fucking clark to the beat of a song blasting in your bedroom after ovulating for 24 hours you wanted to take him in deep, deeper than you’ve been able to take him before, and the slush on his cock is leaving clark gobsmacked with awe while he watches you pussy cream splotches as you bounce hard. breathy and whiny and so fucking helpless while he murmurs to you, trying his best to hold on, “how are you getting so creamy like this? oh god, that looks so good. bounce baby. keep bouncing, keep fucking me, that’s so good. you’re so wet for it.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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When Zayne had asked for complete silence while he made a few phone calls, you figured he wanted you outside the room.
You never in a million years would have pictured this.
"Mhm!" You whimper quietly around the tie in your mouth, tears running down your face. You're sitting in his lap, sheathed on his cock, while he presses a vibrator against your clit almost absentmindly. He'd made you cum three times already, and it's clear this isn't over until all his calls are.
"Yes, I understand that. I still believe my method would be better." The stern tone of his voice makes you clench, even if you aren't the recipient. His eyes flick over to you, balancing the phone between his shoulder to free his hand, pulling out the tie and replacing it with two of his fingers.
Evil bastard.
You suck on them with wide eyes, gagging a little when he pushes deeper with an almost curiosity in his eyes.
"Apologies, but something has come up. I'll speak to you on Monday." The moment the call disconnects, he switches the vibrator to a higher intensity.
"Z-Zayne!" You nearly scream, the word coming out garbled around his fingers. He pulls them out, trailing his saliva-coated hand down to your chest, pinching your nipple almost out of boredom.
"You did a good job being quiet...do you think you deserve a reward?" He circles the vibrator in brutal circles, watching you whimper as you cum once more, pleasure burning through you.
"Y-yes. Yes please I-I'm being good can I please...please have a reward?"
"I don't see why not. How about you cum a few more times? Does that sound good?"
I usually don’t post, but I am trying to find this old jasper hale ff that I read a while ago on Wattpad.
I don’t remember much of it but it is one where the mfc doesn’t forgive jasper or the Cullens quickly after they come back from leaving.
She was also turned by Victoria or some vampire while the Cullens were gone and she struggled with it, like a lot. She drunk from humans for a while I think and was reckless
If anyone remembers this ff plz tell or if anyone has any recommendations for ones like it where the mfc doesn’t forgive the Cullens or whoever the mmc is quickly after they come back plz do.Ꙩ⌵Ꙩ
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Dr Brendon Park x Florist!Reader, The Pitt x Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Amaryllis: Symbolises pride, determination, radiant beauty, and unwavering love
Violets: symbolises modesty, faithfulness, and sincere affection...
The department learns that Park the Shark is enamoured and so deeply in love with the very florist that's wheeled into the ER in need of stitches...
They also learn that she's his wife.
Notes: some strong language, injuries, medical innacuracies, Brendon Park being too handsome and endearingly sweet. slight secret relationship 💗 tooth rotting fluff
Word Count: ~6.5k
Park was a mystery to those in PTMC.
A question mark when it came to all things personal.
Only known for his work ethic.
An incredibly formidable surgeon.
The man you’d want in the face of a critical trauma case. If ever there was a severed limb, he was the one you’d call.
Level headed.
Focused.
But also…
Insanely terrifying.
Feared for his cold behavior, his blunt words and clipped delivery. With a gaze that could send ice hurling straight at you.
Chilling them to the bone.
It made medical students and interns quiver.
And yet…
If anyone were to take a glimpse into his office. If ever they glanced a peak when the door was open.
They would notice.
That without fail.
There would be a beautiful blooming bouquet of flowers sat on his desk.
No other personal artefacts.
Just a pen holder, neatly arranged papers, desk tidy, his certificate on the wall to the side…
Not a single personal picture on display.
And the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.
No one dared to ask.
No one dared to question it.
Fearful for their own lives. Afraid of broaching the subject.
The last time anyone had asked him, as he was walking through the ER headed to the elevator.
Bouquet of flowers in hand.
“Is someone dying?” they had asked offhandedly.
Only to receive a pointed look from the Shark himself. A small grunt. No words leaving him.
Making the student shrivel beneath his gaze.
And that student was never seen again in the midst of the ER…
…But only because their rotation in the ER had ended.
Since then no one dared to ask.
No matter how strange or bizarre the sight was.
No matter how odd it was.
No one dared to question it.
Simply leaving it as one of those things they’d never learn.
Never once for a moment thinking that the true cause of the cheery blooms he always had in his office were sweet gifts from his wife.
From the love of his life.
A constant reminder of her.
One that made his heart settle. Sets his mind at ease.
All of this remained a simple secret for him to hold, to cherish. It’s not that Brendon wasn’t proud of his wife, not proud of being with her.
It’s simply that.
He liked keeping you to himself.
Keeping that part to himself.
…Though he often did slip your business card to those he thought were looking to purchase flowers. Or to those who complimented the flowers in his office.
And those in his OR were endlessly reminded of how sickeningly in love he was with his wife.
Forced to listen to his rambles about your recent date together. Or the recent development in your relationship together.
All of them sworn to secrecy.
Knowing better than to let slip the intimacies of Shark’s personal life.
It was safe to say that Shark’s OR was a vault of secrets.
But this little secret.
This little fact about Dr Brendon Park.
Was about to be revealed to all those speculating in the ER about him. Was about to set a blazing flurry of gossip throughout the hospital.
When a woman came through to the ER.
Wheeled in by the paramedics.
It was stupid.
Completely.
Utterly.
Embarrassingly stupid.
The kind of injury that would make Brendon stare at you with that look.
The one that said, you're smarter than this, without him ever actually saying the words.
Which was exactly why you had absolutely no intention of telling him.
…At least not until the blood was wiped clean, and your hand was fixed…
Your morning was going smoothly.
A breeze. Just like every other morning you’d had before at your store. Moving with a practiced ease. Going through the motions.
To the point you could do it all blindfolded.
An early delivery of flowers had been made to the store.
A man had come in looking for a bouquet for his girlfriend, in honour of their anniversary.
Three wedding consultations.
And approximately four hundred stems that needed trimming.
You'd done this thousands of times.
Literally thousands.
Which was why your attention had drifted for exactly one second.
One.
Second.
The floral shears slipped.
And then suddenly there was blood.
A surprising amount of blood.
For such a tiny injury.
…Maybe you shouldn’t start your journey as a blindfolded florist…Was the thought that crossed your mind.
"Okay,” You stared at your hand. The event of it all not fully sinking in. Still in a state of shock, "Okay."
One of your employees stared too, gasping, "Oh my God."
"It's fine," you said. Understating the true severity of this.
"That is not fine," She shook her head.
"It's a finger, barely a snip," you said.
They counteracted, "It's bleeding everywhere,” already dialling 911.
And so.
Twenty minutes later.
You found yourself sitting in the ER. Feeling deeply annoyed. And mildly embarrassed.
A towel wrapped around your hand whilst the blood slowly soaks through.
The cut itself isn't catastrophic. No missing fingers. No shattered bones.
Just a deep slice across the side of your index finger.
Deep enough to need stitches.
Deep enough to be annoying.
Especially for a florist.
It made you groan at the thought.
Moved to a bay, your hand is checked over. A woman with a poised posture. With a look in her eyes that revealed she had seen everything there was to see in a place like this. A look that said nothing could surprise her.
And that.
Was exactly what you needed right now.
The woman, the nurse, Dana, carefully unwraps the towel. Winces slightly on your behalf.
Not because of the pain but because of the inconvenience this would undoubtedly cause for you.
"What?" you asked, peering at your hand.
She shakes her head regretfully, "That's probably six stitches."
You groan, shoulders slumping from the thought. There was no way you were going to hide this from Brendon now…
A head ducks into the room, as a young woman enters.
Dana clicks her tongue, “Ah, Santos. Perfect timing. We’re going to need some stitches here”
She nods, moving over before her lips twist into a frown at the sight.
“Ouch–what’d you do?”
Dana strips her hands of the gloves she wore, wiping them clean with hand sanitiser. While Santos takes over under her supervision.
You mutter quietly, a little embarrassed, “I was trimming flowers–and my hand slipped,” squeezing your eyes shut, “So fucking stupid”
Dana shakes her head, “Coulda happened to anyone–It’ll be good as new as soon as you know it”
“Flowers?” Santos asks, moving deftly to repair your hand.
“Hmm–Oh, I’m a florist. That’s why this is so dumb. I’ve probably trimmed thousands of flowers by now. And while it's not my first floral related injury, I can definitely say this is one of the worse ones.”
You continue to talk with them both.
Sharing your experiences as being a florist.
Bonding over the difficulties of having frustrating customers–patients. Who believe they know better.
And then falling into a tangent about flowers and why you had fallen in love with what you do.
And how they had actually brought you and your husband together.
All in an effort to distract you from the needle threading through your skin. Despite the local anesthetic.
There was something to be said about a phantom pain if ever your gaze drifted to it.
Both Santos and Dana knew better than to draw attention to it.
Instead choosing to indulge in your stories.
And then, just as Dana sits beside the computer. Typing, taking down your details, she glances over to you with a raised brow, "Okay–Anyone you want us to call for you? An emergency contact?”
She gestures to your left hand, to the rings glimmering beneath fluorescent lights, “A spouse, maybe?”
"Emergency contact?" You freeze, biting your lip. It’s not that you didn’t want your husband here. It’s just…you knew he could be a bit much.
Especially when it came to your well being.
You still remember the last time you twisted an ankle when on a stroll in the park with him.
He had insisted on carrying you in his arms all the way back to the car…
You could only imagine what he’d do now.
"...do I have to?" Dana and Santos immediately look suspicious. Sharing a look with each other. Mind flaring with concern.
"Yes," Dana nods carefully.
You sigh.
Deeply.
Tragically.
Like someone preparing for execution.
You recite his number first. Then his first name…and then–
“Park?” Santos blinks, “As in Dr Brendon Park–orthopedic surgeon?”
“Uh–yes?” you said, shifting slightly uncomfortably beneath the weight of their gaze.
Santos’ mouth practically drops open–”Oh my god, wait until I tell Huckleberry about this”
“Santos–” Dana sends her a pointed look. Before shifting to look at you, “I’m going to page your husband and he should come down soon, for now Santos will go over the next steps of your care.”
She steps out. While you nod.
Santos pulls up a chair closer to you, with a wide grin on her face, “So what can you tell me about Shark”
You laugh softly, murmuring under your breath “So he really does go by Shark, huh…” Before you look up at her, arching a brow, “What do you wanna know?”
And whilst Brendon raced down from the moment Dana paged him concerning his wife in the ER.
“Where is she?” he asked her as soon as he came in contact with the hub where she stood beside Robby.
They share a quick look, before both pointing towards your bay…
Your bay, that was now crowded by medical students, interns, and nurses alike. All with the same questions buzzing in their minds.
How were you married to the infamous Shark?
How did you meet?
Are you sure it’s the same Brendon Park we know??
In what felt like a borderline investigation led by Santos.
You sat on the bed.
A smile on your face, a gleam in your eye as you talk about Park. About the husband you had fallen so helplessly in love with.
Robby leans closer to Dana while they watch Park stalk over, he mutters to her, “So…The florist that all my staff are hounding is Park’s wife”
Dana hums in agreement.
And immediately has to fight a smile.
Because suddenly the intimidating orthopaedic surgeon doesn't look intimidating.
He looks worried.
Actually worried.
The kind of worried only reserved for people you love.
She smirks, commenting, “You know it makes sense with all the flowers in his office”
“Who would’ve thought…” Robby says, scratching his face while they watch the crowd part whilst Park enters the bay.
Everyone sending him looks. Little smirks as they look at him.
Only for him to send them fleeing with one pointed look.
Until soon it is just you, Park and Santos still by your side.
He eyes settle onto you and only you.
And though reluctantly…Santos slips out of the room. Pulling the curtain closed around you both.
And there you sit before him, on the hospital bed.
Looking sheepish.
Holding gauze against your finger.
But all Brendon can focus on is the fact that you’re okay. That you’re fine. The relief that washes over his face is immediate.
Visible.
Instant.
His shoulders drop.
His breathing eases.
And for a second.
Just a second.
He closes his eyes.
He steadies his thoughts. All the terrible things he had imagined are now fading from his mind.
"Hi,” Your voice is small.
Brendon opens his eyes.
Stares.
And then his eyes soften.
Coming closer to you he settles by your side, encircling you in his arms. Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, sighing as he mumbles out, pure love flooding his words, “I’m so glad you’re okay–I don’t know what I’d do if this was worse”
Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him.
Before remarking, “You’d probably terrify everyone until I was okay”
“I wouldn’t hesitate to do that for you,” he replied, “Because I love you, so much sweetheart, so much”
Vulnerability drenches his words.
Words that make your heart bloom with the warmth you’d come to cherish since the moment you’d met him.
“Love you too,” you whispered softly, leaning your head against his chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner–You know I would’ve dropped everything to be here–”
“That’s why,” you interrupted, looking up at him, with kind eyes, “I didn’t want to bother you–”
“Bother me?” he asked, shaking his head. “You could never be a bother to me–Tell me you understand that”
Sighing, you nod, “Ok”
He arches a brow at you.
Before you melt further into his grasp, “Ok, I promise I understand that I’m never a bother to you”
His eyes trace your stitched up hand. Analysing the work.
Though a little disgruntled at the thought that this was an intern’s handiwork…he couldn’t deny the fact that it was done perfectly.
“Hey–look at me,” you tilt his head towards you, “I’m okay. Everything’s ok”
He sighs, nodding, heeding your words.
Before you lighten the mood, with a small joke, “I can’t believe you didn’t bring me flowers,” you said with a teasing grin.
He chuckled softly, kissing your cheek, “Unfortunately my favourite florist is unavailable right now”
“Hm, must be a lucky person to be called your favourite”
“I think I’m the lucky one,” he replies smoothly, “Very lucky indeed.”
You smile so widely, leaning up to kiss his jaw.
He stays by your side.
His surgeries are rescheduled and moved to other surgeons.
Choosing to be by your side.
Your support.
Your anchor.
As his colleagues send curious glances, whispers spread throughout the ER. Gossip fuelling the morale for the day. Gossip involving him and his beautiful wife.
But that doesn’t matter to him.
His image doesn’t matter to him.
His pride be damned.
For you he would be as soft and caring as you needed. If only to see you smile. If only to hear you laugh.
And to think.
It had all started years ago in the halls of this very same hospital.
A day he would think of fondly for the rest of his days.
The day he met you for the first time.
The day he was gifted his very first flower…
…
You shuffle through the halls.
Eyes scanning the numbers upon the walls, brows furrowed whilst you read each number.
Searching.
Looking for something in particular.
The faint rustle of paper as you adjust the bright bursting bouquet of flowers in your arms, as a flower blocks your view. A small card peeking out from your bag.
Feet moving quickly as you tread through the halls.
Reciting the room number under your breath, the same one the clerk at the reception had informed you with.
Room 412.
A faithful customer of yours.
Always a friendly face in your store.
Who’s wife, Margaret, had informed you that he was post-op.
A successful procedure.
He was an elderly man, James Miller, who always stopped by at least once or twice a month, always coming by to buy a beautiful bouquet of flowers for his wife.
And thankfully these bouquets were never bought as apologies. Or bought out of regret.
–Which couldn’t be said about all your customers.
No Mr Miller always simply bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers, merely an expression of his love for his wife.
Because he knew how much they made her smile.
Because he loved how much they made her smile.
It was a love you hoped to one day have.
But for now…
Your mind was dead set on searching for his room to drop off this bundle of flowers. The colours added a much needed burst of colour in the dreary halls.
Fresh-cut flowers always feel slightly out of place in a hospital. Too alive for somewhere that smells faintly of antiseptic and exhaustion.
But that’s exactly why you brought them.
A pop of colour to brighten his journey in recovery.
A little way to support him, as a way to say thanks for his support of you and your business.
It was just as you were peering at a doorway, scanning for the set of numbers you were looking for.
Half distracted, as your feet kept moving.
That was when you had walked straight into what felt like a wall.
Stumbling back, only to be steadied by a set of hands.
“Oof,” you let out a small squeak in surprise, eyes darting to the bouquet checking for any damage. Muttering out rambled apologies, “I’m so sorry—I should’ve been looki–”
And then you stop short, just as your eyes lift to meet the handsome stranger’s.
His brows knit. Lips pulled into a thin line as he looks at you.
“Just keep an eye out, don’t want to add another patient to the wards,” he says cooly.
You nod, with a sheepish laugh.
“Right, yeah. I’ll keep a better look out,” you say, stepping around him.
Not to be slowed down, even if he was quite nice on the eyes.
Even if he was quite tall.
Quite built.
With a quiet sort of dependability–
Nope.
You were here for your friend. And that took precedence.
Not realising how his eyes trailed after you. Stopped in the hall, simply watching your figure turn the corner.
The bright bunch of flowers brings vibrance to his day.
How your smile made his heart flutter–
Just what were you doing to him?
Shaking his head, he continued on his way. Checking up on his recent patients. Checking in.
While many might say Park didn’t care. Or was too cold hearted to care.
…They would be wrong.
A bleeding heart concealed behind his tall concrete walls. Tucked away from those around him.
His secret to bear.
Turning the corner, your eyes light up finally reaching the room you were hunting for.
Knocking lightly at the door, “Delivery,” you say gently, already smiling.
Seeing as Mr Miller lights up, while Mrs Miller sends you a kind smile. Her hand gently wrapped with his.
“Oh–hun. Those are beautiful,” She greets you.
Moving, as you shift to set the bouquet down on the bedside table, adjusting the stems so they fan out properly, as to not bruise the petals. Soft pinks, and greens, sprigs of greenery, with pops of lilac blue threaded throughout.
Nothing too loud.
A gentle beauty.
“There you go,” you murmur, “Something a bit nicer than hospital lighting”
Mr Miller laughs weakly, “Thank you–”
You hold up a hand.
“Don’t even think about it–Its my way of saying thank you–” you look at him with a smile, before joking, “–It would’ve been terrible to lose my best customer.”
They laugh at your words.
The moment cut off, at the sound of a clearing throat.
“Just checking in to see how you are Mr Miller,” the doctor from before. Leans in, trying to hide how his eyes flick over to you.
A silent question behind his eyes.
Before switching back to observe Mr Miller, coming up to his side, as he checks the monitors and his vitals.
“Oh, Dr Park,” Mrs Miller smiles. Her hand squeezing Mr Millers. She looks over to you, with this glint in her eyes. “I don’t think we’ve properly thanked you”
He clears his throat, with a small shake of his head, “That’s not necessary”
“Nonsense,” she insists. “You saved my husband’s life”
Brendon visibly resists the urge to retreat. To slink away from the praise, “It’s my job”
Mr Miller snorts, “Doctors always say that”
You bite back a smile.
Brendon glances toward you.
Just briefly.
Ever so slightly.
Then looks away.
As though he's afraid of getting caught.
Caught doing what, exactly, you're not sure.
Mrs Miller notices.
Of course she notices.
Women like her always notice.
"Oh Dr Park, you’ve probably not met–this is my favourite florist," she says.
Your head immediately snaps toward her, "Margaret."
"What?" she asks innocently.
"You don't have to introduce me."
“We’ve met, actually,” Brendon speaks up, a small teasing glint flickering in his eyes.
Mrs Miller’s eyes practically sparkle, “Oh?”
You shake your head slightly, feeling a heat rise to your cheeks, “Just in the halls–I mistakenly walked into Dr Park, again I’m sorry about that”
He waves off your apology, “I can see why you were in a hurry”
Mrs Miller then continues on. Catching onto the slight chemistry brewing between you both.
“Well–Then you should know that this lovely girl keeps me supplied with flowers year-round,” She flatters you, before sending you a pointed look, "And bankrupts herself making sure stubborn old men receive recovery bouquets."
You roll your eyes, no malice behind your action, only affection.
“She truly is the best florist around,” Mr Miller adds.
To which you deny, “I’m really not”
Mrs Miller waves you off, looking to Brendon, “She’s being modest”
Brendon bites back a grin. Feeling it threaten to form upon his usually steely facade. He watches the exchange quietly.
Observing.
Listening.
Something soft appearing behind his eyes.
The kind of expression most people never got to see.
Because Dr Park had perfected the art of appearing untouchable.
Cool.
Collected.
A little arrogant.
Perhaps definitely intimidating.
The kind of doctor who walked into a room and immediately seemed in control.
But every now and then–
You caught glimpses of something else.
Something gentler.
Something hidden.
And Mrs Miller catches him watching. Whilst her grin widens. Dangerously, "Oh yes," she says, "She's a good one."
You point accusingly, warningly, "Margaret."
"What?"
"Stop."
The older woman merely smiles.
Brendon gives a final satisfied nod towards Mr Miller. His eyes meeting yours briefly once more. Before he steps out.
With a murmured, “It was nice to meet you”
And your heart clenched at the idea that your paths wouldn’t cross any more…
Mrs Miller leans into your side, teasingly remarking, “I didn’t see a ring on that finger did you?”
You groan with a small laugh, “I can’t believe you”
They both simply laugh, shrugging.
“There are worse men to date–Besides, didn’t you see the way he looked at you?” She added, before sharing a look with her husband.
“He did seem pretty smitten”
“I think I might just take these flowers back,” you said jokingly.
“You’re too nice to do something like that,” Mr Miller calls your bluff. To which you only smile softly, agreeing almost immediately.
And then several minutes later.
After another round of goodbyes.
After promises to visit.
After Mrs. Miller squeezed your hand and whispered, "He's handsome."
Words which nearly made you trip over your own feet.
You finally escaped into the hallway. But not before slipping one of the flowers from the bouquet.
Carefully selecting one stem.
A pink amaryllis.
Elegant.
Beautiful.
Strong.
You turn it between your fingers.
Standing outside the door, you shake your head.
Honestly. Mr and Mrs Miller were by far the most meddling of your customers.
Then continue down the corridor.
Only to nearly walk straight into someone.
You stop short, "Oh." Eyes lifting to meet the very doctor from before. Brendon Park.
He sends you an arched brow, “We have got to stop meeting this way”
Your lips stretch into a smile. Letting out a soft laugh.
A laugh that makes his heart race. A flurry of thoughts clouding his mind. The feelings unfamiliar to him. Foreign to him.
His mouth twitches.
Dangerously close to a smile.
The flower catches his attention. Brows furrowing slightly, before asking, “Do you have another flower delivery?” he tilts his head to the side, as he glances at you.
Your eyes flicker down to the flower, then back up, “Uh–yes, actually”
And before you can second-guess yourself–
Before you can overthink.
You hold it out to him.
His eyebrows lift, "For me?"
"A small gesture of thanks,” you say lightly. As though this was simple. As though this wasn’t a big deal.
His expression shifts.
Subtly, "Thanks?"
You reiterate, "It’s for a job well done."
He’s been thanked many times. By overwhelming grateful patients, by their friends and family.
But no one had ever.
Given him flowers.
So this.
This was a first for him.
Brendon looks genuinely caught off guard.
Which seems impressive.
You suspect not many things catch Dr Park off guard.
"You don't have to thank me," he says, unsure of where to go from here.
"Maybe not,” You nudge the flower towards him, before adding, your words soft, sweet, as delicate as the flower in your grasp, "But I wanted to."
“It’s pink?” He notes.
You only shrug, “It’s pretty,” waving off his statement.
And then slowly.
He accepts it.
Almost carefully.
Like the stem might break.
Like the gesture itself might.
The sight makes something warm settle in your chest.
"Amaryllis," you inform him. Watching as he observes the flower, tentative with his hold of it.
“Fun fact it represents strength,” you state, before adding unable to hold back on your little floral trivia, “And back in the Victorian era they were believed to represent pride”
“Pride?” He asks.
You hum in agreement.
Before he looks at you pointedly, “Are you calling me arrogant?”
You huff out a laugh. Caught off guard by his question.
And the brightness.
The fullness of the sound.
Echoes through the hall.
Makes him crack just a small grin.
Passersbys glance over, before shuffling away at the sight of Park. Averting their gaze.
You correct him, “Strong-willed”
“Right,” he nods sarcastically.
Grinning, you put your hands in your pockets, about to speak up. About to take a chance, when–
His pager beeps.
He swallows thickly, glancing down at it, “I should–”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Can’t leave a patient waiting”
He hesitates for a moment, about to speak up, to ask you for a number.
Until you simply say, “Goodbye Dr Park”
Left to simply watch you leave down the hall.
The only reminder of you was the flower in his hand.
Soon he’s rushing off, placing the flower carefully in his locker. Racing towards wherever his pager called him to.
Left with the lingering memory of you.
The pretty woman.
With radiance in your eyes.
And flowers in your arms.
Thankfully…you’ve got a couple friends looking out for you. With perhaps a bit too much time on their hands, as they meddle in your affairs.
The next time they catch Dr Park passing by.
Just perhaps.
Mrs Miller lets it slip that her husband frequents your shop, always leaving with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, neatly wrapped up and elegantly finished.
Personalised, with a hidden meaning behind each flower.
So much thought is put into your work.
So much joy poured into it.
Both very evident in your floral arrangements,
And…
They may have let slip just exactly where your shop is…
A tidbit of information that Brendon tucked neatly in his mind. Something for him to ruminate and think over.
Something for him to ponder over in the moments between surgery.
In the moments where Brendon is finally left alone in peace.
Until…
Three days later.
When he finally takes action.
A day off had led him to drive all the way to your store. Had led him to sit in the car for far longer than necessary. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, thinking whether he should bail or go in.
But then your face would flash in his mind.
The simple action of you gifting him a flower…
He decided then and there.
That he had to try.
Walking to your store, taking in the quaint storefront. The delicate signage.
Nothing bold. Garish. Nothing loud.
But it drew the eye.
The colours were warming. Inviting.
With large glass windows, allowing the sunlight to filter in, bright blooms of all kinds are placed around inside.
The little doorbell above rang out once he opened the door.
“Hello!” You called out from your bench facing away from him, voice as cheery as the sunflowers to his left.
“How can I help–Oh, uh. Dr Park, right?” You finally meet his eyes. Surprise filtering across your features. A little stunned by the familiar figure.
It was quite the sight.
Seeing him standing there.
Broad shouldered,
And sharp edged.
Now surrounded by pure softness.
The contrast was quite drastic.
And yet…
In your eyes.
It appeared so natural.
It simply fit.
He nods at your words, brows furrowing before realising, “I–uh, didn’t catch your name?”
Blinking for a moment.
Caught off guard.
Before your lips widened into a smile.
“I’m Y/N,” you introduce, warmly, “Now, Dr Park—”
He coughs, trying to calm the racing of his mind, thrown off by just your simply dazzling smile.
“You can call me Brendon,” he says.
“Ok Brendon,” you nod, “How can I help you today? Got a lucky lady—or guy in need of flowers?”
“Something like that,” he answers vaguely. Walking up closer to the bench you’re at.
Scanning the tools behind you lining the walls.
The weathered gloves you wore on your hands to protect them from the pricklier of flowers.
To the endless array of different ribbons, of various papers, and twine.
The preprepared bouquets all set to go for those in need of a quick arrangement. Ranging from small to large.
And then the individual blooms around the room.
For those looking for something a little more personal.
“So what are we thinking?” You asked.
And if you were being honest.
Your heart stuttered at the idea he had someone in his life special enough for flowers.
Fearful that any hopes you had built up were now to be dashed away…
It was a nice dream while it lasted.
He stood in thought scanning the room. Really thinking it over.
Before meeting your eyes.
Noting the curiosity sparkling in them.
“What would you suggest—if you were to pick out your favourites?” He answered.
Only to leave you with more questions.
“Nothing more specific?”
He shook his head, “No, I trust your judgement,” Before he adds jokingly, “This isn’t quite my OR, so it’s really your area of expertise”
You let out a laugh, one that makes his smile widen.
And then your mind sparked with excitement.
Racing with ideas.
You didn’t always love when your customers came in with vague ideas.
Finding that difficult to work with, when they um’d and ah’d over the different flowers. Only to completely scrap whatever ideas you had.
—You also didn’t love it when they came in with hyper specific ideas.
Also finding that difficult to work with when they were asking for Peonies in the mid Winter…and trying to tell them just why they cost more in comparison to the Summer season.
That simply came with the job. And truly you couldn’t complain when you were currently living your dream of being a florist.
Normally such a vague request such as Brendon’s would make you internally groan.
But…
There was something about Brendon’s request.
That made you simply think of your favourite flowers.
Those specific blooms come to mind.
And perhaps…
The flowers that came to mind.
The flowers that popped into your thoughts while you mentally curated the bouquet.
The flowers you imagined. Just perhaps were the ones you would love most if he were to give them to you.
“So what would you suggest?” he questions, shaking you from your daze.
“Oh-” Your mouth twists, mind lost in thought, “It sort of depends what or who this is for?”
“Let’s just say it’s for someone I’d like to get to know better,” he answers.
You nod, not really taking in the way he looks at you, not catching the undertone of his words, the pointedness of them.
Instead eyes flicking around the room. Scanning all the different flowers on display.
“And money’s not a factor,” he added, before fearing it would come across a little too egotistical by that, “Not that–not that I’m trying to brag. I just wanted to say I don’t mind how much it costs”
You laugh softly, sending him a look, “I see the Amaryllis really stuck with you, huh?” you teased.
Rounding the bench you began to pluck different flowers. While Brendon trailed after you, asking you about each choice.
“And those are, peonies?” He asked, trying to scrape the barrel on his knowledge of flowers.
Grinning up at him, you nod before overexplaining, “Specifically, Duchesse de Nemours, these guys were bred in the 19th century France”
But Brendon simply listens to you.
He doesn’t roll his eyes.
Doesn’t avert his gaze.
Doesn’t tell you to stop.
He truly listens.
As though you were the most fascinating person in the world.
You would be lying to say that didn’t send a thrill through you.
“And they mean?...” He probed.
“Purity and new beginnings,” you said, admiring their cream coloured, yellow petals, “I think that suits what you were wanting”
Continuing around the room you grasp onto other flowers.
And the conversation continues to flow.
“These are Ranunculus, also known as Persian Buttercups–”
“And why is that?”
“Well it’s said, in a Persian legend, that a young, handsome prince was so hopelessly enamored with a water nymph that he died of a broken heart. And that the first ranunculus sprouted from the exact spot he passed away,” you explained.
He arched his brow in faint amusement, “That’s a little depressing?”
You shake your head, eyes softening while glancing at the flowers, “It’s meant to be charming”
“So long as you like them,” he commented. Before pointing out another set of flowers.
Unaware of the flurry of feelings his words made bloom in your chest.
You threaded through some greenery, to help make the colours pop.
Just as you were about to ask what paper he’d like them wrapped in. You were stopped short.
“Can we add some violets?” He suggested.
You lift a brow in question, glancing at the bouquet. Before shrugging lightly, “It could definitely work”
Gently plucking the delicate violet purple flowers.
Gazing at it in satisfaction.
“And do you want them wrapped?”
He nods, “Just pick what you think suits best, and a white and blue ribbon please”
“Ok–that I can do,” working with practiced ease you arrange the flowers, clipped when needed, tying them in place.
You ask, “And why exactly, violets?”
He wanders the store, looking at all the flowers, the decorations on the walls, the framed pictures of past bouquets, he replied, “I was told recently that I needed a little humility”
You almost clipped your own finger, stunned by his straightforwardness. Coughing lightly. Caught off guard.
You miss the way his lip quirks up.
How they curl up into a small smile.
You distract yourself by preparing the bouquet. The air filled with the faint rustle of the paper, the gentle murmur of music playing in the background, and the few snips of your scissors.
“And–” you tie the last ribbon, before looking incredibly pleased by your work. “Ta-da, your beautiful bouquet is complete.”
He walks back over, taking it in his hands, admiring the elegant beauty of it, the precision of it all.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” he nods, whilst paying for the flowers.
You hold back the frown as you realise your time together is coming to an end. Soon he would be leaving your company. Leaving to gift these beautiful flowers to a beautiful person…
When.
He extends his hand out to you, flowers in hand, “These are for you”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Confusion colouring your features.
Before lifting your eyes to meet his.
“Uhh–” you clear your throat, “I don’t understand?”
He shifts slightly, side to side. Nerves building within him as he second-guesses his gesture. Perhaps he came off too strong. Perhaps this was a bit much–but from what he gathered from the Millers…this was the sort of gesture you’d appreciate–
“The flowers–they’re for you…” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly.
Your heart skips.
Then promptly forgets how to function.
For a moment all you can do is stare.
At the doctor standing in your flower shop.
Holding out a bouquet built from your favourite flowers.
Little violets threaded amongst them.
Humility.
A quiet admission.
A man setting aside pride.
Choosing honesty instead.
And perhaps for the first time since meeting him–
Dr Brendon Park looks completely vulnerable.
You take them gently from his grasp, admiring them once more.
“Thank you,” you smile so brightly.
A smile, that Brendon craves to be the cause of.
Craves to see more of.
“Now, I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything–but I was hoping I could take you out on a date,” he feels the courage build within him.
“Yes,” you nod. Before your eyes soften as you look at him, “I’d love to.”
“Good, great,” He nods, a smile stretching across his lips, hands clamped together, “Does tonight sound too soon?”
You laugh softly, before shaking your head, endeared by his efforts, “Tonight sounds perfect”
The relief on his face is immediate.
Almost comical.
And as he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, you think Mrs. Miller is going to be absolutely unbearable when she hears about this.
Somehow, though–
You don't mind at all.
And after plans are made.
Times arranged.
When Brendon walks out of your shop. He has the widest grin imaginable spread across his lips.
He had a date…
You stand in your store, gently admiring the flowers in your grasp. A warmth burrowing in your heart.
You had a date…
And who would’ve known that that date would turn into two, into four, ten, into an endless number of dates.
Until one day he was no longer your boyfriend.
But the man you had fallen in love with.
The man you had said yes to.
The man you married.
And the man that you were building a future with.
And the love that Brendon festered for you, grew within his heart. Swelling and blooming like the prettiest flowers in your store.
Made to last forever.
Cherished forever.
Who would’ve thought?
That the Shark of PTMC would be so deliriously enamoured by the woman with an impressive knowledge of flowers.
By the woman who had gifted him an Amarrylis.
With a tact for all things delicate and beautiful.
That he would have fallen for you.
And that you would love him just as much.
It was certainly quite a shock to those at PTMC…
And just perhaps you owed Mr and Mrs Miller a few bouquets free of charge.
A little way to say thank you for their involvement in your lifetime of happiness…
Even though that could never fully amount to how grateful you are to them. Grateful that through them, you and the love of your life were brought together.
You and Brendon.
Truly so intertwined.
With a love everlasting.
Ever growing, with every passing day.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this fic, the first instalment of my stories revolving around a Florist!Reader or simply floral themed!! (fuelled by my love of decoding the meaning of flowers) ♥️ Just heartwarming and sweet to imagine their meet cute moment. The idea of Brendon receiving flowers from his wife just melts my heart!! While that man wouldn't hesitate to buy you flowers, he absolutely melts whenever you bring him a bouquet and spend ages explaining what all the flowers mean to him. He just falls in love with you all over again. (He of course spoils you in other ways 😉)
Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in this collection of stories ✨
Read the next instalment of the Bouquet of Love Stories 💐
-> Upcoming soon...
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!
Summary: When you decided to move to Nevarro to open a bakery the last thing you expected was to fall in love with a grumpy Mandalorian. Takes place following Season 3, after Din moved to Nevarro and has been living there with Grogu. This is just a collection of one-shots that all take place in the same world. Listed in Chronological Order!
Warnings: Individual warnings will be in issued in each chapter. The reader is not described any way, but is soft. Din is a little OOC. Please be gentle this is the first time that I've ever written for him.
Read on AO3
Where'd You Come From?: An adorable customer wanders into your bakery and introduces you to someone you've never met, who piques your curiosity.
What Is This Feeling?: Din can't seem to stop running in to you, and he can't figure out why he likes it.
Didn’t Anyone Warn You?: When you're tasked with bringing pastries to Parent's Night at the local school, a guest appearance makes quite a stir.
What Did I Say? : A trip to the market takes a turn for the worst when you run into a bounty hunter that doesn't take no for an answer.
What Did I Do?: When your brother drops in for a surprise visit, it has an odd effect on Din that you can't understand.
He's Your What?: When you finally get the courage to confront Din, you find him in a vulnerable position.
What Are We Doing? : Moving is hard, but being in love with your roommate is even harder.
Why Did You Lie?: All you want is for Din to tell you what you mean to him, but your brother and his best friend have other plans.
Are You Well?: Who knew that buying a bakery sight unseen on an almost desolate planet in the Outer Rim would be the best decision you ever made?
inspired by zayne’s silent underflow trailer (now with an extended part two)
“Wait—Zayne. What if someone walks in?”
Beads of water trail down when he moves his lips off your neck. You tilt your head back, dazed from the heat of the water that flows between the two of you and each kiss he plants on your sensitive points.
Zayne murmurs into your neck, “Are you conveniently forgetting—“ kiss— “that I’d booked this just for the two of us?”
His tongue slips out, pressing over your thrumming pulse and you gasp. It molds into a muffled whimper and you jolt into him, your heat pressing deliriously against his.
“I mean— What if— mmph, wait—What if staff walk in?”
And for the first time, you hear Zayne laugh in a way quite like no other. There’s no softness as the sound emits against your skin. Not at all. It’s an incredibly deep laugh, rumbling and blended between a groan and mirth - one that you never thought he could ever make.
You gulp, and the movement only seems to spur him on.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“How can you be so— hah—so sure?”
You can practically feel something akin to displeasure roll off him when Zayne pulls away and looks you in the eye. Your head spins when you observe flushed skin coated in wetness, when your body feels how desperate he is for you.
“Once they hear you call out my name 1,000 times—10,000 times even, they’ll know not to bother us.”
The confidence and arrogance he carries, so brazenly open just for you, coaxes a quiet moan from you as each word hits.
His eyes flash with desire, fluttering shut from the sweet sound that leaves you, and in his dizziness he reaches for your lips finally.
Clock in. Find Jack Abbot. Say something that makes him squirm. Clock out. You've never claimed it means anything. You've never claimed it doesn't either. What matters is that something has shifted. Jack is off. And you are going to figure out what happened.
genre: jack abbot x reader, attending jack x attending reader, comedy, because i think i'm funny!, flirty reader makes jacky a nervous boy but he likes it, best friend john shen!!!!,banter, inaccurate medical lingo probably, smut 18+ nsfw
word count: 6200
pt 1 // pt. 2
(a/n: this was written fresh off of listening to shawn's quinn audio and whooooo boy. hell yeah. hope yall have enjoyed. thank you so much for the sweet comments!)
It had been three weeks since the fight.
Twenty one days since you’d last spoken to Jack outside of strictly professional necessity. The hospital felt different now. You had learned how to exist in the same building, sometimes even the same room, and feel absolutely nothing visibly.
You were standing at the patient board, eyes tracking names and room numbers without really seeing them, when John came to stand next to you. "I feel like my parents have gotten a divorce," he said, his voice heavy with great sorrow.
You didn't offer a defense or a sigh. Instead, you slowly turned and looked at him. Without a word, you reached over, took the coffee directly out of his hand, and simply walked away.
"Hey!"
His voice carried down the hall behind you. "You better Venmo me two fifty!"
You didn't stop, and you didn't look back. You just lifted your free hand into the air and fully extended your middle finger, letting the gesture speak for everything.
…
As it turned out, you didn't actually need a recommendation letter to secure the residency. Your reputation had been built brick by brick during med school, and your performance throughout those grueling student interning years had walked into the room long before you did. The work had done the talking for you.
You told exactly two people and you swore them both to a level of secrecy.
Robby was easy. He was more than happy to respect your wishes, nodding before you even finished the sentence. "Whatever you need," he said, his voice understanding and uncomplicated.
John, however, was harder to convince.
The two of you stood in the cramped break room. John held his coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, his eyes scanning the confirmation email. He was quiet for a minute, a duration that, for John, was essentially unheard of.
"He's going to know," he said finally, his gaze lifting from the screen. "The moment you don't show up for your shift."
You reached out and took your phone back, the screen going dark. "Too bad."
"Y/N." He said your name like a warning, or maybe a plea.
"He told me to go where I was wanted." You tucked the phone into your pocket and picked up your stethoscope from the table. "So, I am."
John opened his mouth, likely ready to launch into a logical counter argument.
"Swear it," you cut him off.
He looked at you for a long moment, searching for a crack in your resolve "I hate this," he said.
"Swear it, John."
He let out a sharp, defeated breath. "Fine."
You gave him a small, tight smile and walked out. You headed straight for triage and didn’t look back at John’s face as you pushed through the double doors, because you didn’t need to.
You already knew exactly what it looked like.
…
Two days later, you were gone.
Your apartment was packed into cardboard boxes, most of it hauled off to storage, the bare essentials crammed into your backseat. The long stretch of highway toward New York was measured not in miles, but in a blur of podcasts and lukewarm gas station coffee.
Back at PTMC, John noticed Jack noticing during handoff. It wasn’t subtle.
Jack stood there trying to listen, but his focus was fractured. Every single time the ambulance bay doors hissed open, his eyes snapped toward them. Just for a second before darting back to whoever was speaking. Then, inevitably, back to the doors.
John thought he’d managed to keep your secret safe until forty minutes into the shift. He was hunched over, assessing a nasty burn on a patient when the curtain jerked aside.
Jack stepped into the small enclosure, looking at John over the patient’s head. "Where’s Y/N?"
John didn't answer and the night only got worse from there.
Jack cornered him three more times before midnight, appearing like a ghost in the hallways.
John was forced to develop new and creative routes through the ER. He rerouted around the nurses' station once, a detour that added forty seconds to a walk he did twenty times a shift. It was worth every extra step.
He took the long way past radiology. He even stood behind Mateo for four agonizing minutes, pretending to deeply review something on Mateo’s computer, until Mateo finally muttered, “Dr. Shen, I need to actually use this,” and John was forced to relocate.
At 3:00 AM, he finally found solace in the alcove by the ambulance bay.
It was a good alcove. Narrow, set back from the sliding doors, and completely invisible from the main corridor if you stood at just the right angle. He’d discovered it during a particularly brutal double shift two winters ago and had been emotionally attached to the spot ever since. He stood there now, gripping a Dunkin cup, soaking in the peace and quiet.
John didn't even startle when he’d heard the footsteps approaching. He stomped both feet once against the pavement anyway, mostly on principle. "Don't make me answer any of your questions," he said, staring straight ahead. "I want to drink my latte in peace."
Jack stood there and said nothing. He waited while John took a long, deliberate sip.
"She's in New York," Jack said, his voice low. "Isn't she? She got it."
John closed his eyes briefly, the secret finally slipping through his fingers. He turned, very deliberately, to face the opposite wall so his back was to Jack.
"I'm not going to look at you when I answer," John said to the brick "because I feel like that's a loophole."
He kicked a small rock along the curb, watching it skitter across the asphalt and disappear into the drain.
"Oh, how I miss Y/N so much," John said to the wall, his tone conversational and loud. "Since she got that job at New York General. I'm so sad she moved there two days ago and started that residency. I'm so sad she's not planning on coming back once it's over."
John kept his eyes fixed on the wall. Behind him, he heard absolutely nothing, but it was a silence that had him asking the question that had been swirling around his head all day. "Why did you say those things to her? She told me everything." John added.
When he finally turned around, he found Jack on the ground, sitting on the pavement with his forearms resting on his knees.
"Because I'm a selfish asshole," Jack said, looking defeated. "That's why. I got possessive over someone that isn't even mine."
John laughed. It was a sound of equal parts exasperation and fondness, the only way he knew how to react where the two of you were concerned.
"Oh my god." John pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "The two of you are so stupid."
He looked down at Jack on the pavement, the lights of the bay making the scene look even more pathetic. "Do you know how much she talked about you when we were together? Too much. I got sick of hearing your name, man."
Jack looked up then, and John watched something like hope flicker across his face for a fleeting second. Then, Jack looked back at the empty street. "Doesn't matter anyways. She's gone."
…
You stood by the window on the fifth floor of New York General, watching the rain come down in heavy, gray sheets over the city.
Your mood was excellent despite the gloom. Better than excellent.
"Here you go." Sarah appeared at your elbow, handing you a cup of tea. It was exactly what you needed at that moment. She was the first person at the hospital who had learned how you took it without having to ask twice, and you had liked her enormously for that ever since.
"Heard things went great in the OR today," she said, leaning against the glass.
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "They did."
"Dr. O’Neil was telling basically everyone."
"She wasn't," you protested, though the pride flared in your chest.
"She absolutely was." Sarah fell into step beside you as you both began the walk back toward the nurses' station. "I think she even told the guy from billing."
You laughed, wrapping both hands around the warm cup and letting the heat seep into your palms.
It was so much quieter up here.
That was the thing about surgery. There were no ambulance bay doors cycling open every ten minutes, no waiting room spilling over with frantic energy. There was no longer that constant, draining sense that the whole enterprise was being held together by nothing but caffeine, stubbornness, and whoever happened to be standing closest to the problem.
You loved it. You really did.
It was just that whenever a code crackled over the intercom, something deep inside you still lifted its head. Some old, restless reflex hadn't gotten the memo yet that your life had changed.
Your mind went back to the chaos before you could stop it. The snap of gloving up and the adrenaline of an incoming trauma.
And the way you always knew, without ever having to look, exactly where he was standing.
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a sip of tea, forcing the image to dissolve. Jack Abbot was past you. You were two months and four hundred miles out of each other’s lives, and that was exactly how it was going to stay.
"Oh, by the way," Sarah said, breaking your train of thought, "are you going to that emergency medicine conference this weekend?"
"Yeah." You rounded the nurses' station and set down your tea to pull up a patient chart. "My best friend is coming too. I’m excited to see him.”
John had texted you approximately forty five minutes after you'd sent him the conference details: the big apple isn't ready for big Shen.
You had laughed until your eyes watered when you read it, sitting alone in your new apartment surrounded by the stubborn boxes you still hadn't finished unpacking. You’d missed him so much it ached. FaceTime was a lifeline, but it was never enough. It was never the right substitute for having John Shen there in person.
You had asked very casually if he was the only one coming from PTMC.
“Everyone else is too busy,” he’d said into the phone. Through the speaker, you could hear the familiar, gritty sounds of Pittsburgh blaring around him as he walked into work. “Plus, I’m not about to share bestie time.”
…
The phone rang at seven forty three in the morning on the first day of the conference.
You answered it with one eyelash glued precariously in place and the other still pinched in your hand. "I'm on my way," you said, squinting into the mirror. "Give me twenty minutes."
What came back at you was not a response. It was a sound from a deep primordial swamp. A cough so wet and so gross that you actually pulled the phone away from your ear and stared at the screen in disbelief.
"Stop it," you said, your voice rising in warning. "Stop it right now."
Another cough echoed through the line, more pathetic than the last.
"No." You set the second eyelash down on the vanity. "Nope. You are not doing this to me. You are not making me go to this boring ass conference alone."
John made a sound that may have been I'm sorry or may have been his lungs attempting to exit his body. It was hard to tell.
"I hate you," you told him, your heart sinking as the reality of a solo weekend set in. He coughed again, a ragged, wet sound that served as a final, definitive answer.
…
The conference room was big and smelled like burnt coffee, but you were in a fancy New York hotel so there was a little silver lining.
You had a program in your lap, and you were flipping through the glossy pages mostly just to have something to do with your hands.
The presentation on Workplace Communication and Interdisciplinary Collaboration in Emergency Settings had been going for forty minutes. So far, you had learned nothing you didn’t already know and several things you actively disagreed with.
You wished John was here so you could make fun of the speakers, instead of him being back in Pittsburgh coughing up a lung.
You had a whole apartment you could be in right now. You could be under your weighted blanket with a mountain of delivery food and absolutely zero PowerPoint slides.
The panel finally opened up for questions. You were in the process of deciding which session to suffer through next when the hair on the back of your neck suddenly stood up.
It was a visceral jolt and you reached up to rub at the nape of your neck, a reflex, a physical attempt to settle the sudden spike of adrenaline, and then the voice came through the microphone.
It sounded slightly impatient with the very premise of the question it was asking, delivered in that flat, unhurried tone you’d know anywhere.
Every sensation in your body fired at once, a chemical chain reaction that left your heart hammering against your ribs.
You looked up slowly and there he was. Three rows ahead and one section over, microphone in hand and fuck, he looked so good.
You’re not doing that, you told yourself, a desperate internal command to shut down the observation before it took root.
But he did.
That was all you were going to say about it. He looked good. He was wearing a black top that fit him in a way that was genuinely inconsiderate to the rest of the room and, more shockingly, jeans. You had never seen him in jeans. Not once since your first day at PTMC.
As the room blurred around his silhouette, you'd had one thought. "I'm gonna kill John."
…
The second the panel concluded, you were up. You moved with a purpose, hoping you didn’t look like someone desperately fleeing.
You made it out to the hallway and through the heavy bathroom door, the click of the lock providing momentary sanctuary. Standing at the sink, you gripped the porcelain edges and stared at yourself in the mirror.
You had spent two months building something new. You had earned your place in a different building, in a different city. You had successfully, mostly, not thought about what you’d left behind in Pittsburgh. And all of that progress, all that careful reconstruction, had apparently gone out the window the second you were back in the same vicinity of the very thing you had washed your hands of.
The stubble was a little more salt and pepper than you remembered, and it was so deeply unfair.
You had done the work. You had made friends with Sarah, mastered the labyrinth of the subway, and found a coffee place two blocks from the hospital that knew your order by heart. You had been fine.
You stared at your reflection, blowing out a shaky breath meant to either decompress or encourage, you weren’t entirely sure which.
Adjusting your grip on your bag, you opened the bathroom door with the full intention of going home. You would feign an illness so convincing that no one would dare question it. Besides, you didn’t really need to be here. You were leaving emergency medicine, right?
You were so focused on your exit strategy that you weren't looking at where you were going.
You felt the impact before you saw him.
A pair of hands came up, steady and firm, catching you by the arms before you could properly stumble.
You tracked upward slowly. First, the broad chest. Then the black top that looked even more devastating up close. Then the column of his throat and the stubble.
Then his eyes.
Jack Abbot looked down at you. The hallway continued to move around you two, indifferent to the fact that your world had just stalled.
Neither of you said anything for a long moment, his hands still anchored to your arms, the heat of his touch seeping through your sleeves.
"Hey."
He said it so softly. It was a familiar sound that suggested no time had passed at all. It felt like you hadn't spent months painfully rearranging your entire life around the empty space he used to occupy.
That single word reached directly into your chest and did something that you weren't prepared for.
All you could do was turn around and walk away.
…
You had successfully gotten away with not running into Jack for the rest of the day and you were walking through the hotel lobby, on your way to dinner when you finally saw him again.
He was sitting alone at the bar, at the far end of the counter, a glass in front of him, looking at nothing in particular.
You were walking in before your brain could tell you no and you sat down beside him on the stool and caught the bartender's eye. You nodded at Jack's glass. "Another of whatever he's having."
Between you, a small candle threw soft, uneven light across the polished wood of the bar. Neither of you said anything for a long while. Somehow, it wasn't uncomfortable, In fact, it was the most comfortable you'd felt in a while.
It felt like coming home.
"New York looks good on you," he said finally.
You smiled a small, helpless thing and laughed a little, looking down at the flickering candle. "Does it?"
Because maybe it did. From the outside, it probably looked exactly right. The prestigious residency, the state of the art hospital, the way the city was absorbing you.
"It's swallowing me whole." The words came out before you’d finished deciding to say them. You turned the glass in your hands, watching the condensation bead on the side.
"I've got imposter syndrome like crazy. Everyone is nice. The program is everything I wanted." You felt the heat prick at the back of your eyes and kept your jaw set, refusing to let the vulnerability break you. "But there's this voice in the back of my head. Just saying, they're going to regret choosing you. Every single day."
Jack was quiet for a moment. Then, his hand came across the bar and covered yours. His touch was warm, and his thumb moved, just slightly, against your knuckles.
"The people in that program would never regret choosing you," he said, certain. "They don't know yet how lucky they got."
You looked at this man who had once written please do not waste that about you and something in you just gave way.
The walls you’d built after fighting with him crumbled. You turned toward him and tucked yourself into the crook of his neck, your arms winding around him. Your face pressed into the familiar warmth of his skin, and the sensation was so recognizable that it actually hurt.
His arms came around your waist immediately. There was no hesitation. It was like a reflex, like you were supposed to fit right there and he already knew the exact contours of where you belonged.
"I've missed you so much, Jack." You couldn't look at him when you said it. You said it into the fabric of his shoulder instead, your voice muffled and thick.
His arms tightened slightly, pulling you closer. "You have no idea," he said, his voice quiet and rough against your hair, "how much I've missed you."
You stayed like that for a heartbeat, anchored to each other in the dim light of the bar. Then, you pulled back just enough to glance past him at the clock above the rows of bottles.
"Want to go get something to eat?"
…
The first stop on your unofficial tour of New York was a small, family run Italian place that had quickly become your sanctuary. It was a true hole in the wall, tucked away from the main drag, where the air smelled permanently of roasted garlic and basil.
The staff was small enough that you’d been folded into their inner circle weeks ago. When you walked in with Jack, the owner’s face lit up, and he immediately led the two of you through the narrow dining room to the best table in the house. It was out on the patio, beneath string lights that had been haphazardly thrown up in the trees, offering a perfectly framed view of the neighborhood you had grown to love.
"Only the best for our Y/N," the owner said with a wink before leaving you with the menus.
Jack watched him go, then looked back at you, the golden light from the trees catching the gray in his hair. "Everyone that you meet loves you," he noted.
You tried to deny it, shaking your head as you reached for the bread, but the rest of the night seemed determined to prove him right.
When you took him on a crawl of your favorite local spots, the evidence was everywhere. At the second bar, the attention became impossible to ignore. One of the bartenders was openly flirting with you, leaning across the wood to keep the conversation centered on you while pointedly ignoring the growing line of customers.
It wasn't subtle the way Jack reacted. He didn't say a word, but he lazily draped his hand around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. He feigned total disinterest in the scene, his eyes drifting to the television over the bar, but his hand remained a steady weight at your side.
When the bartender finally leaned in and asked what you were doing tomorrow, and if you wanted to go out, you didn't even have to think about it. You looked back at Jack, and he looked at you.
Without even glancing back at the bartender, you smiled. "Sorry, I think I’ve got plans."
Jack couldn't help but smile, a victorious thing that reached all the way to his eyes.
…
The final stop of the night was Central Park. When you led him toward the entrance, Jack quirked a brow in silent skepticism, but you just smiled and whispered, "Trust me."
On a wide expanse of grass, people were spread out on blankets. A massive screen had been set up, the familiar scenes of You’ve Got Mail flickering against the dark backdrop of the city skyline.
You and Jack found a spot on the hill at the very back, away from the crowd. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and Jack draped his hand over your knee.
John was going to absolutely freak out tomorrow when you relayed this to him.
"Okay, I’m just going to say it," you began, your voice soft but steady. "Why did you treat me the way you did that day? You’ve never in your life spoken to me that way."
You were still leaning into him, but you felt his posture shift. He looked down at you and let out a heavy sigh. "Because I’m selfish."
Confused, you pulled back to look up at him.
"It’s extremely embarrassing," he continued, his gaze drifting toward the movie. "But I’ve talked it through with my therapist, and she says I have abandonment issues. Not that it excuses the way I was. I overheard the radiologist flirting with you and I..." He let out a dry, self deprecating laugh. "I lost it."
You turned toward him fully now, your heart aching. "Jack."
"You are so important to me. And the thought of losing you to another man.." He ran his hands through his hair. "God, I’m so fucked up. I just..I ruined it before you could leave me. I did it myself so it would hurt less when you were with him."
The honesty of it made your breath hitch. You reached up, cupping his face and turning his head so he was forced to look you in the eyes.
"When I started in the ER and we got on so well that first night, I told John I thought I was probably going to need to get moved to the day shift because of how much I liked you." You ran your hands down his chest, letting them drop slowly. "It’s been you, Jack. From the very first moment, it’s always been you."
His gaze dropped to your lips, his breathing turning shallow. You fisted the collar of his shirt, your knuckles grazing his skin, and pulled him in.
When your lips finally touched, it felt like a lightning bolt had hit you. Every lingering moment in the ER, every faint touch, every time you’d closed your eyes to sleep and seen him sitting on your sofa, it had all been leading to this.
His hands raked through your hair, angling your head so he could kiss you deeper, more desperately. You breathed a soft sigh into his mouth.
When you eventually pulled away, the air between you was charged. You felt like you’d been hit by a lightning bolt. "Do you want to come back to my apartment?"
He didn't need a second to think. He was already nodding.
You stood first and reached out, bracing yourself to help him get up, steady on his leg. Once he was balanced, you didn't let go of his hand.
You pulled him toward the subway, stopping to kiss him every few steps.
…
As the door clicked shut behind Jack, you turned to him, the habit of a host taking over for a split second. You started to ask, "Do you want something to drink?" , but your words were cut off instantly.
Jack didn't answer, instead he pressed his lips to yours with a desperate hunger. He pushed you back until you felt the front door against your spine, pinning you there.
This kiss was different. More heated, more intense than the one on the hill. Now that everything had been said and the secrets were out in the open, there was no reason to hold back anymore.
As his hands moved over you, a strap from your top slipped off your shoulder. He caught it, pulling it down with a firm tug that freed one breast. He palmed you, his touch possessive and sure, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He began to pepper kisses down your throat, trailing them over your shoulder before moving lower to latch his mouth over your nipple. The sensation of his tongue swirling against you sent a jolt through your entire body. You moaned, a keening sound vibrating in your chest as you arched into him, your head falling back against the wood of the door.
When he finally pulled away, he looked up at you, his eyes dark and wild. "You're so fucking beautiful," he rasped.
You couldn't wait any longer. The need was an ache you both shared, and without a word, you reached for his hand, tugging him firmly toward the bedroom.
…
Jack sat on the edge of the bed and you directed him to sit back against the headboard. Before reaching for him, you looked up, your eyes searching his and he nodded. You began to remove his prosthetic, handling it with care. Jack opened his mouth, about to suggest he might need a pillow underneath the residual limb for support, but he stopped before the words could leave his lips. You were already reaching for one, sliding it into place before he could even ask.
You simply knew. You knew him, and you knew exactly what he needed.
Standing back up, the air felt cool against your skin as you shimmied out of your skirt and top. You stood before him, fully bare except for your underwear, letting him take you in. You reached up then, your hands steady as you pulled his pants down, leaving only his boxers between you.
"What do you want me to do, Jack?" you whispered, leaning in to trail a line of kisses along the sharp line of his jaw.
"Any..anything," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. "You can do anything."
You smiled against his skin. It was exactly what you had hoped to hear, the permission to finally act on the countless things you’d spent forever imagining doing to him. You palmed him through the fabric of his boxers, finding him already hard, and the sight of him reacting so strongly to you made your mouth water.
He watched you with bated breath as you shifted, bending down to take him into your mouth. For a fleeting second, a spike of fear hit him, a sudden worry that he might come too quickly, that the sheer intensity of the moment would be over before it started. But when he looked back down at you, seeing the way you took him in, the worry vanished.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he breathed, his head falling back against the headboard. "That feels so good."
You sucked firmly around the tip, and you could feel him shaking underneath you, his body vibrating.
He was making the most delicious, ragged noises. You looked up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. His hand was tangled deep in your hair, his knuckles white, and his expression was strained, like he was fighting a losing battle with his own self control.
"Should I stop?" you asked, a playful smile tugging at your lips because you knew exactly what was racing through his head.
He let out a breathless laugh, his eyes dark and focused on you. "Maybe so. I haven't done this in a while... and I've been wanting you so bad. Your mouth is so good. I'm so close to coming, but I want to be in you."
A thrill went up your spine at the honesty. You didn't waste a second, moving to lie on your back and lifting your hips to discard your underwear. You watched him, your breath catching, as he fisted himself while watching you get ready for him.
You straddled him and felt the heat of his skin against yours. You slowly rubbed your slickness over his length, the friction making both of you gasp.
Jack groaned, reaching up to once again put his mouth on your breasts. He peppered you with kisses all over. Your chest, your neck, your shoulders, while his hips began rutting upward, seeking the very thing he’d been dreaming of for years.
You leaned down to kiss him, your fingers trailing a path of fire down his throat and across his chest. He moaned into your mouth.
You lifted yourself slightly and slowly inched down onto his cock. The feeling of him finally filling you was overwhelming, and you watched with excitement as Jack’s head fell back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Oh fuck," he rasped, an exhale of relief and pleasure.
You set a pace, bouncing up and down on him. His hands were everywhere. Restless, hungry, and all over you. He pinched at your nipples before his hands moved down to squeeze your hips and finally rest on your ass, guiding your movements.
He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding its mark and resting over your clit. He began rubbing in slow circles. You’d never in your life been able to cum while being on top, but the familiar tension in your belly started to coil and grow with intensity.
"Want you to come in me, Jack," you breathed out, your voice breaking.
Your movements were starting to get sloppy and desperate as you reached your climax, the world narrowing down to just the friction and the heat of him.
"I'll give you whatever you want. You can have whatever," Jack said. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to him as his own control shattered. "I'm going to fill you up, sweetheart."
…
The next morning, the sun began to spill into the room waking you both before the rest of the city had even started to stir. You stayed in bed for a long time, tangled in the sheets and lost in each other, perhaps even indulging in a repeat of the night before until the world outside became impossible to ignore.
Finally, deciding the bed had had enough of you both, you slipped out to grab some water from the kitchen. You were halfway across the living room when a knock sounded at the door.
You squinted through the peephole and saw a very familiar, very much alive face.
You pulled the door open, staring in disbelief. "Uhh, hi? Aren't you sick?"
John didn't answer with words. Instead, he smirked and pulled his phone from his pocket. With a triumphant flourish, he tapped the screen, and a soundboard full of various, wet coughing noises filled the hallway.
"Oh, you bitch," you said, the realization hitting you all at once.
John just kept smiling, his eyes trailing over you as he took in the scene. He looked you up and down, noting the bare legs and the fact that you were very clearly wearing a man’s shirt that didn't belong to you.
"Seems like I did what I needed to do," he noted, looking entirely too proud of himself.
Jack emerged from the bedroom, appearing behind you. "Oh, hey Shen," he said, his voice still gravelly from sleep. He reached out, casually slinging his arm around your shoulders and drawing you back against him. "Thanks for your conference ticket."
You stood there for a beat, your brain finally connecting the dots. "Oh, so you two are scheming together now?"
John just shrugged, stepping past you into the apartment. "Get over it," he said, heading straight for the cabinets. "You got anything to eat?"
You remained by the door, watching as Jack and John immediately fell into easy conversation in your kitchen.
You guess you couldn't be too upset. Not when everything had finally ended up exactly where it was supposed to be.
…
Jack had driven up specifically to help you load the last of your life into the car for the trek back to Pittsburgh when your residency ended. You’d been offered a prestigious position on the surgical team at New York General, but you hadn't hesitated to turn it down.
New York was incredible, but your heart and everything you truly loved were back in Pittsburgh.
It turned out that Robby had been busy while you were away. He’d pulled some serious strings to secure you a full time spot on the surgical team at PTMC. It was exactly what you wanted. While you weren't living in the constant, unmitigated chaos of the ER anymore, the trauma team was regularly called down for the heavy hits. It meant you got to be where the action was, and you got to see your boyfriend and your best friend in the process.
You were walking out of a trauma room, stripping off your surgical gown, when you spotted John standing at the nurses' station. True to form, he was still sucking on a damn Dunkin cup.
Without saying a word, you reached out. John rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull away. He just handed the cup over.
"You love me!" you said, cheesing at him as you took a sip of the sugary coffee.
Usually, John would have a sarcastic retort ready, but this time he didn't. He reached out and slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. "I do love you," he admitted, his voice surprisingly soft. "So much."
You heard the sound of heavy footsteps before you saw him. Jack came up to the station, eyes darting between you and John, a playful brow quirked. "Anything I should be worried about here?"
John stood up taller and he didn't let go of you immediately. "Yes," he deadpanned. "I will steal your girl."
He snatched the Dunkin cup back from your hand and started walking off toward a patient bay. You laughed, watching him go before turning to Jack. "Isn't he the best?"
Jack just let out a dramatic sigh, but the look in his eyes was nothing but warmth. He bent down, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss.
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Summary : A catastrophic medical emergency forces Abbot to shift from emotional detachment to clinical control as his girlfriend suffers a miscarriage, exposing the fractures in their relationship where love, grief, and guilt collide without resolution. Read part 1 first!
Enjoy! Pls... ;)
For a moment, nothing moves.
The words sit between them, fragile and impossible, like if either of them breathes too hard, they’ll shatter completely.
“I was pregnant.”
He stares at her, and she sees it land, sees the exact second it reaches him, not as sound, but as meaning. His expression doesn’t change all at once. It fractures, subtly, like something underneath has shifted out of place.
“I don’t think I am anymore.”
Silence, which usually held him fast, gives way. He moves.
It’s immediate, instinctive, his hands already on her before the space between them has fully closed, fingers firm at her wrists, then her abdomen, clinical, assessing, searching for something he can measure, something he can fix.
“Lie down,” he says, voice sharp, controlled in a way that feels forced, like it’s being held together by something thinner than it should be. “Now.”
She lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, but there’s no shape to it when it leaves her, no humour in it, no steadiness either, just something that falls apart before it can mean anything.
“I’m not a patient,” she tries, but the words falter halfway out, breaking apart under the weight of everything else.
His grip tightens, just slightly. “You are right now.”
The finality in it lands harder than anything else he’s said.
Not her name or anything soft. Not anything hers. A patient.
The room tilts again, the edges of it blurring, and this time her body doesn’t give her the choice to argue. Her knees buckle, and he catches her before she hits the floor, one arm braced around her back, the other steadying her as he guides ,no lowers , her onto the bed.
There’s warmth spreading beneath her, too much of it, wrong in a way her body understands before her mind does. It seeps, slow and unstoppable, and she sucks in a breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way into her lungs.
“No—” she starts, her voice a reedy, thin sound that hardly carried across the room.
“Stay with me,” he says, louder now, sharper, and for a second she despises how easily he slips into command, into authority, into something that doesn’t leave room for her to feel anything except what he needs her to be. He is already reducing her to something detached in his mind conscious and responsive.
The door opens and voices flood in, fast and overlapping, the quiet of the room shattering into something loud and clinical and painfully familiar.
“What happened—”
“Possible miscarriage,” he cuts in, already stepping back just enough to let others in, but not enough to leave. “Onset acute, significant bleeding, abdominal pain—get a monitor on her, now.”
The words come out clean, precise, impersonal, like they belong to someone describing a case, not someone standing inside it.
She feels them more than she hears them, each one landing somewhere deep, distant, like they belong to someone else entirely.
Hands replace his, his still warm, still unsteady with shock, while theirs are gloved, efficient, and calm, a well-oiled machine moving forward without hesitation. Someone lifts her shirt. Someone else adjusts the bed. The sharp scent of antiseptic cuts through the air, clean and harsh and unforgiving.
A monitor beeps to life beside her, the sound slicing through everything else, steady, insistent, indifferent. For a split second, it overlaps.
A small body, too still for its size, blue lips parted as if the last breath had been taken rather than released, water weighing down lungs that were never built to hold it. She blinks, and it’s gone, but it stays lodged behind her ribs like something her body refuses to forget.
He persisted in the doorway, a stubborn shadow. Not touching her now, but close enough that she can feel it,the tension in him, the way his presence presses into the space like something too large to contain, heavy and uninterrupted.
“BP dropping,” someone says.
“Fluids,” he answers, immediate. “Wide open.”
“Brother—”
“I’ve got it.”
But he doesn’t. She can hear it. In the slight delay before he responds. In the way his voice overlaps with the nurse’s, not quite in sync. In the way he repeats himself, quieter the second time, like he’s trying to convince himself the first was enough.
Her head moved only enough to bring him into the corner of her eye. Through the haze of her tears, his silhouette finally comes into focus—materializing into something familiar, a calm anchor in a world that keeps blurring at the edges, though even as she finds him, she can feel the way his attention keeps slipping away, pulled back toward the blood, the numbers on the monitor, everything measurable, everything that lets him turn this into something he can categorize instead of something he has to feel.
“Stay with me,” he says again, but it’s different this time, his voice is tight, held together too carefully as if he was forcing it to stay steady.
For a brief moment, something in him breaks from the rhythm of commands and responses, and his attention shifts entirely to her, his hand rising to cup the side of her face with a gentleness that feels out of place in the middle of such urgency, his thumb brushing faintly against her skin as though anchoring her there. He leans closer, his voice dropping as he says her name under his breath, her name breaks in his voice each time he says it, as if repetition alone could keep her here. While his other hand finds hers and holds it tightly, not to steady her body but to keep her present, his grip firm with something that feels dangerously close to fear. She hears him murmur something after that, quiet and uneven, words that do not sound practiced or certain, more like a prayer from someone who has never truly believed but is trying anyway, and for those few suspended seconds, even as the room continues moving around them, he gives her the kind of attention she had always reached for, only now, when it comes too late to hold onto.
Her lips part as she tries to answer, “I am,” the words barely making it into the air before another wave of pain tears through her, sharper and deeper, folding her inward as a broken sound escapes her before she can stop it.
“There’s too much—” someone starts.
“I know,” he says too quickly, too loudly, like saying it softer would mean he’s losing her.
“Brother,” Robby says more carefully, “I need you to step back.”
He doesn’t move, insisting, “I’m fine,” though the words come out strained, wrong, out of place.
The words hangs there, polite but firm, leaving no room for refusal, and for a moment it looks like he won’t listen, like he can’t, before something tight and brittle shifts in his expression and he steps back, then again, not far but far enough that he is no longer at the center, far enough that someone else takes his place, far enough that he is left to watch.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm, filling the space with something too loud, too constant, as his gaze fixes on it, on the numbers, on the rise and fall that means she is still here, still breathing, still his.
“There shouldn’t be this much blood,” he says, not realizing he has spoken aloud until someone glances at him. No one answers, because uncertainty has taken over the room, no one willing to speak what they can’t yet predict.
Time distorts after that, stretching and folding into fragments that refuse to connect, voices blurring as hands move and the urgency shifts, subtle but undeniable, becoming less frantic, more contained.
And that is when she knows, not from what is said but from what is no longer being said, from the way the room exhales as though something has already been decided.
Her gaze drifts until it finds him again, standing closer to the wall now, still watching, still unmoving, and for the first time since she has known him, he looks lost, stripped of control, of distance, left unmoored in a way that unsettles her more than anything else.
She wants to say something, though she does not know what, his name perhaps, or nothing at all, but the words dissolve before they can form as the ceiling blurs above her, the lights fading into indistinct brightness while the monitor continues its steady, relentless rhythm.
—
When she wakes again, the room is quieter, dimmer, the chaos replaced by something softer yet heavier, the absence of urgency, the absence of possibility settling into the space.
For a moment, she lies still, not thinking, until everything returns in fragments,the pain, the blood, his voice, as her hand moves slowly to her abdomen, pressing lightly against what now feels flat, empty, the realization settling deep and immovable in her chest.
He sits in the chair beside her, his prosthetic leg angled slightly forward in a way that never quite lets him settle comfortably, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely as his head stays bowed just enough to obscure his expression until he looks up at her movement, their eyes meeting as something sharp tightens in her chest.
Because he is still here. But not in the way she needs him to be.
Silence stretches between them until she finally says, “I was going to tell you,” her voice rough and worn thin at the edges.
He nods once. “I know.”
But he didn’t. That’s the problem.
The silence deepens, heavier now, as he inhales like he is about to speak, stopping, trying again before the words finally come. “When she died,” he begins, the phrase unfamiliar, unused, “I—” He falters, swallowing, his gaze dropping to his hands as he finishes quietly, “I knew what I lost.”
The words settle heavily, offering neither comfort nor understanding, only something that presses against the rawness of her grief.
She studies him for a long moment before answering.
“I was already carrying it,” she says. Her voice is steady, almost detached, like she is stating something clinical. Because to her, it isn’t a revelation. It’s a fact that existed before anyone else was allowed to understand it, before it became something that could be spoken about as loss instead of life.
He flinches, barely, but she sees it and hates that she does.
“I didn’t know,” he says, as though it explains anything.
“It was still there,” she replies, stronger now. “And now it’s not.”
He says nothing, because nothing would make it better, and the silence stretches again, unyielding, as he shifts slightly, his hand lifting as though to reach for her before stopping, falling back to his side. Her eyes follow the movement, tracing every deliberate hesitation, until they catch on his hand, bare where the ring should be, the skin beneath it faintly paler, a quiet ghost of something he has finally taken off, a line of absence carved into him like proof that even what once bound him has been set down. And it lands in her chest with a dull, delayed understanding: that it took her almost slipping away for him to loosen his grip on something that had always stood between them, as if her near-disappearance was the only language strong enough to make him choose to live differently.
She turns away then, slowly and deliberately, choosing not to look at him, not to close her eyes, but simply not to choose him, while behind her the chair creaks softly as he leans back, neither leaving nor coming closer.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm, filling the silence with something constant, something alive, the same sound she used to dread, the one that once made her anxious with every fluctuation, now oddly soothing simply because it is the only thing she can focus on, because in a room that feels like it is falling apart, it is the only thing that still insists she is not alone in it.
And it goes on. Uninterrupted, filling the space where answers should be, but aren’t yet.
AHHHHHHH!!! Thank u for the loveeeeeee
AN: Lol, did I skip uni just to write this?.... anyway pls forgive the ending. I had some people asking me for a happy ending and some wanting a sad ending, and I couldn't decide because the number of people asking was even. So its an open ending!! ( I hate open endings but for my pookies I will do it) i was gonna have her die like deja vu , I was thinking his wife died in childbirth to give extra angst but... next time?
but do you want a Robby, Shen or Langdon fic next?
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