, didn't even turn to look at him as she barked back. "Get back in your own department, old man!" she snapped. "I've got it under control." The doors to the elevator closed before Robby could respond, leaving him standing there, staring at the closed doors like he could will them open again. Then he exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, energy with nowhere to go.

Jack stepped in beside him, silent for now, knowing better than to say anything until Robby was ready. Robby muttered something under his breath- curses, Jack thought- then turned to face him, the grief and rage in his expression plain.

"Alright." He breathed out slow, like he was locking it down one piece at a time. "Alright." His hand came up, cupped the back of Jack's neck. Firm. Anchored them both in the present. "We wait."

There was nothing else to do.

He’d taken you against the window the first time.

“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.” 

He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.

A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was. 

He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours. 

You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.

But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary. 

And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.

And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.

This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?

He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.

So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.

Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.

“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”

His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights. 

“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.” 

You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.” 

“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”

“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge. 

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?” 

“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”

He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”

“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.” 

He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you. 

“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.” 

When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.

He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”

Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth. 

He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom. 

He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting. 

“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”

You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds. 

“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.” 

You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.

“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”

You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor. 

His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”

You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm. 

You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking. 

“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”

You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.

“Are you kidding me?” 

He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.

“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.” 

“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”

His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged. 

You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples. 

“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”

You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one. 

“You know,” you said.

“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek. 

You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.

“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”

His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours. 

This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.

“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.” 

You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.” 

He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up. 

He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?” 

“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.” 

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.” 

“Don’t call yourself that.”

He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”

You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.

You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.

“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.” 

He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”

“Shut up now — ”

He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.” 

You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”

“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”

“Gross,” you mumbled against him.

One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question. 

One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate;  a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.

Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack. 

You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.

“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense. 

You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too. 

The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone. 

Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal. 

“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else. 

You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”

His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”

“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”

“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”

“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”

“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.” 

God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore. 

“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”

Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”

“Works for me,” Robby said. 

Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?” 

“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.” 

Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment. 

Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.” 

You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”

His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”

“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”

“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”

“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”

“Could take a run at it.”

“Wouldn’t get far.”

“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips. 

You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”

“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.” 

“It’s never a date with you.”

He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.” 

“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.” 

“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”

You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”

You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”

“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.” 

You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.” 

You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.

“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”

Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased. 

Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky. 

At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt. 

When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there. 

You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move. 

You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down. 

You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy. 

You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off. 

Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly. 

He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull. 

“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”

“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.

“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.” 

You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.

“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.” 

You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.

You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.

You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.

He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand. 

You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.

The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine. 

You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.

He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about. 

“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.” 

“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”

“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.” 

You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things. 

He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”

“Most days.”

He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.” 

You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress. 

“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.” 

“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.

“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”

“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?” 

“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.” 

“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”

“He’s nice to everyone.” 

“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”

It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.

“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”

The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man. 

“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.” 

Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.

“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.

Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more. 

“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand. 

“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”

“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”

“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”

Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.” 

Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?” 

He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”

“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.” 

“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.” 

“Jack — ”

“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.” 

“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.” 

“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”

“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.” 

“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.

You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.” 

He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.” 

You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it. 

The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.

You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”

“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action. 

“What?”

“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.” 

You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”

His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.

“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.

“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”

He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”

He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.

“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”

You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out. 

“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily. 

He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”

You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do. 

“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.” 

The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway. 

“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”

He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.

“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.” 

You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”

“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.” 

He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.

“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”

You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so. 

“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”

He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”

His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.

“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”

tags — @emmdreams @shoulderpress

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”