oh god my mind is going a mile an hour

Masterlist (*18+)

A/N: In general, it’s safe to assume that all fics for a specific character take place in the same universe.

The PITT

Brendon Park

Closet Gremlin You’re in the last year of your PhD program at Carnegie Mellon, conducting research at PTMC. You don’t have time to be distracted, certainly not by a handsome orthopedic surgeon with an attitude problem. 

Office Gremlin “You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.”

Get In Gremlin Your car is in the shop. Brendon forces upon offers you a ride home. 

Swimming With Sharks You end up in the ED with a teensy, tiny head wound. Brendon makes it everyone’s problem.

The Shark's Lair You have a concussion. Brendon has control issues. Somehow, this results in you sleeping over at his apartment and wearing his shirt.

Shark Bait* PTMC’s new head of vascular surgery takes a liking to you. Brendon is pissed the fuck off unamused with this development.

Calmer Seas A Saturday evening with the Shark. 

Hurricane Season You attend the CMU/PTMC research gala without Brendon. You have a terrible time. Brendon predictably takes issue with this. 

Safe Harbor The aftermath of the research gala hits you hard. Insert Brendon Emotionally Constipated Park and his attempts to comfort you. (ft. Jack Daddy Abbot)

Shark Day* You take Brendon to the aquarium for his birthday. Brendon tells you it’s a stupid idea. Brendon spends two hours staring at fish.

Hypothetically (smau) wOUld yOU lovE me iF i WaS a WOrM

With Teeth* Brendon loses a patient. You give him back control in the only way you know how.

Headcanons

Top Gun: Maverick

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

“I swear to fucking god if you start singing happy birthday, I will throw you out of the car.”

“But I’m the one driving. We would both die.”

“I said what I fucking said.”

You smile in delight. Brendon scowls back. 

The day has been pretty unremarkable up to this point. He left home before you were even awake and spent the day operating and terrorizing surgical residents. You attended some meetings on campus in the morning before moving over to the hospital to work on your model. Very normal. But despite his best efforts to get you to treat this like any other Tuesday, you’re fairly vibrating with energy. It’s his birthday after all.

Well, technically tomorrow is his birthday. But he’s on call tomorrow, and you never plan things when he’s on call. It’s like saying it’s quiet in the ED — there’s no empirical evidence to suggest any negative causal effect, but everyone knows you just don’t do it.

So here you are, driving your silently-fuming boyfriend to a mystery destination, while he tries to kill you with his eyes for daring to celebrate him. You beam and wonder, not for the first time, if there’s something wrong with you.  It’s probably not healthy to enjoy antagonizing him so much. But the longer the two of you are together, the more you realize that the more annoyed he gets, the more fun you’re probably having. And right now, he is livid.

“You can’t be mad yet — you don’t even know where we’re going,” you remind him.

“That’s the first issue,” he snaps back. “The fact that you’re the one driving.”

“Hey! I’m a perfectly good driver. I’ve never gotten a ticket.”

“Because giving you a ticket would be like kicking a sad puppy. Doesn’t change the fact that your spatial awareness skills are shit and you can’t park to save your life.”

You reach over and smack his arm without taking your eyes off the road.

“What the fuck?”

“See? I didn’t even have to look. I have great spacial awareness.”

“I will murder you in your sl-“

“Oh look, we’re here.”

He pauses mid-death threat as you turn into the parking lot, sees where you are, then resumes said death threat with vigor.

“I will kill you while you sleep. Why are we at the aquarium?”

It seems like a pretty obvious question, so you ignore him and his steadily rising blood pressure while you park. You’re not nearly as bad at it as he likes to pretend, but it does take a fair amount of concentration to get the car parallel to the lines. He waits like a gentleman while you focus, then immediately resumes his grumbling once you cut the engine.

“This is stupid,” he snipes.

“Have you ever even been to an aquarium?”

“No. There are better ways to waste my time.”

Then he gets out of the car, rounds the hood, and opens the door for you. He also doesn’t immediately back away after he helps you out. Instead he crowds you against the door, bracing his hands against the hood and caging you in. 

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters lowly. 

You hum in response. Having anyone else this close would make you feel nervous, but right now all you feel is safe and loved. Especially since he dips down just enough to press a kiss on top of your head. You do take a moment to search his eyes for any sign that he’s actually unhappy, but you don’t find any. Instead, there’s a spark of interest buried beneath five layers of false affront. God, you love him.

“Come on,” you say, ducking under his arm and dodging his attempt to snag your waist. “It’ll be fun.”

“You think coding books are fun. Excuse me if I don’t trust your judgment.”

But he turns and follows you, and after a few steps of dignified distance, he slips his hand into yours.

When you first met Brendon Park, you got the impression that he tolerated few people and liked even fewer. You had been correct. You also would have put money on him being incapable of basic niceness, and you had again, been correct. Even after a couple of months together, he’s still more likely to say have you always been this annoying when he sees you instead of I missed you. But what you never would have guessed and what you weigh far more than his verbal hostility, is his seemingly pathological need to be physically close to you. 

If the two of you are sitting on the couch, he tugs you against his side. When you’re eating dinner, he hooks one ankle around yours under the table. Sharing a bed with him is always an exercise in patience, since you don’t like being touched when you sleep, and he would like nothing more than to fuse himself to your back. 

His need to touch you persists even in public. Maybe especially in public. He thinks most people are idiots, and he doesn’t like idiots near you. Ergo, he keeps you tucked close when you’re out together. He always has a hand on your waist or the small of your back, and he uses his size as a buffer between you and everyone else. You’d teased him once, saying he wouldn’t die if you wandered into the next grocery aisle without him, and he’d referred to you as annoying-ass gremlin for the rest of the night. He’d also continued keeping you glued to his side.

He does the same now, using your hand to anchor you as you navigate the entrance to the aquarium even though there aren’t many people here. You’d chosen a weekday evening purposefully. He’s surprisingly tolerant of children, but you know he’ll still enjoy himself more without fifty million families running around. 

“I still think this is stupid,” he grumbles once you pass ticketing and security and enter the main atrium. “I want it on the record that I’m only staying because you would pout otherwise.”

“Mm hmm. Come on, I want to see the sharks first.”

“You think you’re fucking funny.”

You do, actually, and you’re also right. 

Brendon Park doesn’t like celebrating his birthday. Brendon Park thinks aquariums are dumb. Brendon Park spends the next two hours looking in every single tank and reading every single sign in the aquarium you took him to for his birthday.  

The aquarium is attached to a zoo, but he seems completely uninterested in both land creatures and marine mammals. He doesn’t even venture into the zoo exhibits, and he walks past polar bears, sea lions, and seals like they’re not there. He does pause by the crocodiles for a minute, but he moves on quickly.

The fish are the only thing that hold his attention. He stands in the coral reef exhibit, arms crossed and unmoving, for a solid twenty minutes. Just his eyes shift, tracking the fish as they dart around the display. At one point you find him zeroed in on a clown fish hovering around an anemone, and you ask him if it’s because he likes Finding Nemo. He tells you to mind your own business. 

The thing he loves most though is the open ocean exhibit. All the practice he gets standing for hours during surgery pays off, because he parks himself in front of the massive tank and then ceases acknowledging the outside world. The only things that exist to him are the 90,000 gallons of water, the sharks inside of it, and occasionally you when you nudge him before he tells you to leave him alone. 

You’re not nearly as fascinated by the fish as he is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s happy despite his best efforts not to be, and you’re happy just watching him. You watch the way the tension in his shoulders gradually drains away, the way the corner of his mouth keeps threatening to tilt up. It makes your heart do something mushy. 

He’s always focused, always serious. He’s freakishly disciplined, and you don’t think you’ve ever once seen him skip a workout or meal prepping or anything else you consider highly optional. Getting to see him slow down and just enjoy himself feels almost sacred. 

Later, much later, when the two of you are walking back to the car, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss there.

“So did you like it?” you ask.

You already know the answer, you just want to make him say it. He, predictably, does not.

“No.”

You laugh and pretend you don’t see him looking at aquarium memberships on his phone in the car.

When the two of you get back to his place, he goes upstairs to take a shower, and you make an excuse about needing to clean the kitchen. He glances over at the spotless kitchen, looks back at your thrilled smile, and mutters fucking unbelievable under his breath before disappearing up the stairs. 

You wait until you hear the shower turn on before you scramble into the den. It takes some effort to retrieve the bag you’d stashed under the couch earlier in the week, but you manage it. Inside is his present and the wrapping paper you swore you’d take care of yesterday. You absolutely had not. So now you’re racing to wrap the small package before he finishes his military-speed shower, and you’ve barely finished when you hear the water shut off.

Triumphant, you race up the stairs and catch him just as he steps into the bedroom. His hair is wet, and there’s a towel wrapped around his waist, and you admittedly get sidetracked for a minute. It’s not your fault though. There’s a water droplet making its way down his chest and abs. Anyone would be distracted.

“Imp,” he prompts, amused.

“Right, sorry. Happy birthday!”

You pull the present from behind your back and hold it out with a flourish. 

“I said no gifts,” he says slowly.

“Yup!”

Interest, annoyance, and resignation pass across his face in rapid succession. You beam. You watch as he makes his way to the bed and perches on the end of it like he’s ready to bolt at any given second, then place the parcel in his lap.

A moment passes where he just looks at it, and you see something vulnerable flit across his expression. Your heart squeezes. You know his mom died when he was young, and his dad was an objectively terrible parent. He’s dated here and there, but nothing ever serious, and all of his friends from med school and residency live in other states. You wonder how long it’s been since someone gave him a birthday present.

“I can hear you thinking sappy thoughts from here,” he grumbles when you lower lip does something traitorous. 

“Am not,” you counter with absolutely no conviction. 

You don’t know why, but you’re suddenly nervous for him to open your gift. It’s small, simple. Maybe he won’t like it, or he’ll think it’s stupid. Actually, he’s probably guaranteed to think it’s stupid, but maybe he’ll think it’s unacceptable levels of stupid. What if this is the first birthday present he’s had in years and it’s not-

He picks it up and starts unwrapping it.

He does it slowly, methodically. In fact, he takes the time to peel off the tape instead of tearing the paper, and you smile despite your nerves. Ridiculous man. Eventually though, he gets to the actual box, and you hold your breath while he opens the lid.

Inside is a scrub cap. It’s plain — solid navy like the scrubs all surgical staff are required to wear. But when he picks it up, the inside becomes visible, and he pauses. Sharks. The inside of the cap is lined with sharks. There’s also a tiny block of embroidery that says To Shark, From Imp, and he just stares at it. Silence fills the room, and your pathological need to fill it kicks in full force. 

“I know you secretly like being Park the Shark, but I know you would rather die than tell anyone else, so I thought maybe the inside of the cap would be okay since no one but you would know it’s there well except for me I guess but if you think it’s dumb I can-“

He kisses you.

He drops the box and the cap on the ground and yanks you into his lap. Your gasp of surprise gets lost against his mouth when it slots over yours, and then he’s kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t. There’s no warning, no gentle ease-in — just heat and intensity and the immediate feeling of being consumed.

His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he bites punishingly at your lower lip. Arousal flares, sharp and sudden. You shift until you’re straddling him, delving your fingers into his still-damp hair and pressing yourself as close as humanly possible. The towel around his waist comes undone somewhere in the shuffle, and you gasp. You’re wearing a floaty sundress, and suddenly the only thing between you and his rapidly-hardening cock is the thin material of your panties.

“D-do you like it?” you stutter. “I-“

He rolls his hips up into you, and you break off on a moan. 

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” he snarls back.

Then he’s standing with you in his arms and turning to deposit you on the bed. You hit the mattress with a faint oof, but you don’t have time to complain before he’s shoving your dress up and dropping to his knees.

“Fucking shark cap,” he spits as he yanks your panties down.

Then his mouth is on you, and you forget what words are, let alone complete sentences. He doesn’t waste time teasing. He just latches onto your clit and sucks until your back bows off the bed. Your legs attempt to snap closed at the sudden overload of sensation, but he just growls an approximation of behave against your pussy and keeps going. You whimper. 

Brendon Park gives head the same way he performs high-risk surgery — with laser focus and devastating precision. He tracks every minute twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breathing and change in your expression. He’s almost clinical about it. Like you’re a computer program, and he’s trying to figure out the right inputs to make the model work. 

His tongue traces a particular pattern against your clit, then does it again when your leg tenses. He pauses to suck a bruise onto your inner thigh, then repeats the gesture when you flex into the pain. He presses one finger inside of you and crooks it with perfect memory, and he makes a pleased noise when you moan.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and your cunt clenches violently.

He takes this as his sign to add another finger. Then he’s licking and sucking your clit again, and you grab the sheets so hard you’re surprised they don’t tear. 

You come embarrassingly fast.

He fucks you with his fingers bent at the perfect angle and scrapes his teeth across your clit, and your orgasm tears through you like a freight train. You choke out his name as pleasure arcs like lightning through your body. Your hips grind down against his face of their own volition, and he hums in approval. He also doesn’t stop, and he works you through this orgasm and well on your way to another.

“Bren,” you gasp. “N-no more.”

He doesn’t even pretend to listen. You both know that if you actually wanted him to stop, you would use your safe word. But you don’t, and neither does he. He keeps fucking his fingers directly against your g-spot with ruthless accuracy, while his tongue alternates between lapping at your folds and sucking on your clit. Your blood turns to lava in your veins.

You feel a second orgasm fast approaching, and you try to squirm away from him.

“I said behave,” he grunts. “Y-“

“Want you inside.”

That finally makes him pause. He looks up at you, and you flush at the sight of your release on his lips and chin. His pupils are blown, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises, and there’s something feral in his gaze. The fingers in your cunt deliver a slow, almost thoughtful stroke. 

“I don’t think you should be making demands when it’s my birthday.”

His thumb moves to your clit, and your legs spasm. 

“Br-“

“I suppose I could accommodate you though if you beg.”

You whine, high and helpless. It’s not the first, the second, or even the tenth time he’s said something like that to you, but it hits you like lightning nonetheless. Your cheeks go nuclear, and your brain goes liquid. You also obey without thinking.

“Please,” you gasp.

He cocks his head.

“Please what?”

“Brendon.”

“Hmm, you’re going to have to be specific, sweetheart.”

His voice is condescending and just a touch cruel, and for a second you’re worried you’re going to come again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers. He smiles viciously, well aware of the effect he has on you, and waits. You whimper. You just came on his face, but you’re somehow still embarrassed as you say-

“Please, can I have your cock.”

Satisfaction, swift and possessive, lights his face, and then he’s pulling his hand away from you and crawling over body.

“So pretty when you beg. I should make you do it more.”

This time your pussy clenches around nothing, and he actually laughs at you.

“Desperate little thing.”

Any protests die in your throat when he yanks one of your knees up around his hip and drives into you with one, harsh thrust.

You’ve already come once, and you’re so wet you’re nearly dripping, but the intrusion still steals your breath. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him. His cock is long and thick enough that every time feels like the first, and you moan at the feeling of being stretched until it’s nearly pain. Then he grinds his hips against yours, forcing himself impossibly deeper, and the ache sharpens until it’s just this side of unbearable. 

The orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

He’s not touching your clit, isn’t even thrusting. You’re just sensitive enough from having his mouth on you and lost enough in the feel of him that the final bite of pain pushes you over. You clamp down on his cock so hard that he chokes and sob as your release tears through you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, your hips jerking uncontrollably like they’re unsure of whether to push closer or pull away. 

“Are you-“

His jaw goes slack with shock for a second, and he freezes.

“You’re-, fuck.”

Something dark and violent and possessive crosses his face, and then he’s fucking you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You think you might if he does. Because you’re still coming, delirious with it, and the feel of him suddenly thrusting his cock into you nearly makes you cry.

“Bren,” you sob, shoving against his chest.

He just fucks you harder. Grabs both your hands in one of his and slams them to the mattress above your head like your overstimulation is just a mild inconvenience to him. 

“Greedy little thing,” he snarls. “Pretty pussy is so desperate for my cock, you can’t even wait for me to fuck you properly.”

You make a noise that’s half agreement, half whine. You think you’ve finally stop coming, but you don’t really know. Everything is hot and wet and too much, and he’s so deep you can feel him in your throat. He grinds deep every time he bottoms out, the movement scraping his pelvis against your clit and punching an embarrassing ah, ah, ah out of you each time. You’re too gone to care. The pleasure is a razor sharp blade tearing its way through, and your entire body feels like a raw, exposed nerve.

You can feel every ridge and vein on his cock as he bullies his way into you, and his tip hits something devastating at the top of each thrust. The intensity of it threatens to make your eyes close, but you force them to stay open. He’s beautiful like this. Cheeks flushed and brow damp with sweat, mouth open on a wordless groan when he shifts your leg to open you wider.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s everything. The feel of him above you, in you, his taste on your tongue and his voice whispering filth in your ear. Vaguely, you’re aware of your hands falling limp at your sides, your eyes drifting closed. Words leave you, and your brain goes fuzzy.

“Fuck, sweetheart, stay with me.”

His voice somehow reaches you and doesn’t at the same time. You try to answer and can’t.

“I know, baby, it feels so good. Just- shit, stay with me.”

You try, you really do. But you’re floating somewhere above your body, and you can’t find your way back down. Every thrust shreds a little bit more of your sanity. You’re so wet you can hear it every time he pulls out. Your body is a live wire, your brain is full of static, and nothing feels real anymore.

“Y/n.”

His voice is sharper this time, more demanding. A pathetic whine escapes your throat. You want to be good for him — you always want to be good for him. Desperate, you fumble around until you find his hand and place it on your chest. Maybe if he holds you down, you won’t float away. 

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hand slides up to collar your throat, and you keen. You crash back into your body like a falling star, and awareness returns to you all at once. The sound of his hips striking the backs of your thighs with every thrust. The smell of sweat and sex and soap on his skin. The taste of him when he leans down to kiss you. He’s everywhere, he’s everything. 

“There you are,” he grunts when your eyes fly open. “Good girl.”

“P-please,” you whine back. 

You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just that you need it more than you need your next breath. But he knows, he always knows, and he bends to kiss you again. You sigh into his mouth. 

“Doing so well for me,” he coos.

You preen, arching your back to get even closer. 

“That’s it. Such a pretty baby.”

“I love you,” you gasp.

His expression goes feral.

“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”

“Y-yours.”

“Now my pretty girl is going to come on my cock.”

You whimper and shake your head. You don’t know how you can possibly come again. You’ve already come twice, and it feels like the second orgasm never ended. Your pussy is clamped down around him like a fist, and every thrust shoots lightning up your spine. Any more sensation and you’re going to pass out.

“I can’t.”

He makes a disappointed noise and fakes a pout at you. Your heart stops. 

“I thought you were my good girl, what happened, baby?”

You whine, devastated, and he shushes you.

“You just need to come, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

You nod your head frantically. You can do it, you can be good. You’re always good for him. You reach a shaking hand down between your bodies to your clit, then flinch at the first brush of your fingers. The pleasure is so sharp it’s like a knife. Your pussy tightens until it hurts, and you can’t-

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He shudders, head dropping into the crook of your neck. The groan he lets out is filthy, and the sound of his pleasure is enough to make you keep going. You force your fingers to resume their movements even if it feels like fire traveling through your veins. 

“T-there you go, feels so good. Fuck, that’s my girl.”

He shifts his hips, and his cock shreds up against something electric in you. 

“This perfect goddamned pussy. Just want to stay inside you for the-“

He makes a sound like he’s in pain, and your vision whites out.

“God fucking damn, the r-rest of my fucking life.”

You sob out an approximation of his name, legs clamping around his waist like you want to push him away and keep him close at the same time. Everything where you’re joined is a wet mess. Your fingers are barely keeping up their stiff movements, and you think you might be hyperventilating. But you can also feel the beginnings of another orgasm pulling at your exhausted body, and you fairly cry in relief.

“G-gonna come,” you whisper.

Savage satisfaction lights his face.

“That’s it. Come for me, sweetheart, I want to feel it.”

His hand tightens around your neck, just enough to make you work for the next breath, and you shatter.

Your whole body spasms, and your cunt locks down like a vice. It tears through you, stealing sight, sound, and thought as it goes — nothing is real except the pleasure. It hurts this third time around, and that combined with his grip on your neck is enough to send you spiraling.

“Good girl, shit, so damn gorgeous c-coming on my cock.”

And then he’s coming, too. He groans brokenly, face twisted in a snarl as he empties inside of you. He doesn’t stop, either. He keeps rutting his hips against yours, riding out the orgasm and fucking his come into you like he’s trying to brand you. The thought prolongs your own high, and you’re actually crying from overstimulation when he finally, finally stops. 

“Bren,” you whimper.

“I’m here, baby. Shh, you’re okay.”

Your senses return to you one by one, your eyes opening last. You blink slowly at the sight of him still above you, wild and wrecked and so, so beautiful. His expression gentles. He bends down to give you a slow, lingering kiss, one that’s comfort as much as it is affection.

“I’m going to pull out, okay?” he murmurs.

You shake your head immediately and cling to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes a second, but you eventually nod and loosen your grip. A distressed whine leaves your throat when he withdraws from your body, but true to his word, he doesn’t go anywhere. There’s come dripping out of you, and you’re both sweaty and disheveled, but he just curls around you and tucks you against his chest. The two of you lay there like that for a long time. Neither of you speak, content to just trade soft touches and breath. 

His hand runs soothing patterns over your back, and his lips keep brushing kisses over your temple. That along with the sound of his heart beating underneath your ear is enough to relax your whole body, and you’re nearly asleep when he finally speaks.

“Imp.”

“Hmm?”

You crack open one eye to see him staring at you with devotion so intense it’s violence.

The alarm goes off way too early.

It’s technically not your alarm, it’s Brendon’s, but that doesn’t matter when he’s sleeping right next to you. Even though he’s up immediately like always and silences it before it finishes its second ring. It wakes you anyways.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs when you roll over to face him. 

You respond by burrowing into his chest. 

It’s the morning after the gala disaster, and you don’t feel ready to face whatever today is going to be. You’re going to have to talk to your department chair, maybe Nayar, and you’re going to have to recount everything that happened last night. Part of you wants to just ignore everything and pretend it didn’t happen, but the other part of you knows you can’t do that.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble against his shoulder.

You’re feeling clingy and disinclined to deny yourself. It’s too dark in the room to properly make out your wrist, but a quick poke at it confirms it’s likely bruised. There’s also a bandage on your thumb from where you’d sliced it open on your broken phone screen, and you feel like you deserve to be a little needy today.

When you’d gotten home last night, Brendon had examined your minor injuries like they were battle wounds. He’d snarled approximately fifty death threats against Jeremy while carefully moving your wrist around, then said you were banned from phones while bandaging your thumb. You hadn’t minded too much though. He’d followed you into the shower and fussed over you, then taken a hairbrush and diligently detangled and dried your hair. It was somehow both completely in and totally out of character for him. 

Sappy you’d teased him.

Reckless, clumsy-ass gremlin he’d snapped back.

Then he’d given you one of his shirts to sleep in, even though you had your own, and wrapped himself around you in bed like you would disappear if he let go.

The sentiment has clearly carried into this morning, because instead of being his usual practical self, he just nods and tugs you impossibly closer. In fact, he lays there holding you for much longer than five minutes, far beyond when he’d usually get up and start getting ready. You whine in protest when he finally sits up.

“I know, imp. It’ll be okay.”

He brushes your hair back from your face and strokes your cheek.

“Should I be worried you’re still being nice?” you ask with a wan smile.

“You’re a fucking menace to yourself and to my blood pressure, better?”

You turn your face to kiss his palm.

“Much.”

He clips you gently under the chin and then disappears into the bathroom. You lay there a while longer, gathering your will to live, but eventually get up, too. You would normally go back to sleep for a while, but you know you won’t get any rest without him this morning. Might as well head to campus early. 

Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom. Brendon is standing at the sink shaving, and you wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek to his back. You take a moment to enjoy the feel of his muscles shifting under your touch, then drop a kiss on his shoulder blade and pull away to find your toothbrush.

You get ready together in easy silence, though he does pause to look at your wrist again. The skin there is indeed starting to bruise, even if it’s only faintly, and his jaw nearly creaks with how hard he clenches it.

“I’m fine,” you say softly.

He growls something under his breath but doesn’t push the issue.

Ten minutes later, you’re both dressed and downstairs in the kitchen. You crack some eggs into a pan on the stove, while he throws some bread into the toaster and turns on the coffee machine. The domesticity of it soothes some of your nerves and makes your pulse flutter at the same time. He’s so imposing at the hospital, sharp and confident and larger than life. The thrill of being the one to see him in these quieter moments is one you don’t think will ever go away.

Breakfast passes quickly, and it’s too soon before you’re both in the mudroom putting your shoes on. You feel like you’re getting ready to walk in front of a firing squad. You haven’t done anything wrong, and you’re not in any trouble, but your body is still pumping out adrenaline like it’s getting ready to fight a bear.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks quietly.

You look up so fast you give yourself whiplash.

“Seriously? You have consults all day.”

“You’re more important.”

A lump forms in your throat, and your lower lip starts wobbling.

“Shit, new rule. You can’t cry before seven AM.”

But like always, his actions betray his words, and he wraps his arms around you. 

“Bossy,” you huff into his shirt.

“You like me bossy.”

The words send a small pulse of heat through your body, and you swat half-heartedly at his shoulder. Menace of a man. But you make no move to extricate yourself from his grasp, and you feel your shoulders slowly relax and inch down from your shoulders. 

“You should go to work,” you finally decide.

He hugs you a bit tighter but doesn’t question you.

“Call me if you need to,” he says instead.

Which is how you end up alone on campus half an hour later, staring at the computer engineering building and regretting your earlier burst of independence. This would be way easier if you had Brendon scowling people into submission next to you. But he’s miles away doing rounds with his residents, and you’re just wasting time standing here. Reluctantly, you make your way inside.

The walk to Dr. Kavis’ office takes forever and no time at all. You know he doesn’t teach class until nine, so you’re unsurprised to see him sitting behind his desk, sipping a cup of tea and playing Wordle on his phone. He’s so focused he doesn’t notice you at first, and you shake your head fondly.

Peter Kavis is a balding man in his forties who loves word games, ornithology, and patterned bow ties. He’s an associate professor who splits time between computer engineering and health administration, and he always, always, always is carrying a cup of tea. He doesn’t often take grad students, but when he does, he treats them like family. 

You’d interviewed with several programs before settling on CMU. Great programs at great schools. But in addition to the quality of the program itself, you knew advisors could make or break your graduate school career, and Kavis is what had ultimately sold you on CMU. You’d been grateful for that decision every day of the last four years. 

He and his wife had you over for dinner regularly. You watched their kids when they had date nights, and he threw you a bird-themed party when you got your masters and again when you passed your quals. They were your family, and the sight of him and his ridiculous sloth-patterned bow tie calm the worst of your nerves.

“Peter?”

“Ah! Y/n! I just beat the Wordle in three!”

You manage a smile and walk in to take the seat in front of his desk. The smile must not be very convincing though, because he tilts his head and asks-

“Is everything alright?” 

You let out a nervous laugh.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

He sets down his tea, which is how you know he’s deathly serious. He nods.

You proceed to spend the next twenty minutes recounting your run-in with Jeremy at the gala, as well as all the times he’s approached you in the past. You make sure to mention Everett, Brendon, and anyone else who has directly seen him interact with you, and then show Peter the bruises on your wrist. Peter listens to it all in solemn silence.

“-and then he threw his drink on me and walked away.”

This is the third time you’ve recited the events of last night. The first was the abbreviated version to Brendon over the phone, then the extended one when you got home. That second time, you’d spoken in between showering and dressing and getting into bed. Brendon had been wrapped around you basically the whole time, and you’d had his touch to anchor you. Right now, you’re sitting by yourself under fluorescent lighting, feeling like you’re on the witness stand, and you pick nervously at the hair tie on your wrist while you wait for Peter to respond.

“Oh, my dear girl.”

He gets up and rounds the desk. Something in your face must tell him you’re not particularly eager for a hug at the moment, so he settles on placing a hand on your shoulder instead. 

What follows is what you expected — immediate care and concern, followed by some additional clarification questions. He makes sure he understands exactly what happens, then tells you he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. What you were not expecting is his complete lack of interest in Jeremy’s accusations. In fact, he breezes so smoothly past them that you’re not sure he heard you.

“Um, did you-, is it going to matter what Jeremy said about me?” you ask hesitantly.

Jeremy’s actions had left you with two choices: one, pretend nothing happened or two, report him. You would have been more inclined to choose the first option if he hadn’t grabbed you. The physical imprint on your wrist made it hard to pretend everything was a misunderstanding or blown out of proportion. It also made you wonder if Jeremy acted like this with other students. That left the second option, which would inevitably involve people asking whether or not his accusations held any truth.

You and Brendon had discussed all this the night before. He had, predictably, been much calmer about it than you.

“I have no supervisory, practical, or operational authority over you. There is no HR violation. The only reason we kept it quiet was in case it affected your ORD Director application at PTMC, but reporting this to CMU shouldn’t change anything. Better you write the narrative than Jeremy.”

You understand his logic, believe it even, but that doesn’t make the situation any less nerve wracking.

“Will it affect my chances for the Weslier?” you continue. “Jeremy said something about that, and I, uh…”

You take a deep breath.

“I am dating one of the surgeons at PTMC. But I swear he hasn’t interfered with my application or anything and I would never ask him to and we don’t even overlap at work at all and-“

“Y/n.”

You freeze mid ramble.

“Y/n, you could be hosting swing parties for the entirety of the PTMC staff, and it would not excuse Mr. Hayes’ behavior towards you.”

He’s looking at you with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on his face. Your shoulders drop several inches and tears prick your eyes. You didn’t realize how important it was to you to hear him say that until now.

“Does this surgeon have anything to do with the university’s research program or your work?”

You shake your head vigorously.

“Then I don’t see why it should matter.“

The rest of the conversation is mostly logistics. Yes, Everett will likely need to submit a statement. No, Brendon doesn’t need to be involved. Peter will take care of bringing this up to Dr. Yarrich, the department chair, and you need to focus on written documentation and photo evidence of your wrist. Your head is spinning by the end of it. This was not on your 2018 bingo card. 

“Thank you,” you say at the end, when you’re picking your bag up from the floor and getting ready to leave. “I’m sorry I-“

“If you apologize for Mr. Hayes’ poor decisions, I will cancel your graduation party.”

That pulls a small, tired smile from you, and you finally accept a hug from him. 

“We’ll take care of this, Y/n. Now go home and take the rest of the day off.”

You would normally object but one, you don’t actually want to work and two, you have other things to take care of. So you take the offered out and leave his office with a promise to let him know if anything comes up. 

You wait until you’re out of the building and on the way back to the parking deck before pulling out your phone to text Brendon. He’d given you one of his old ones to use until you can replace your own. You tell him things went well with Kavis and that you’ll fill him in later — it’s just after eight in the morning on a clinic day, which means he’s undoubtedly in the middle of rounds right now. You’re shocked when your phone rings not a minute later.

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching right now?” you ask when you pick up.

“Reid isn’t completely useless. He’ll be fine babysitting for five minutes.”

Reid is one of the orthopedic fellows, one you know Brendon actually kind of likes even if he’ll never admit it.

“Peter said I can go home,” you tell him. “I have to type everything up.”

“You should stop by the hospital first.”

His voice drops.

“Go to the ED and ask for Abbot. He’s expecting you.”

A bolt of discomfort runs down your spine.

“You said my wrist is fine.”

“It is, but you should have it documented in your medical record.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. In case Jeremy calls you a liar. Your heart thumps too hard. You don’t know why the thought of going to the ED makes you nervous, but it does. Maybe because going there will make everything feel official, because it’ll mean you really are serious about escalating things.

“Do I have to?” you whisper.

“No.”

His answer surprises you.

“If you don’t want to, we’ll figure out something else.”

It’s a Monday. You’re wearing your ugly, comfy bra. You barely slept and look like it, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to start your period. It’s an objectively terrible time to make life changing declarations, but your brain clearly didn’t get the memo. All it can focus on is Brendon took care of you last night. Brendon is still taking care of you. Brendon said we like he doesn’t mind if you act like a child and refuse to go see Abbot. We will figure it out. We will-

“I love you,” you blurt.

Your own words startle you so badly that you almost drop your borrowed phone. 

“I mean-, I don’t-“

You’re just going to kill yourself now. Which, admittedly, is kind of dramatic given the two of you have basically agreed to marry each other at this point. But getting married is practical. It’s quantifiable, tangible. Saying I love you is an amorphous, abstract concept that makes your logical brain spasm. Besides, he’s the one who initiated the not-a-proposal-yet conversation. You don’t feel mature enough to pay rent let alone declare your love unprompted to-

He sighs.

“I love you, too, now are you going to see Abbot or not?”

He says it the same way he says I have a late surgery or you shed like a fucking cat. Matter of fact. Like it’s a forgone conclusion. Like he hasn’t just altered the foundation of your person.

Typical.

“I’ll go?”

It comes out sounding like a question, because you’re still not sure you actually want to. But just the knowledge that you can change your mind and he’ll be okay with it settles some of the nerves. He’s micromanaged a plan into place, but it’s your choice to follow it or not. You feel taken care of. You feel loved. You say it again, stronger.

“I’ll go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jack Abbot is a dangerous man.

Not because he’s bigger than you, which he is. Not because he’s apparently a combat-trained Army vet, which he also is. But because he’s handsome and kind and just charming enough to make it clear he’s mostly unaware of the effect he has on women. 

He’s standing next to the exam table, typing something into your chart, while you try not to stare too obviously at him. You don’t know why you’re so flustered. Everett has objectively more symmetrical features. Brendon is objectively more muscular. Abbot is also probably close to twenty years older than you and is one-hundred percent married. But there’s something about that mischievous smirk and those kind eyes and that raspy voice. 

It’s annoying really.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together and turning to you. “Let’s take a look at that wrist.”

That sobers you a bit. Meekly, you hold out your arm and allow him to grasp your wrist. He rotates it a bit, flexes the joint and presses lightly on it. It doesn’t hurt, but you still shift uncomfortably. He smiles gently.

“Well nothing’s broken or sprained. It just seems like some light bruising to me, but I’ll still take some pictures to put in your file if that’s okay with you.”

You nod.

“Thank you. I feel bad taking up your time when there’s people who actually need help.”

The lady at the front desk had sent you straight back when you said Dr. Abbot was waiting for you, and you’d felt guilty walking past the full waiting room of sick and injured people. You’d felt even worse when you realized you were monopolizing an attending’s time for essentially nothing. Abbot isn’t having it though, and he shakes his head firmly.

“Happy to help. Besides, I owe Park.”

He tacks on the second part when you make a disbelieving face at the first.

“Are you two friends?” you ask to distract yourself when he starts taking pictures. 

He snorts.

“As much as he has friends, I guess.”

That makes your lips tilt. Brendon has a couple people from med school and residency he still talks to, but he’s not exactly the most outgoing person you’ve ever met. He’d rather stay home reading a medical journal than go out and socialize any day of the week. 

“What about you? I’ve never known him to call in a favor for someone else.”

You can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. You also can’t tell if he already knows something and is just pretending not to. Your hesitation must speak volumes, because he wraps up taking photos and shoots you a smirk.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already been threatened into silence.”

You feel your cheeks heat.

“He seems to be doing a lot of that,” you say weakly. 

“It’s sweet if you think about it.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

He laughs and goes back to typing in your chart. You’re just starting to relax despite all the beeping and shouting and general chaos going on outside the exam room, when he turns to you with a serious expression, and your heart drops.

“I’m required to ask. These bruises look like fingerprints, Y/n. Do you feel safe at home?”

You nod your head so fast you think you strain something in your neck.

“Yes, Dr. Abbot. Absolutely.”

“Jack, please. And is there anyone at-“

“It was a coworker. I'm taking care of it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, maybe weighing the truth of your words, maybe weighing their impact. His hazel eyes are warmer than Brendon’s but somehow just as sharp, and you fight the urge to squirm. You’re relieved when he finally nods and looks away.

“Alright. We’ll get this wrapped up and get you out of here then.”

You expect him to call a nurse or maybe an intern in, but he stays in the room. Finishes charting everything himself and gives you discharge instructions that seem more like common sense than anything else. Brendon’s words from the first time you met return to you — I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot — and you smile to yourself. Jack notices but doesn’t comment, and he gives you the green light a moment later.

“You’re good to go, kid. Don’t hesitate to come back if you need anything, alright?”

He shoots you a crooked grin, and your pulse does something traitorous.

“Lose the boob tape. A good nip slip will liven things up.”

You fight a smile and continue to secure the neckline of your dress into place.

“Seriously, I’m sure some of those old bats haven’t seen a nipple since the nineties. You’d be doing them a favor.”

This time you laugh out loud.

You’re in the bathroom getting ready for the research gala. Your phone is propped up on the vanity, and Chelsea has been offering increasingly ridiculous commentary over the past half hour. She’s grading papers on her couch at home, working her way through the bottle of wine and the bar of chocolate next to her.

“I think I should probably graduate before flashing the faculty,” you grin.

“Nonsense, flashing them will probably help you graduate. You look hot, babe.”

“You think?”

Doing your hair and makeup is a rare occurrence for you, and you’ve been fighting your eyeliner for what feels like forever. You’re only thirty percent sure your hair is going to hold all night, and you’ve already given up on lipstick in favor of some clear lip balm.

“Smash, next question.”

You know she’s obligated under the laws of friendship to hype you up, but it still makes you feel better. You smile. She’s an associate professor in gender and women’s studies at Chatham, and you listen happily to her chatter about her students while you finish getting ready. When you finally step back and show her the completed look, she lets out a low whistle.

“Damn, babes. You sure you don’t want a date to this? I’m happy to volunteer, since the stick in the mud isn’t coming.”

You don’t even have a chance to answer before Brendon calls from the bedroom-

“I can hear you, you fucking harpy.”

Far from looking embarrassed at being caught, Chelsea looks delighted. 

“Oh, hey dipstick.”

He doesn’t respond, and you smile fondly. 

“Be nice,” you tell Chelsea.

“But he’s so fun to annoy.”

You kind of agree. But you can’t tell her that, or she’ll double down on the antics, and then Brendon really might commit murder. So you give her your best stern face, which predictably does nothing, and resign yourself to a lifetime of playing referee. 

“Alright,” you say. “I have to get going, but I’ll tell you about it later?”

“What do you mean later. Text me during. I want the running commentary.”

You agree with a laugh and hang up. You double-check that the Uber is going to get here in ten minutes, then put your phone in your clutch. You’re not planning on drinking much tonight, but you’re a lightweight, so better safe than sorry. Ready, you take one last glance in the mirror.

You’re wearing a jade and gold fit-and-flare gown with a square neckline and delicate straps. The fabric is close to a brocade and reminds you of your grandma’s ancient floral couch — you’d seen it in the store and loved it immediately. Your jewelry is simple, just a delicate gold bracelet and some small gold hoops, and your clutch isn’t an exact match, but close enough.

Brendon is sitting in the armchair by the window when you walk into the bedroom. He’s flipping through some notes on his tablet, but he looks up when you walk in. You smile hesitantly at him. He’s never seen you in anything but work clothes or casual wear, and you’re admittedly nervous for his opinion.

He looks you over slowly, starting from the tendrils of hair framing your face, down the length of your body. The same anxiety you felt while waiting to hear if you passed your qualifying exams takes root in your belly.

“Y/n,” he says quietly. 

“Mm hmm?”

He puts the tablet aside and stands before slowly walking over to you. He pauses just out of reach.

“You’re beautiful.”

Oh.

It’s not that no one has called you beautiful before. Your parents do, and there was the one time your younger brother said it, even if you were pretty sure he was being sarcastic. Chelsea does on occasion, though she’s more likely to say you look hot or ten-out-of-ten-would-fuck. But there’s something about it coming from Brendon that makes you feel like you’ve never heard the word before.

He says it like a truth, like a promise. He says it with the same certainty he says reduction is still sitting four millimeters short or I’m seeing twelve degrees of posterior angulation on the lateral. Like it’s an immutable fact and not an opinion.

So of course you clam up and give him an awkward smile in response. 

“Um, thank you?”

His lips quirk, and he closes the rest of the distance between you two. His arms slide around your waist, and he drops a light kiss on your cheek, careful of your makeup.

“We’ll work on it. You’ll learn to like compliments eventually.”

“Why? You like them enough for the both of us.”

His lips curl further at your jab.

“That’s my girl.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The gala is exactly the same as it was last year and the year before that. 

The hospital and university rent the same ballroom in the same hotel, and the same faculty give the same speeches. Dr. Nayar is a fan of tradition, and you don’t think things have changed in the two decades he’s been in charge of the program. You are giving a presentation this year, but the fifteen minute lightning talk is only a blip in the otherwise monotonous evening.

It’s not that you’re having a bad time. You’re the only computer engineering student, but Fritz and Harris from biomed are here, along with a few people you know from clinical psych. You’ve had plenty of people to talk to, dinner was actually pretty good, and your talk had gone exceptionally well. It’s just…you miss Brendon. You miss his stupid smirk and his stupid glare and his stupid life-altering comments said in his stupid matter-of-fact voice. 

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about his not-a-marriage-proposal since yesterday. There’s no law against dropping lines like that on a random Saturday with absolutely no follow up, but there should be. Diabolical is what Chelsea had called it. So now you’re trapped in a conversation with Dr. Polt about the merits of factor versus principal components analysis while your mind is stuck in an old house in Squirrel Hill.

“-why you wouldn’t want the latent constructs.”

Dr. Polt pauses, and you realize he’s expecting you to say something. 

“I completely agree.”

It’s a shot in the dark, but thankfully it seems like the correct answer. Polt nods vigorously and launches off on a tangent about structural equation modeling. It’s at least ten minutes later before you’re able to extract yourself with the excuse of talking to your advisor. Dr. Kavis isn’t even here. Polt is a little too inebriated to either notice or care, and he waves you off before setting upon another poor, unsuspecting student.

You’re walking back to your table, wondering if it’s too early to leave, when it happens. First, you spot Everett Edwards. You saw him earlier in the night but had promptly bolted in the other direction. You plan on doing the same now, but when you turn, you catch sight of Jeremy Hayes. For a brief second, you consider faking a heart attack. Then you remember that you’re in a room filled with medical doctors and nix the idea. Your acting isn’t that good.

Both of them have caught sight of you by now, and you feel like you’re facing down death by drowning or burning at the stake. A desperate glance around tells you that no, Brendon has not magically appeared in the last five seconds to ward off unwanted suitors with his death glare, and you panic-choose the lesser of two evils.

“Hey, doc,” Everett grins when you turn to face him.

He might be a persistent charmer, but at least he’s always been respectful. Jeremy gives you the ick. He’s a bit too forward, a bit too comfortable entering your personal space. Since the time he brought you coffee when Brendon was in your office, he’s visited PTMC twice more to see you and has sought you out at every departmental function. He’s clearly trying to do the same now, but he pauses when he sees you with Edwards.

“Hi Dr. Edwards,” you say, hoping your smile looks genuine and not alarmed.

He looks fantastic, you’ll give him that. He’s wearing a classic black tuxedo, tailored perfectly for his athletic frame. His hair is slicked back except for one raven curl on his forehead — Chelsea would call it slutty, you call it artful — and a simple but elegant watch sits on his wrist. He looks like the heir to some old money fortune.

“Looking beautiful as always,” he says. “I saw your talk earlier, it was excellent. I’d be interested to discuss the applications for emergent vascular operations in trauma cases.”

You spot Jeremy out of the corner of your eye, still making his way over.

“I would love to,” you blurt. “Is now a good time? Can we drop by the bar first? I need some water.”

He looks bemused if not a little taken aback, but he covers it up quickly and offers you his arm. You only hesitate for a second before taking it, and you let him lead you across the ballroom.

The official part of the night is over, but the room is still packed. There’s few things academics like more than getting drunk with other academics. In fact, you’re pretty sure that’s the clinical psych chair doing shots with her grad students in the corner, and Dr. Nayar and his fourth glass of wine are holding court at one of huge round banquet tables.

“Is that Nayar?” Everett asks, following your gaze.

“You know him?”

“Of course. He’s been director for twenty yea- just how old do you think I am?”

You blanch and take a sudden, pointed interest in the ugly blue and gold carpeting. Brendon is a good bit older than you and has been an attending for only a few years. You just figured if Everett was head of a sub department, he must be older than that. He also went to CMU for undergrad not grad school, so he would have been there even earlier. But maybe not? Maybe you just deeply offended one of Brendon’s coworkers. A coworker you can’t escape, because he’s your escape from Hayes.

“Um, not very old? You, uh, you look great?”

A brief pause before you chance a peek over at him, and you wilt in relief when you see the smirk on his face.

“Well, I’ll take the compliments where I can get them.”

You nearly choke on air.

“Are you serious? You want me to believe that you are short on compliments?”

He answers with a rakish grin that could make a nun faint.

The two of you reach the bar, which is packed. You catch sight of a few people you know also waiting for drinks, and you wave hello at them while ignoring the way they stare at whose arm you’re on. To be fair, it’s not just them. Everyone is staring at Everett. It makes for an awkward wait, and you’re relieved when you finally get your drinks and head to a quieter part of the room. 

“So,” he says as you walk. “Do you think we’ve lost him yet?”

“What?”

“The guy you’re using me to avoid.”

You do choke this time and spend the next thirty seconds coughing yourself to death. Several people turn to look at you, only some of them with concern, and you flush harder from the scrutiny than from the lack of oxygen to your brain. That and the fact that Everett is looking at you with wry amusement written all over his face. You can’t even deny it. You lost all plausibility along with your dignity when you started hacking up a lung.

“I-“

You cough some more and briefly hope that you just die from hypoxia on the spot.

“I wasn’t-, he-“

“Relax, doc. No offense taken.”

You cast him a disbelieving look since you still can’t talk properly, and his lips twitch. 

“Okay, maybe some offense taken.”

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt when you regain your voice. “I wasn’t-, I’m sorry.”

“I’m guessing we don’t like him?”

“No-, not really? He’s a post-doc, and he’s weird. Not that being a post-doc is weird, just that he is and happens to be weird-, I’m really sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about the model, because I do. I really do like you and I don’t want you to think I was just using you even though I maybe was a little I’m really really sorry.”

You say all of that without taking a breath. He doesn’t answer right away, and you force yourself to down a giant gulp of water, so you can’t word-vomit anymore. Everett watches it all with a quirked brow and the expression of someone who knows they have the upper hand and is trying to decide how benevolent to be with it. 

“Is he a problem?”

The same words Brendon asked so many months ago. 

“I don’t think so? Um, he just follows me places sometimes? Wait, that sounds creepy, he just uh…is bad at leaving me alone.”

He looks unimpressed, but he nods.

“Well I guess I’m okay with being used to escape weird stalkers.”

“Stalker is a strong word,” you say weakly. 

A pause then, and you’ve never had to work so hard not to fidget or start saying random things to fill the silence in your life. To make matters worse, you’ve moved far enough away from the main crowd that there’s not even enough people around to be adequately distracting. It’s just you, Everett, and the most uncomfortable stare down you’ve ever experienced.

“Well,” he says, just before you start vibrating out of your skin. “I guess that answers my question.”

“Huh?”

“I was going to ask you out, but I’m guessing I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh! I, um…”

That was not at all the direction you thought things were heading — the evening is quickly getting away from you. You scramble for something to say, but all you can hear is Brendon in your ear saying tell him to fuck off. You flush. 

“I-, no thank you?”

Another pause, and then he laughs. Full-bellied, head thrown back, genuine laughter. 

“This is the weirdest and most polite way I’ve been turned down in my life.”

“I’m s-“

“Please god do not apologize to me.”

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head and laughs again. 

“I’ll take that as my cue to bow out with my remaining dignity. You going to be okay with your stalker running around?”

You nod.

“Yes. Thank you. And sor-“

He makes a distressed noise.

“Seriously, please stop apologizing.”

“I-, okay. Does this mean we…”

You trail off, unsure of how to ask, but he thankfully seems to understand anyways. 

“I’m a big boy, doc, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Relieved, you agree and then watch as he turns and walks away. You stare after him for a while, trying to process whatever it is that just happened, before heading in the opposite direction.

The two of you had wandered to the far side of the ballroom while you talked, and the bar is clear on the other side of the room. There’s basically no one over here, which is actually kind of nice, especially when you slip down the hall to the bathroom and find it empty. Your people-meter has been filled for at least the next two business days.

Once inside the bathroom, you stand at the sink to run your wrists under cold water and look at your reflection in the gilded mirror. Your hair has held up surprisingly well, but your makeup is slightly smudged from you forgetting you’re wearing it and touching your face. A quick blot with a paper towel fixes the worst of it, but you’re eager to wash it off completely. 

You check your phone as you leave the bathroom, ordering an Uber. The event is scheduled for another hour and will likely continue for another hour beyond that, but you want to go home. Your talk is done, you schmoozed an appropriate amount with donors, and you spoke to all the important faculty members. No one is going to be upset if you leave.

Somewhere over the last few weeks, home became wherever Brendon is, and you text him that you’ll be back soon. Three dots appear almost immediately to signal that he’s responding, and you’re so busy looking at your screen as you step into the hallway, that you don’t see who’s waiting for you until it’s too late.

“Is that your new boyfriend?”

You jump and nearly fumble your phone. Jeremy is standing in the otherwise-empty corridor. He’s dressed sharply in a dove-grey suit, though he’s loosened his tie, and his sandy hair looks like he’s run his hand through it a few times. He’s holding a generous glass of whiskey in his left hand, and he takes a slow sip while he looks at you. 

“Oh, Jeremy, hi. Um, is who what?”

“Found yourself another doctor — the last one wasn’t enough?”

He must be referring to Everett,  but it takes a second for you to realize he’s also talking about Brendon. The two of them met once, months ago, and even calling it a meeting was generous. Brendon had never introduced himself; he’d just silently glared Jeremy into submission. But Jeremy clearly remembers it, and he doesn’t look happy. In fact, he looks kind of angry and kind of drunk, and you shift uncomfortably.

“Dr. Edwards isn’t my boyfriend,” you tell him.

“Just your meal ticket then?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Weslier Fellowship.”

Well now you’re confused on top of being uncomfortable. The Weslier fellowship is awarded to one graduating doctoral student and one post-doc at CMU every year — it provides funds for the first year of independent research as well as a pretty generous living stipend. You’d applied months ago, but you haven’t heard anything yet. Honestly, you’re not expecting to. There are hundreds if not thousands of applicants across the entire university, and you only really applied because Dr. Kavis told you to.

“I heard Nayar talking the other day— apparently some people at PTMC are pushing for you to get the Weslier. Seems like you’ve got some fans there.”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know anything about that. And I definitely haven’t asked anyone at PTMC to put in a word for me.”

He sneers, and it’s so malicious looking that you take a physical step back. This is not the Jeremy you’re used to. He’s usually incredibly friendly, edging into flirty, and he’s all about smiling and being overly-helpful. Right now though, he’s glaring at you with a mixture of resentment and agitation.

“So you just happen to be fucking two attending surgeons for no reason, right?”

Your jaw drops.

“Who-, what are you-, excuse me?”

There’s nothing going on with Edwards, and there’s no chance he actually knows anything about you and Brendon. Besides, he technically ranks above you in the departmental hierarchy, and there’s no way he should be talking to you like this. The alcohol is probably to blame, but still.

“That’s completely inappropriate, Jeremy.”

“You know what’s inappropriate? Leading me on for months and then changing your mind once you realized you could sleep your way to the top.”

You open and close your mouth several times like a landed fish. You’re not the most self-aware person out there, but you’re five thousand percent sure you haven’t been leading him on. It’s also never crossed your mind to sleep your way into the fellowship. In fact, you and Brendon have made it a point to actively prevent your relationship from affecting your career.

“That’s a serious and unfounded accusation.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“Then stand somewhere else! This is ridiculous. I’m going to-“

He takes a sudden step towards you, and you back up instinctually. You regret the move immediately when his lip curls, and he presses forward again until your back is hitting the wall behind you. 

“You need to stop,” you say, pleased when your voice doesn’t shake.

You’re deeply aware of the fact that you’re the only two people in this hallway. Sure, someone would hear if you screamed, but no one is actively paying attention to the two of you. And while Jeremy isn’t anywhere near as physically intimidating as Brendon, he’s still a good bit bigger and taller than you.

“Listen,” he says, close enough now you can smell the expensive whiskey he’s been drinking on his breath. “I won’t tell Nayar what you’ve been doing, but that means you owe me.”

“What-, you can’t-, I haven’t done anything.”

Which, okay, isn’t technically true, because he’s technically right that you’re sleeping with an attending surgeon. But not in the way he’s implying.

“It’s an easy choice, Y/n. Risk the ethics committee, or owe me a tiny favor. I don’t-“

“Is there a problem here?”

Both of you turn at the same time, and you nearly faint in relief at the sight of Everett standing at the end of the hall. He’s just as sharp and beautiful as he was ten minutes ago, but gone are the charming smile and laughing eyes. Now his golden gaze is sharp, and that perfect cupid’s bow is curled in disdain. He looks more like a Bond villain than a socialite.

“Fuck off,” Jeremy spits.

If he looked angry before, he looks furious now. Whether it’s from being interrupted or being interrupted by this specific person, you don’t know.

“Y/n, come here,” Everett says, ignoring him completely.

You’ve never jumped to obey a man who has no authority over you so quickly. But before you can take more than a step, Jeremy grabs your arm and yanks you to a stop. You startle so bad you drop your phone.

“We’re not done,” he bites out.

Fear hits you for the first time all evening. As a woman in a heavily male industry, you’re more than used to men trying to intimidate you. You’ve been talked down to, ignored, shouted at, and everything in between. It barely phases you anymore. But this is the first time anyone has physically put their hands on you, and your heart starts racing in your chest.

“Let go of me, Jeremy.”

You yank on your arm to no avail. All it does is make him tighten his grip until you wince.

“Jeremy.”

“I said we’re not done. Tell your boyfriend to-“

“Let’s make things very clear.”

Everett takes several steps towards the two of you, voice pleasant and expression deadly.

“You are a post-doc with a history of harassment, who is currently drunk and physically assaulting a student. I am an attending surgeon and head of vascular surgery at one of the best trauma hospitals on the east coast. If you don’t let go of her, I will be the one you deal with. And trust me, you don’t have the credibility, the status, or the money to win against me.”

Jeremy’s face goes apoplectic, and his grip tightens until you’re pretty sure he’s cutting off your circulation. Then he and Everett have a silent, very testosterone-y staring contest, during which you do your best not to move or breathe too loud. It lasts forever. You’re starting to lose feeling in your hand when Jeremy finally scoffs and releases you. He shoves you away hard enough you stumble.

“We’ll talk about this later, Y/n.”

“No, I-“

He throws his drink at you. 

He empties his very full glass of whiskey all over the front of your dress, spits an expletive at you, and storms away. You stand there staring after him like an idiot.

“Well that was unpleasant.”

Everett speaks from right behind you, and you jump about a foot into the air. Your heart rate, which is still sky high from Jeremy, kicks up even further, and you feel like you’re well on your way to heart attack you considered faking earlier in the night.

“Whoa, easy doc.”

You turn to see him holding his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” you manage.

“No need to apologize. Are you alright?”

Your immediate instinct is to say yes. To smooth everything over and act like that didn’t shake you as badly as it did. That would be a complete lie though, and you settle on something slightly more truthful.

“I’ll be okay,” you say with a hopefully convincing smile.

You even kind of believe it, too. Right up until you look down and see your phone lying on the ground with a shattered screen. 

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. Phones break all the time. But right now, with whiskey dripping down your neck and chest, with the ghost of Jeremy’s grip lingering on your wrist, it feels like the end of the world. You have to fight to keep your lower lip steady while you bend down pick it up, and you nearly lose the fight when you slice your finger on a shard of glass.

“Shit, let me see that.”

Everett reaches for your hand, and you flinch. You don’t mean to, and you feel terrible when you see the stricken look on his face.

“I’m sor-“

“If you apologize, I’m going to feel worse.”

Your mouth snaps shut. The two of you just look at each other for a minute — you trying not to cry, and him clearly trying not to make you cry. 

“Can I walk you to your car?” he eventually asks.

“I took an Uber.”

Which reminds you of the ride you definitely just missed, and which you can’t rebook now courtesy of your shattered phone screen. He must arrive at the same conclusion, because he says-

“Can I drive you home then?”

You hesitate.

You have a few of options. First, you could ask to borrow his phone and either call Chelsea — who lives clear across town — or another Uber. You could also accept his offer, but you don’t know if you want to get in a car with someone you don’t actually know that well. Sure, he rescued you from Jeremy, but you’re not feeling particularly generous towards the male species right now. What you really want is for Brendon to come get you, but you know that’s not possible. That leaves the last option.

“Um, could I borrow your phone? I’m just going to call B-, my boyfriend.”

Your apartment is within the hospital’s twenty-minute on call radius; you’ll call Brendon and tell him to meet you there after you get back. It’s roundabout, but there’s no way you’re going to ask Everett to drop you off at Brendon’s house. The last thing you need right now is for someone to have proof the two of you are together. Also, this way someone knows you’re getting into Everett’s car in case he turns out to be crazy.

The plan is foolproof. There’s also no possible way this evening can get any worse. You are incorrect on both fronts.

Everett hands over his phone no problem. He hovers close, clearly wanting to help in some other way, but mindful not to touch you again. You don’t mind too much as you focus on dialing Brendon. That is, you don’t mind the closeness right up until his phone recognizes the number, and a big fat “Calling Brendon Park (PTMC)”pops up on the screen.

You take a hurried step back, but a glance at Everett tells you it’s too late. He definitely saw who you were calling, and his eyebrows just about hit his hairline. Your soul leaves your body. Why does he have Bren’s personal number? Brendon certainly doesn’t have his. How did he even get it? How-

“Park.” 

You don’t know if the sound of Brendon’s voice coming from the speaker makes things better or worse. You do your best to pretend Everett doesn’t exist and raise the phone to your ear at the same time you back even further away.

“So funny story,” you start.

You can hear the tension enter his body. He’s probably in his office, going over case notes, and you can imagine the way he just straightened and shoved his files aside. 

“Y/n?”

“Don’t be mad-“

“Too late, where’s your phone?”

Wincing, you go through an abbreviated version of the nights events, starting with running into Everett and ending with how you just accidentally outed your relationship to the same man. Brendon listens silently while you talk. He makes no noise, doesn’t even change his breathing, but you just know he’s glaring at the wall like he can set it on fire.

“What do you need?” he asks when you finish.

The question catches you off guard. Maybe it’s just hearing his voice, maybe it’s him knowing that you needed him to be gentle even if you didn’t say so. Whatever it is, you make an embarrassing sound and bite your lip hard to keep from crying.

“I d-don’t know,” you whisper. “I just want to come home.”

Another silence, this one weighted. You hear him inhale sharply and then nothing for what feels like forever. 

“Bren?” 

“Give the phone to Edwards.”

“What?”

“It’ll be okay, imp. Just give him the phone.”

His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it hurts. 

“Okay.”

You turn to face Everett, who has been studiously examining the ceiling, and hold out the phone. He takes it like it’s a bomb and raises it slowly to his ear.

“Edwards.”

You can hear the low murmur of Brendon’s voice, but you can’t make out anything he’s saying. You just stand there awkwardly while Everett also stands awkwardly and listens to Brendon. It doesn’t last long though, and it’s only a minute or so later when Everett hands the phone back.

“Bren?”

“Edwards will bring you home.”

“But what about-“

“He already knows, and it makes things simpler. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

He says it with such certainty that you have to laugh. It’s strained and slightly hysterical, but it’s still a laugh.

“Did you threaten him?”

“Not much.”

Another laugh, this one a little more real. You feel slightly better as you hang up and give Everett his phone back. 

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For everything.”

He smiles, and you think it might be the most genuine smile he’s ever given you. 

“You’re welcome, doc. Now let’s get you home before your very-platonic-absolutely-not-your-boyfriend friend kills me.”

The two of you find a side exit, and your shoulders crumple in relief. The thought of walking back through the ballroom and having people stare at you makes your skin crawl. Leaving through this door means you have to walk a bit further to get back to the parking lot, but you don’t mind. It’s a relief to breathe fresh air and feel the breeze. You follow dutifully as Everett leads you to a sleek, black Mercedes, but hesitate when he opens the door for you.

“I don’t want to ruin your seats,” you tell him, gesturing at your whiskey-soaked dress.

“They’ve been through worse, trust me.”

You have no idea what he could mean and decide you don’t want to know before getting in. 

The ride to Brendon’s is quiet. Your normal need to fill silences has been squished by exhaustion, and he seems content to leave you be. Brendon must have given him the address. It’s maybe fifteen minutes later when you turn onto a familiar tree-lined street, and then you’re pulling into the driveway.

The garage is open, and Brendon is standing there waiting. His arms are crossed, his jaw is set, and his eyes are burning a hole through the windshield. He looks ten kinds of pissed off and half a step from murder.

You’re out of the car before it’s fully in park. 

All the adrenaline and fear and discomfort from the last hour breaks open at the sight of him, and you throw yourself into his arms hard enough that he grunts at the impact. Neither of you care about your dress. His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he drops his chin to rest on top of your head. He’s warm and solid, his heart beats strong and steady under your ear, and he smells like home. You finally start crying. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

You give a watery laugh.

“You’re being nice.”

“I’ll call you an idiot tomorrow to make up for it.”

There’s no heat in the words, and you relax even further into him. Vaguely, you’re aware of Everett getting out of the car and coming up behind you, but you don’t have the energy or the dignity to move. As far as you’re concerned, you’re going to stay here forever. Especially when one of Brendon’s hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and you basically start purring. 

“Edwards.”

“Park.”

You don’t need to see to know they’re having some sort of masculine staring contest. You mumble be nice into Brendon’s chest, and he heaves an annoyed sigh.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Not like you gave me much of a choice,” Everett replies, but he sounds amused.

You turn your head just enough to be heard and say-

“Thank you, again.”

“For my favorite doctor? Anytime.”

His voice is teasing, not flirty, but Brendon still makes a disgusted noise.

“Thank you rescinded. Now fuck off.”

You sigh and fight a smile, and Everett chuckles under his breath behind you.

“Right, fucking off. See you guys tomorrow.”

You should probably do a better job of expressing your gratitude for everything he’s done tonight, especially since Brendon’s clearly not going to do it, but you’re too tired. You’ll just bring him coffee tomorrow or something. Right now, the only thing you care about is getting out of this dress, getting clean, and then curling up in Brendon’s arms for the rest of the night. 

“Come on,” he says once Everett pulls out of the drive way. 

He slips an arm around your shoulders and guides you into the house. You feel yourself fully relax for the first time all night. Your sweater is hanging in the mudroom, you can see your laptop on the coffee table along with his tablet in the den, and the familiar sound of classical floats through the air. Home.

Brendon’s words from yesterday run through your head — I’m all in — and a wave of emotion hits you. They overwhelmed you yesterday, made you worry and overthink. But right now, with your wrist starting to bruise and your hair falling apart and tears drying on your cheeks, they settle differently. They feel right. 

“Bren?”

“Yeah?”

He’s bent down to help you with your heels, and he undoes the delicate straps with the same focused precision he uses in the operating room. Your heart squeezes. This giant, grumpy, sharp-tongued surgeon is on his knees without prompting, shirt front damp with whiskey from your dress and brows furrowed in concentration while he removes your shoes. 

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Your not-a-proposal-yet.”

He looks up then, and you feel like you could drown in the blue of his eyes. You’ve never meant anything more in your life.

“Okay, so don’t be annoyed-“

“You starting a sentence like that annoys me. What.”

You and Brendon are in his living room, working on opposite sides of the couch, while some classical music radio station plays on the television. You’re sitting with your back to the armrest, and your legs are stretched across the empty cushions between the two of you. Your feet are resting next to his hip. So you kick him.

“Ow, you psycho, what is wrong with you?”

“That’s for being mean.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like pain in the ass gremlin. Then he sets aside the medical journal he’s been reading, just so he can fully concentrate on glaring you to death. You smile back. He grumbles something else that’s probably even ruder, then grabs your legs and yanks you closer.

“Bren!” you yelp, just barely hanging onto your laptop.

He heaves the most put upon sigh ever to be sighed and takes it out of your hands. He closes it carefully and sets it on the coffee table, then drags you unceremoniously into his lap. The movement knocks a throw pillow and his phone to the floor, but he pays them zero attention. Instead, he settles his hands on your hips and traps you with that thalassic stare.

“Fine. What non-annoying thing were you going to tell me.”

The sarcasm in his voice is so heavy you feel it like a physical weight.

“It’s so kind of you to ask-“

He pinches your side, and you squeak like a startled rodent.

“I will rearrange all of your books while you’re at work,” you hiss.

His lips curve, and he brushes a kiss to your jaw. You sniff haughtily and continue.

“I forgot my toothbrush, do you have another one?”

A pause. 

“Seriously? That’s what you were building up to?”

“Yes.”

“How can you remember a hundred digits of pi but not your toothbrush?”

You don’t say anything, partially because you don’t know the answer, and partially because he’s back to kissing your jaw. Soft, easy brushes of his lips to your skin. There’s no heat behind them, no need for them to lead anywhere. He just trails his mouth down your neck and pauses for a minute with his forehead resting against your shoulder.

You slide your hands into his hair without thinking, running your fingers through the slightly wavy strands. He hasn’t put any product in it since showering this morning, and you like how soft it feels. Really, you just like this side of him that nobody but you gets to see. Relaxed and kind of rumpled, wearing sweats and a faded tee. He’s not Dr. Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS, orthopedic surgeon right now. He’s just Bren. Grumpy and sharp-tongued and yours.

“Yes, I have another toothbrush,” he eventually sighs. 

He makes no move to get up though, and neither do you. You probably should start getting ready for bed — it’s nearing eleven, and you promised Chelsea that you’d meet her for her godforsaken sunrise yoga class. Instead, you settle more fully onto his lap and drop your head to his shoulder. 

Strains of classical filter from the television, some piece you’ve never heard and he probably has memorized. The air smells faintly of the pasta the two of you ate for dinner, and the soft recessed lighting is turning everything hazy gold. You’re warm and comfortable and absolutely in danger of falling asleep.

“Come on, you have to be up early,” he says right when you start dozing. 

“Don’t care,” you mutter petulantly.

“Yes you do.”

Stupid, responsible man.

“Can’t you just write me a doctor’s note saying I have the flu?”

“Could, but won’t.”

“What if I told you I’m meeting Chelsea?”

You barely stifle your laugh at his scoff.

Chelsea has been your closest friend for years. You met her the first week you moved to Pittsburgh, and the two of you have been inseparable ever since. She’s everything you aren’t — bold, vivacious, an absolute force of nature — and she drives Brendon completely, concerningly insane. 

The first time they met, he’d been at your apartment when she dropped by to return a pair of your shoes. She’d taken one look at Brendon, laughed, kissed your cheek, and left. She called him a stick in the mud, he called her an overconfident virago. She told him he needed a better sense of humor, he told her she needed a better sense of dignity. Watching them fight had become an unexpected, delightful addition to your life. 

“I don’t know why you’re friends with that shrew,” he glowers.

You smile and scratch your fingers lightly over his scalp.

“She reminds me a lot of you, actually.”

“The fucking audacity.”

This time you can’t help but laugh, and you sit back so you can meet his eyes. He looks deeply offended. In fact he looks like he’s considering dumping you off his lap and onto the floor. You know he would do it, too, and you do your best to school your features into something more serious.

“I mean you two are nothing alike,” you amend.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

A softer laugh this time, and you dip your head to kiss him. He refuses to engage, scowl still in place and hands unmoving at his sides. Then you nip his lower lip just a little too hard, and he makes a dangerous sound low in his throat.

“Reckless,” he mutters.

You smile and kiss him again, and this time he kisses you back. His hands find your waist, and his mouth moves against yours slow and purposeful. Warmth curls low in your belly. You hum in contentment and wiggle closer, happy to give up rest for this. It feels way too soon when he finally pulls back.

“Come on, you need to sleep,” he says.

You make a sound of protest, and his lips quirk.

“Go, you’ll thank me in the morning. Toothbrush is in the second drawer on the left. I’ll be up in a minute.”

You grumble something immature, but eventually hop off of his lap before making a pitstop in the foyer to grab your overnight bag. You spend so many nights here now that you could probably just leave some of your stuff here, but you’re a world champion at overthinking things. Until you receive an explicit, probably handwritten and notarized, invitation, you will be living out of a bag. Maybe even after that.

Sighing, you sling your duffel over your shoulder and head for the stairs.

Brendon lives in an old Tudor Revival in Squirrel Hill, a three bed, three bath on a tree-shaded lane. The previous owners renovated a lot of the house, but the original staircase is still in tact. You run your hand over the heavy oak banister as you climb it. The living room and his office are darker, moodier rooms, but the rest of the house is lighter, and you pass cream walls and exposed wood beams on your way to his bedroom. 

It might make you weird, but you think the primary ensuite might be one of your favorite rooms in the house. It’s all white marble floors and faux wood tiling, light oak cabinets and antique brass fixtures. There’s a soft runner in front of the dual-vanity, and the huge shower has an secondary rainfall shower head. It’s modern and earthy at the same time, and you love it.

You take your time getting ready — toilet, wash face, detangling your hair. Then you go searching for the spare toothbrush. You open the second drawer on the left of the vanity that has unofficially become yours, wondering if he has floss you can steal, too, then stop dead.

It’s just a drawer. 

It’s a wooden box with a handle attached. Common. Everyday. You’ve seen a thousand of them. But you’re looking at the one in front of you right now like it’s the Rosetta Stone. Alien. Indecipherable. Because said drawer is in Brendon’s bathroom in Brendon’s house, and inside is the promised toothbrush, yes. But also a hairbrush, hair ties, tampons, Midol, and a full-sized bottle of the hand cream you’d gotten as a free mini sample and keep on your desk. All of them unopened. All of them clearly meant for you.

“Wha-, when-“

You don’t know who you’re talking to, the room is empty except for you. But your insides are suddenly all tangled up, and your brain is producing nothing but static and a dial tone.

You haven’t dated much, but you’re pretty sure most guys don’t buy their girlfriends organic period products and $125-a-bottle lotion. In fact, you distinctly remember Chelsea telling you that most guys she met online didn’t even want to put the toilet seat down. The bar is in hell she’d told you. 

You and Brendon have only been together for a month and a half. Technically, you never even really started dating. He’d kissed you in the ED, informed you that you were going to spend the night at his house, and that was that. There’d been no official conversation. He’d just started kissing you in between insults and criticizing your protein intake. There wasn’t-

“What are you staring at?”

Brendon’s voice behind you startles you enough that you jump. He laughs. You turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and you wave your hands uselessly towards the vanity.

“You-, this-“

You trail off, and he arches a brow.

“Yes?”

“Did you buy me this stuff?” you manage.

He rolls his eyes.

“As opposed to the other guy who lives here? Obviously I-, shit, are you crying? Why the fuck are you crying?”

“I’m not,” you protest.

It’s not technically a lie. Your eyes might be tearing up, but none of them have escaped yet. Still, he gives you an unimpressed look and crosses the space between you in two quick strides.

“Speak,” he commands.

Now it’s your turn to roll your one-hundred-percent-dry eyes.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have terrible bedside manner?”

“No. My patients are unconscious. Now speak.”

You hesitate, not quite sure how to verbalize exactly what you’re feeling. Also, what if you’re reading too much into things? Just because all of this is a big deal to you, doesn’t mean it’s a big deal to him. He’s the most detail-oriented, overly-prepared person you’ve ever met. What if all this is just a practical thing for him, not emotional? What if-

“Out loud, imp.”

You stomp on his foot.

“What is with you and violence today, you fucking loon?“

“It’s not my fault you’re being extra you today.”

“Y/n.”

You freeze. He’s using that voice. The one he uses when he expects to be obeyed. The one that makes every instinctual part of you sit up, the one that usually makes you all melty for him.

Cheater.

“I just,” you start hesitantly. “I-, I’m trying to decide…how much this drawer means.”

Silence falls, and you start panicking immediately. You don’t even feel old enough to make your own dentist appointments. Whoever decided you were old enough to have adult conversations about adult relationships was wildly misinformed. You are not equipped for this. In fact, you’re just going to find the nearest cliff and throw yourself off of it. You-

“Y/n.”

He says your name again, somehow softer and sharper all at once. His hands come up to grab your waist, and he pulls you towards him until there’s no space between you. This close, you have to crane your neck to meet his gaze, and you do so tentatively. His eyes are steel-edged ice.

“I bought those things the day after the first time you stayed over.”

Your breath catches at his words.

“The top two drawers in the dresser are empty. I cleared them that week.”

You think you stop breathing altogether.

“I don’t do halfway, imp. I told you that first night — you’re mine now.”

Your breathing resumes, but only so you can start hyperventilating. He watches all this with the faintest hint of amusement underneath his serious expression. He reaches a hand up to brush your hair back from your face, then lets his palm linger against your cheek.

The two of you stay like that for a long time, neither of you speaking. At least out loud. Internally, you’re having three different debates and four different meltdowns at the same time. You were worrying earlier about the implications of leaving behind a spare phone charger, and here he is making space for you in his dresser and filling a bathroom drawer for you. 

The longest relationship you’ve had to date was a year in high school, which you’re not sure counts. Besides that, there’d been a couple short situationships with guys in undergrad, but you have no frame of reference for this thing with Brendon. Leaving things at each other’s places after six weeks is probably normal. It’s probably not that big of a deal. But in the three months you’ve known him, you’ve learned that everything Brendon Park does is a big deal. 

Every decision he makes, every action he takes is thought out and deliberate. He never says anything he doesn’t mean, and he always keeps his word. Which means if he says he’s all in, then he’s really all in. So even though the tampons themselves aren’t a big deal, the meaning behind the tampons is a big deal. At least you think it is. Does all in mean like…forever? Does it-

“Relax. It’s not a proposal.”

You let out a slightly-hysterical laugh and lean into him. His arms come around you automatically, and you burrow into his chest. His heart beats slow and steady under your ear, and you think briefly that it might be the most comforting sound in the world. Your breathing slowly returns to normal. Then his lips brush the top of your head, and he murmurs something almost too low for you to hear.

“Yet.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s not a proposal. Yet.”

There’s something surreal about dating Brendon Park.

It’s been weeks since he first kissed you. Weeks since the night he called you his and then slept wrapped around you in his bed. It might as well have all happened yesterday though, because every time he touches you still feels like a novelty. How one man can be so emotionally constipated and yet so physically affectionate, you’ll never know.

Like now, when he’s kissing you senseless against the side of your car, right after telling you that you park like shit. Impossible man. You don’t mind it though — he’s there in all the ways that matter. Judging your protein intake and shoving water in your hand every five seconds. Listening to your two thousandth edit of your dissertation abstract without protest. Buying you your oat milk matcha lattes even if he says they’re stupid.

You like to think you take care of him, too. You get him sweet treats he insists he doesn’t like but then refuses to share with you. When he has a particularly busy day, you sneak snacks into his bag, because you know he won’t bother wasting time going to get food. And after long surgeries, when he says he’s fine and scowls at you to leave him alone, you’ll help him rub the knots out of his shoulders while he pretends he hates it.

A sharp nip at your mouth brings you back to the present.

“You’re distracted,” he says, half-amused, half-annoyed.

“Seems like a skill problem on your part,” you snipe back, flustered.

A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips, and you immediately regret your words. Of course he’s not insulted. Of course he sees them as some kind of a challenge. You’re starting to understand why people call him Park the Shark, because the look he gives you is downright predatory.

“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

You try wiggling out of his arms and fail spectacularly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did the-, the thing.”

“Smiling?”

“Yes. Smiling. That. It’s not your natural state. It signals danger.”

The smile widens.

“You’re lucky we have that early meeting. Otherwise you’d be paying for your skill comment.”

And you must be spending too much time around him, because instead of blushing and shrinking, you meet his eyes and say-

“Promise?”

The two of you are almost late to said meeting. 

Which, for you, isn’t that unheard of, but you see Brendon get some weird looks from a couple of the residents and Dr. Lee. He responds to all of them with a curled lip and icy glare, and everyone looks away quickly. You hide a smile from where you stand across the room.

Besides Wilts — who Brendon had assured you will say nothing if she values her life — no one at PTMC knows the two of you are together. Some people in the ED suspect probably, and Patty and her smug smile definitely know, but no one has any proof. The two of you had decided only days after that first kiss to keep things quiet. At least for now.

You’d had a meeting with Dr. Nayar — the director of the CMU/PTMC research collaborative — that Monday, and he’d let slip that PTMC would soon be looking for a new head for its Operational Research and Development Department. The not-so-accidental lapse had been a not-so-subtle suggestion that you apply for the position when it posted, and you’d left that meeting and immediately called one of your cohort members to freak out. Then when Brendon had finished surgery two hours later, you’d done the exact same thing with him.

The position is exactly what you’ve been looking for — a role focusing on research and technical processes, but directly attached to a clinical institution. Even better, it’s at PTMC, where you’ve built the majority of your adaptive patient flow model. You already know the hospital, know the key players and know how things operate. Even better better, Brendon is here. It’s way too soon to be making any decisions based on your month-and-some-change old relationship, but him being here is certainly a bonus. 

The two of you had discussed it that night over Thai takeout. Nothing was guaranteed — Nayar’s words had been a tip, not a promise — but you also know that he wouldn’t have told you about the job unless he’d heard some hint that the hospital wanted your research. Brendon had listened to your explanation and agreed. But in between harassing you to eat your chicken, not just the noodles, and being insufferably smug on your behalf, he’d quietly reminded you that your relationship could have ramifications if you decided to apply.

“It’s going to be a competitive process. You can’t give them any reason to think you didn’t earn the position on your own.”

Which would probably make dating the hospital’s star orthopedic surgeon a no-no. He has nothing to do with your dissertation or your research, but you know that won’t make a difference if someone is looking for a reason not to hire you. Or if someone is looking for a way to make themselves look like a better candidate. 

The reminder is pragmatic, necessary. But it still knocks you off-kilter. You sit across from him, picking at your noodles and feeling upset about possibly having to hide your relationship because of a possible job that you might possibly apply to. It’s absolutely ridiculous and yet still enough to ruin your appetite. 

The longer you stew on your thoughts, the worse it gets. He’s older, successful, makes stupid money and looks like an action movie hero. You’re a grad student with grad student-money and anxiety. You’re not shallow enough to think those differences make you worth any less, but that doesn’t mean jack to your overactive doom-spiral. Of course no one can know you’re together. Of course-

“What,” Brendon asks when you’re silent for too long.

You make a noncommittal noise and avoid eye contact. He mutters something that’s probably not very nice, and then stands from his chair and rounds the island. You’re expecting him to be upset with your inanity, annoyed at the very least, and you’re shocked when he spins you around, plants both hands on the counter behind you, and bends down to kiss you.

It’s not the soft kisses he gave you in the ED and right after. It’s also not the absolutely filthy kiss he gave you this morning before the two of you headed into the hospital. This is somewhere in between, slow and purposeful but not intended to lead to something else. You melt into it like you always do, arms sliding around his neck and fingers finding the shorter hairs at his nape.

“Ridiculous girl,” he huffs against your lips.

“I-“

“You know that day you brought me coffee? You were wearing that blue dress with the bow.”

Another kiss, this one deeper.

“I wanted to bend you over the charge desk and fuck you right there. That’s still on the table if you want it, but I figure we should at least wait until you have your job offer first.”

You smile now at the memory. Only Brendon could turn something so indelicate-sounding into a reassurance. It had worked though, and you’re content to keep things between the two of you for now. Even if it means you have to stand across the room from him and pretend you don’t know why his usually perfectly-styled hair is slightly less perfect this morning.

You’re observing the surgical department this week and the next. It’s one of the last departments you have to cover before you finish the field part of your research, and then all you’ll have left is finalizing your model and completing your manuscript. You were here yesterday, too, and you’ll admit that you like seeing Brendon in his element. He’s at his snappiest and snarliest here, and it does something unprofessional to your libido.

“Alright people, settle down.”

Dr. Konomori, the Chief of Surgery, raises her voice to be heard over the early-morning chatter, and the noise eventually subsides. She’s a fierce Japanese woman in her late fifties who barely tops five foot, but she commands attention in a way men twice her size don’t.

“We all have cases to get to, so I’ll make this short. I’m sure you all know this is Dr. Ramirez’s last week with us before heading to Atlanta-“

A couple of good-natured boos sound from the crowd, but Konomori doesn’t blink.

“-so I’m here to introduce our new head of vascular, Dr. Everett Edwards. He comes to us from the Cleveland Clinic, but he’s a Pittsburgh native, so welcome back Dr. Edwards.”

A round of applause, surprisingly boisterous given the early hour, breaks out. You crane your head around the pair of residents in front of you. You know most of the speciality heads by now, but there are dozens of other attendings and residents that you’ve never met, so you’re not quite sure who you’re looking for. Then a man you’ve never seen steps up next to Dr. Konomori, and you actually let out a disbelieving snort.

Everett Edwards is quite possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Raven hair, amber eyes bright enough you can see them from halfway across the room, and a blindingly white smile. He’s disturbingly attractive. Like uncanny valley levels of attractive. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Brendon’s towering frame, but you can still tell the guy is built, even under his navy surgical scrubs and his white coat.

You’re legitimately calculating the odds that he’s some sort of robot or genetically engineered plant, when those amber eyes meet yours. It’s like looking at the freaking sun. You slow blink, trying to process the mutant demigod looking at you, and his smile widens. It goes from polite-charming to zeroed-in-charming, and you feel it like a slap across the face. Konomori then tells everyone to get back to work, and you’re relieved for all of three seconds before Edwards actually starts walking towards you. 

You register several things when he stops in front of you. One, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Two, he smells like expensive cologne, something sharp that makes your nose twitch. And three, if looks could kill, he would be long-dead. Because Brendon catches sight of the two of you from where he’s standing by the charge desk, and the blue in his eyes goes positively arctic. 

“Hi, you must be Y/n Y/l/n.”

Even his stupid voice is attractive.

“Um, yes, hi?”

Your gaze is pulled from Brendon’s attempt at first-degree murder back to the man in front of you.

“Everett Edwards, nice to meet you. Dr. Konomori told me a bit about your research here and that you’ll be with us for the next few days.”

He holds out his hand, and you shake it like it’s a snake waiting to bite you.

“I will-. Yes, Dr. Edwards, I-”

“Everett, please. I’ll be doing a lot of observation this week before Dr. Ramirez leaves, so we’ll likely run into each other quite a bit. Dr. Edwards just sounds pretentious.”

He gives you another megawatt grin, this one conspiratorial and intimate. Twenty-year-old you would probably have combusted on the spot. Current you isn’t immune to the charm, but you’re not nearly as impressed by it as you would have been once upon a time. He might be the sun given form —  all bright and golden and warm — but you prefer the cool. Oceans and ice and blue so sharp it steals your breath.

“Right, well. Everett. I have to get over to OR five, but it was nice to meet you.”

You give him your most professional smile and basically bolt away from him. It’s done with absolutely no grace and probably isn’t the most polite thing you could do, but you don’t care. You can feel his amusement following you down the hall. You head towards the surgical suites and are about to pull out your phone to text Brendon when an arm hooks around your waist and drags you sideways.

“What-“

You catch a flash of burning cerulean before Brendon’s mouth is on yours. Your back meets something solid, and then he’s pressed against you from shoulder to hip. His hands fist your hair to angle your head how he wants, and he kisses you harshly, all tongue and teeth. Lightning shoots through you.

“Bren,” you gasp when he lets you breathe. “What are you doing?”

A quick glance around tells you he’d pulled you into an on-call room, and anyone could walk in at any time.

“Asshole’s been here five seconds,” he mutters in response, scowling.

“What?”

“The Ken doll eye-fucking you. Doesn’t even have a permanent parking pass yet, and he’s already trying to take things that aren’t his.”

Understanding dawns like a lightbulb.

“Are you jealous?”

A slow, delighted smile spreads across your face, and he fairly growls at you.

“No, and don’t look at me like that.”

“Brendon. He shook my hand and said nice to meet you.”

“Stop looking so fucking smug.”

“Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous you nutcase . I’m pissed off that he’s flirting with you in front of the whole fucking department, while I have to pretend I don’t know what you sound like coming on my cock.”

Now it’s his turn to smirk while your face flames.

“We’re at work,” you hiss.

“Which part of I would happily fuck you in the middle of reception was unclear to you?”

Insufferable man.

But he’s your insufferable man, and you smile despite yourself. Sighing, you stretch up on your toes to kiss him again. He puts up a token resistance for approximately two seconds, then relents and makes a low sound against your mouth. Your hum in contentment and wiggle as close to him as possible.

“It’s not about me,” you say when you pull back a while later. 

You place one hand on his chest and rub your fingers lightly against the fabric of his scrubs.

“He’s just a flirt. He’ll figure out pretty quickly I’m not interested and start wooing someone else.”

He scowls and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“He fucking better.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Turns out Everett Edwards is much more patient than you gave him credit for.

It’s now the following Friday, and he’s spent the last two weeks charming the pants off every person in the department. At least two nurses and one of the plastics attendings have already shot their shot with him, and everyone else seems close on their heels. Everyone except Brendon, who is one twitch away from physical violence, and you.

Edwards is charismatic, you’ll give him that. He’s smart, well-spoken, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the only person in the world. He’s quick with a smile or a joke, and he isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself either. That’s what makes him so likable, you think. He doesn’t pretend false modesty, but he also doesn’t take himself too seriously. 

He’s also admirably, irritatingly, persistent.

The Tuesday you met him, he’d followed you to the observation room of OR five. You’d been there to study technical procedures — anything that could improve efficiency and accuracy and reduce margin of error — and had only a basic grasp of what was actually happening medically. Edwards had been all too happy to camp out next to you and explain the spring-mediated cranioplasty.

Wednesday, he’d brought doughnuts for everyone and had saved one for the genius trying to make our lives more efficient.

On Friday, he’d found you observing another surgery and had complimented your work ethic with alarming sincerity.

Then this Monday, he’d caught you before rounds and had invited you to watch him perform a carotid endarterectomy. For the model he’d said with a wink.

By Wednesday, Brendon was ready to chew through drywall. 

“I’m going to stab him with an eleven blade,” he grumbles against your hair.

The two of you are lying in his bed, clothes scattered somewhere on the floor and sheets tangled around bare legs. He’s on his back with you half-draped across his chest. One of his arms is hooked around your waist, and his fingers are gentle as they card through the ends of your hair despite the irritation in his voice.

“Dramatic,” you tease.

You shift so you can see him, arms braced on his chest. The sight of him — naked, flushed, softer than anyone else knows he can be — steals your breath momentarily. You can’t help but bend down to kiss him.

“You know I’m not interested,” you say when you pull back.

He scowls like you just spit on his mother’s grave.

“Of course I know that. I just don’t know why you haven’t told him to fuck off yet.”

“I-“

His large hands grab your hips and yank you up until you’re sitting on his lap. You gasp when the movement drags your bare cunt over his cock. He’s already half-hard again, and he smirks when your hips twitch down involuntarily. You’re still sensitive from him being inside of you not long ago, and you have no idea how he can possibly be ready for another round so soon.

“Cut it out you heathen,” you hiss. “I was going to say that I can’t tell him off, because he hasn’t done anything yet.”

It’s true. Edwards hasn’t given you any gifts, hasn’t paid you any non-professional compliments, hasn’t made any physical advances. He hasn’t done anything that could be considered inappropriate. He’s just…attentive.

Brendon is thoroughly unimpressed by your logic, and he retaliates by rolling his hips up against yours. It punches an embarrassing noise out of you.

“Aren’t you all about planning and being prepared for things?” he asks as he drags his rapidly hardening cock directly against your clit. “Tell him to fuck off proactively.”

“I can’t-, ah. He’s not doing anything you caveman.”

“He’s pebbling.“

“What?”

You actually yelp when he sits up abruptly and rolls the two of you over. He’s annoyingly agile for someone his size. 

“Pebbling. He’s bringing you pebbles like a fucking penguin, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with an osteotome.” 

Whatever response you would have given disappears when he slides into you with one, deep thrust. You make a choked noise and reach immediately to brace your hands on his chest. He groans, low and filthy, and hikes one of your legs up on his hip. The new angle makes your head spin.

“You’re mine, imp.”

Needless to say, Brendon is less than thrilled when Edwards approaches you now. You’re standing at the charge desk, scribbling in the margins of your notebook, while Brendon stands on the opposite side taking to Patty. Edwards slides up next to you with his normal Crest-commercial grin firmly in place, looking flawless despite the ungodly hour. One thing you definitely will not miss about observing surgery is their ridiculous start times. 

“Hey, doc,” he greets.

“Not a doctor yet,” you reply automatically.

“Why, you planning on failing your defense?”

Your jaw drops.

“Of course not! And don’t put bad vibes out in the universe. What is wrong with you?”

He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“See? You’re going to pass, and you’ll be Dr. Y/l/n in no time.”

You smile despite yourself.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.“

“Anytime. Speaking of which, are you going to research gala Sunday?”

It takes you a second to process the rapid shift in topics.

“Um, yes? How-, are you invited?”

The CMU/PTMC research collaborative was hosting its yearly gala to attract sponsors. The goal was to showcase some of their joint projects and emphasize the potential for both medical progress as well as financial growth. You’re not a fan of the latter, but you know it’s inevitable in the medical-industrial complex. All current grad students are expected to attend, and you’ve been waffling between excitement at a chance to dress up and dread over prolonged forced-socialization.

“Alumni have a standing invitation,” he answers with a wink.

You can’t help it. You risk a glance over at Brendon and wince when you see the stormy expression on his face. Even if you two weren’t keeping things on the down low right now, he’s on call this weekend. The hotel hosting the gala is just outside the twenty minute call radius, and he wouldn’t have been able to attend with you regardless.

“I’ll see you there?” Edwards asks, oblivious to your silent stare-off.

Well now your choices are lie or send Brendon into the stratosphere. 

Brendon will be fine.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’m actually doing one of the lightning talks.”

Edwards’ face lights up.

“That’s amazing! I look forward to hearing it; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”

He keeps talking, something about a friend who’s also giving a talk and another friend who something something. You don’t hear him. You’re too busy looking at Brendon, who meets your gaze with his lip curled just enough to mean danger.

Osteotome he mouths at you. 

You smile weakly.

“Is Dr. Robby your friend?”

Brendon actually pauses mid-step to ensure you feel the full force of his glare. The effect is somewhat ruined by the arm he has wrapped around you and the fact that his jacket is draped over your shoulders, but you let him have it. 

The sun is setting over Pittsburgh, bathing the city in golden light that you would normally stop to appreciate. Right now though, the light feels like an ice pick drilling into your eyeballs. You’d been released from the ED with a minor concussion, no additional complications, but it doesn’t feel minor. Whatever adrenaline had kept you going through the accident and the ED has officially faded, and you feel absolutely terrible. Even the afterglow of Brendon kissing you isn’t enough to make you feel better.

You must look as bad as you feel, because he refrains from saying anything in addition to his glare. Instead, he straightens his jacket around your shoulders and keeps leading you toward the parking lot. You don’t argue when you see that he’s heading for his own car — even if it was medically advisable to drive right now, you don’t want to.

“We’ll get your car later,” he says while he unlocks the sleek black 4Runner. 

You hum something that passes as an affirmation, and he opens the passenger door for you and waits patiently while you get in. He even helps you buckle your seatbelt when you miss the clip on the first try.

“You’re being awfully nice,” you tell him.

“I can change that.”

“Mm, no. I like you being sweet.”

You blame the head trauma. There’s no way you would say that to his face under any other circumstances. But right now, he’s warm and safe and taking care of you, and you choose to ignore the affronted scowl he sends your way. 

“I’ll leave you in this parking lot to die,” he replies flatly.

Then he tucks your hair behind your ear and closes your door carefully.

Sweet, sweet man.

You close your eyes and snuggle further down into his coat while he puts both your bags in the back. The navy bomber is gigantic and smells like him, and you silently debate the odds of being able to steal it without him noticing. It’s pointless of course — he notices absolutely everything and is annoying while he does it — but that doesn’t dissuade you. Maybe you’ll just take it anyways. You deserve a consolation prize after today.

This was not what you had anticipated your Friday looking like when you woke up this morning. It was supposed to be an easy day, just some light tweaks to the model and working on your manuscript. Then that poor intern had knocked you over, and the railing had knocked you out, and here you are one trip to the ED later. But then Brendon opens the drivers door and gets in, and you think to yourself that even if the day had turned out kind of crappy, he had at least made it better. 

“We’re going to my place,” he says as he turns on the car.

You crack open one eye.

“That didn’t sound like a question.”

“It wasn’t. I live closer to the hospital in the event you decide to do something stupid and make your head worse.”

The way he can express concern and insult you at the same time is honestly a talent.

“I’m not arguing only because I feel poopy,” you tell him, closing your eyes again. “Not because I agree with your unilateral decision making.”

He huffs a laugh and puts the car in drive.  

A thrill runs through you despite your exhaustion. You had one serious boyfriend in high school — as serious as high school boyfriends can be — and hadn’t really dated much since. You certainly hadn’t gotten to the stage of a relationship where you were spending the night. Not that that’s what this was. Or was it? Was there a step in dating for someone-has-to-monitor-you-overnight-to-make-sure-you-don’t-die? If there wasn’t, there should be.

Not for the first time, you find yourself grateful for his complete self-assurance. You’re not second-guessing whether you should go or not, if this is a good decision or if it’s too soon. Brendon is sure enough for the both of you. There’s something freeing about that. 

Downtown Pittsburgh passes by in a rush of noise — people shouting, horns blaring — but the inside of the cab is quiet. He’s silent while he drives, and you’re more than happy to focus on melting into the seat. The part of your brain that’s still functioning tells you to at least try and keep track of where he’s taking you, but the rest of you is too tired to care. He’s not a serial killer. Probably.

Roughly twenty minutes go by, and then you feel the wheels go over a bump. When you open your eyes, you see that you’re pulling into a driveway on a quiet, tree-lined street. You only catch a glimpse of the house before the car enters the garage.

“You know,” you start while unbuckle your seatbelt. “You only live like two minutes closer to the hospital than I do.”

“All I heard was that I live closer.”

A smile curls your lips, especially when you glance over to see him already smirking at you.

You get out and wait next to the car while he grabs the bags from the backseat, then follow as he leads the way into the house through a door on the far side of the garage. It opens into a perfectly normal mudroom — closet, bench, hooks on the wall and a shoe rack — but you look at it all like you’ve never seen furniture before. Something about this being Brendon’s stuff makes it feel novel. He’s just so…him. Confident and exacting and larger-than-life at the hospital. You’re fascinated with what the space he chose for himself looks like.

Your snooping will have to wait for another day though; you’re too drained. You slip off your shoes but decide to keep the jacket and trail after him again. This time he leads you into a spacious living room. It has tall ceilings, heavy wooden bookshelves lining the dark walls, and is exceedingly, neurotically, tidy.

“Sit,” he orders, nudging you towards the large sectional. 

You obey without protest, sinking down onto the dark-grey cushions. They’re shockingly comfy. Even comfier is the throw blanket he tosses unceremoniously at you. The black fabric is plush and soft, and you immediately burrow beneath it, jacket and all.

You try to pay attention to what he’s doing while you sit on the couch, but your eyes eventually drift shut. Maybe you should be nervous about being in a man’s house for the first time — a man you’ve never even been on a real date with — but all you feel is safe. Safe enough that you doze off at some point. You have no idea how long you sleep, only that it’s dark outside when you wake up. Brendon is crouching down next to you, his hand on your knee.

“Come on, imp. Dinner, then you can sleep.”

You immediately protest and pull the blanket tighter around you. You’re so tired, and his couch is so comfy. But a quiet laugh follows your refusal, and he strokes his hand over the uninjured side of your face.

“You need calories for healing,” he pushes. 

“Mm, I ate lunch.”

“We both know that means half a granola bar and a pack of M&Ms.”

You scowl. He’s right, of course, but still. Rude. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, you push yourself into a sitting position and then regret it immediately. The room spins. Your head throbs painfully, and you nearly fall back over.

“Fucking-, take it easy you psycho.”

Brendon’s hands shoot out to catch you, and you actually exhale a ghost of a laugh at his affronted tone. 

“Are you sure someone bumped into you? I feel like you just knocked yourself out all on your own.”

You open your mouth, primed to tell him off, when he slips his arms underneath you and lifts you off the couch. Every word you’ve ever learned disappears from your head. He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and you malfunction like someone dipped your circuitboards in acid.

You knew he was strong. He’s built like a Greek god and a rugby player had a baby, and he’s religious about working out. But knowing and experiencing are different things, and oh, what an experience it is. The biceps you spend way too much time staring at are curled around you, and his chest is a solid wall under your cheek. It’s like being held by a Renaissance sculpture.

Any protests about not wanting to eat dinner vanish, and you let him carry you to the kitchen without objection. Really, he could probably talk you into anything at the moment. You’re embarrassingly disappointed when he pulls out one of the high-backed bar stools with his foot and deposits you in it. 

“Don’t move,” he orders.

You’re still kind of dazed, but you manage a glare when he points an imperious finger at you.

“You’re being bossy.”

“It’s not my fault you seem to lack basic survival skills.”

“It wasn’t me! Someone really did bump into me, some radiology intern- Russell! See, I even remember his name.”

A slow grin curls his lips, and you blanch. He’d demanded to know who was responsible for your fall when you’d been in the ED, but you’d refused to answer. He’d been radiating murder-vibes, and it really had been an accident. But now he has Russell’s name, and you’re suddenly very, very worried about the poor kid.

“Leave him alone,” you warn.

He hums noncommittally and rounds the island to grab a plate from the cabinet. 

“He already feels bad enough,” you try again.

“There’s always room to feel worse.”

He ignores your annoyed huff and busies himself arranging rice, broccoli, and chicken in aggressively neat piles on a plate before placing it in front of you. It’s kind of sweet, you guess, him wanting to protect you. But you’re also one hundred percent sure that he has the capacity for homicide somewhere in his over-muscled body, and you do not want that on your conscience.

“I’m serious, Bren.”

A glass of water and a fork appear next to your plate, and he points that annoying finger in your face again.

“Eat.”

“Brendon.”

He pauses. He stops reaching for another plate and turns to face you across the island. He braces both hands against the counter, leaning his weight into them, and his expression goes abruptly serious. Stormy eyes stare at you with piercing intensity.

“He hurt you,” he says quietly.  “I don’t like you hurt.”

Your breath catches.

Even though you haven’t known him that long, you’re well-aware that he’s allergic to saying anything nice. He’s more of a doer — buying you overpriced matcha lattes, driving you home when your car is in the shop — and his physical actions often contradict whatever leaves his mouth. These might be the softest words he’s ever given you. 

Which means he of course has to back track immediately. 

“Besides, I have a reputation to uphold. Russell has to die.”

You smile despite yourself.

Dinner passes easily after that. You poke around your plate at first, not truly hungry, but eventually start eating when he glares you into submission. Satisfied, he gets himself his own plate and settles onto the barstool next to you. The two of you eat in comfortable silence.

You manage to eat half of the plate before exhaustion hits you again, and you feel your eyelids start to droop. Half must be satisfactory, because he doesn’t do anything but laugh when you put your fork down and rest your head on the counter.

“Come on, imp, bed time.”

“Mm mm. Too tired to move. I’m going to sleep here.”

“Brat.”

But the word is fond, and his hands are careful when they scoop you up again. He carries you back into the living room and then up a set of stairs. There are multiple doors lining the upper landing, and he takes you through the first one on the right before depositing you on a dark wooden bed.

“Bathroom’s through there; I put a new toothbrush and some clean towels on the vanity for you. Try not to trip and die while I find you something to sleep in.”

He brushes a featherlight kiss against your hair and disappears back down the hallway.

You remain seated for a minute, working up the energy to move. You’re also silently bemoaning the fact that it’s your first time in his house, and you’re too concussed to enjoy it. Although, to be fair, it also means you’re too concussed to be a nervous, overthinking wreck. So. Balance.

Standing feels like a Herculean task, but you manage it. You make your way to the attached bath and notice blearily that it’s unreasonably large for a guest bathroom. You use the toilet and wash your hands and brush your teeth on autopilot, then consider taking a shower for approximately two seconds before deciding against it. Brendon cleaned most of the blood out of your hair in the ED, and you don’t trust yourself not to slip on wet tile right now.

The bedroom is empty when you step back in, but there’s a folded black shirt waiting for you on the bed. You take it back to the bathroom and strip out of your wrinkled sweater and jeans, hesitating before taking off your bra and folding it with the rest of your clothes. 

Brendon’s shirt is just as oversized on you as his jacket had been, hitting below mid-thigh when you slip it on. You glance in the mirror, and something goes soft in your chest. Sweet, grumpy, thoughtful man. That same feeling follows you out of the bathroom, and you pause when you see him waiting for you next to the bed.

“Hi,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer, too busy looking you over from head to toe. His gaze lingers on your temple, and you feel your heart stumble over its next beat. You can see the agitation in his eyes, even if his expression doesn’t change. Then his gaze drops lower, and your pulse stutters for a completely different reason. Blue fire lights those icy eyes. 

“Come here.”

You don’t know what it says about you that your feet start moving before your ears have even finished processing the words. It’s only when you’re standing directly in front of him that your brain catches up.

He’s changed out of the clothes he wore to the hospital and has on some soft black pants and an old Georgetown University sweatshirt. He’s covered from wrist to ankle, but it’s somehow the most bare you’ve ever seen him. Relaxed, barefoot, his hair tousled. It feels intimate. Your breath catches and then disappears altogether when his hands reach up to cradle your face.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod mutely, and his thumb strokes over your cheek.

“Do you need anything?”

You blame your sleepiness. You blame the head trauma. You blame the alignment of the planets and your horoscope and anything else you can think of. Because he’s holding you like you’re precious and looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters, and you blurt out-

“Just you.”

You both freeze, and you decide then and there that you’re going to throw yourself off the nearest cliff as soon as you get the chance. 

“I mean-”

He kisses you again.

It’s a longer kiss than the one he gave you in the hospital, slower. You both know you’re in no state for this to go anywhere, but he kisses you like it’s an inevitability, and you melt into it. His mouth on yours is as sure as everything else he does. Firm, wrapped in iron control. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, it’s a command more than a question, and you open for him without thought. He makes a low sound of approval, and it bypasses your ears, your concussed brain, and the rest of your body to land straight between your legs.

Your hands find his chest, gripping the worn fabric like it’s an anchor. One of his own hands is still resting on your cheek, but the other has moved down to hold your hip, and he uses it to drag you closer until there’s no space left between the two of you. You feel small, fragile with him wrapped around you like this. You feel safe. When he finally pulls back, the room is colder somehow.

“Reckless,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Saying things like that to me.”

Then he kisses you again, softer this time. Just a whisper of his lips against yours before he draws back.

“Go to bed, imp. You can make more reckless decisions tomorrow.”

His grip on you starts to loosen, and everything in you protests. You don’t want him to go. You don’t want to sleep alone in the guest room, knowing he’s just down the hall. You don’t even need anything to happen, you just want him close. Close enough to hold you and roll his eyes at you and probably lecture you on poor sleep hygiene. 

Screw it. Your dignity’s already long gone.

“Can you stay?”

His eyes go molten. Sharper and warmer than you’ve ever seen them. The hands that had just been releasing you tighten abruptly, and a muscle in his jaw tics. Then he stares at you. You can see some sort of internal debate going on behind his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything, nor does he let you move so much as an inch out of his unyielding grip. When he finally speaks after what feels like an eternity, his voice is midnight over steel.

“I’m not sleeping on the guest bed.”

Then he’s letting go of all of you except his hand on your waist and steering you out the door. It feels like you’re walking through a dream as he guides you down the hall.

His room is the messiest you’ve seen so far. Which, since the rest of the house looks like it’s being staged for a showing, means there’s a couple wrinkles on the duvet, and the top of the dresser has a few odds and ends on it. It’s still freakishly neat, but it looks more lived in. Your heart does something soft. It’s endearing to think that his bedroom is the one place he’s a bit more relaxed.

Your eyes flit over cream walls, dark wood floors, and an old leather armchair before it fully hits you that you’re standing in his bedroom. Wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties. Which is exactly what you were wearing thirty second ago, but wearing them in his room feels like a whole different level of intimacy. All of a sudden you forget how feet work and what you’re supposed to do with your hands. 

“Go lay down,” he says before your malfunction becomes too obvious, pushing you towards the bed.

Having something to do feels like a lifeline, and you obey embarrassingly fast. You don’t even get on his case for laughing at you before he disappears into the en-suite. 

The bed is large, with a dark upholstered headboard and a solid wood base. Pristine white sheets are covered by a charcoal duvet, and pillows with hotel-levels of fluff sit at the head. It’s kind of absurd that you can barely tell which side he usually sleeps on, and you take your best guess and gingerly peel back the covers on the opposite side. You’re just lowering yourself to the mattress when he comes back into the room, and you actually drop the rest of the way down like someone cut your wires.

Brendon Park is shirtless. Brendon Park is pants-less. Brendon Park is shirtless and pants-less and wearing a pair of boxer-briefs that don’t leave nearly enough to the imagination. There’s no TBI in the world bad enough to make this less overwhelming. Not with those pecs and those abs and those. fucking. biceps. It’s not like you expected him to sleep fully clothed, but you weren’t ready for this.

“My eyes are up here, imp.”

You’re so flustered, you can’t even manage a good comeback. You just stare at his chest and arms like they’re the eighth wonder of the world. His voice when he speaks again is half teasing, half serious.

“Do you want me to put my shirt back on?”

You shake your head so quickly it makes you wince in pain. 

“Jesus fucki-, be careful.”

He crosses the room in three quick steps and lifts his hands to your face. He holds your head still while he looks you over, but once he’s certain you haven’t blown a pupil in your efforts to keep him shirtless, he gives you his most unimpressed glare.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”

You hope that was rhetorical. Because if he was expecting an answer, he shouldn’t have put all those muscles directly in your face. He’s lucky you remember how to breathe right now. The amused look from earlier makes a slow return, and he shifts you further onto the bed and pulls the blanket over you.

“You need to sleep right now; we can revisit this another night.”

“I’ll chance the secondary concussion,” you mumble.

He laughs. A startled, unguarded sound that hits you harder than anything else has tonight. It’s not his normal huff of amusement, not the mocking scoff he gives particularly aggravating residents. It’s a bright, genuine laugh that steals your breath and makes you long for something you’re not ready to name.

You want to ride in his car and get overpriced coffee together. You want to snuggle with him on the couch and argue about what movies to watch. You want to eat dinner with him and sleep in his bed, and you want to hear that laugh for the rest of forever. You just want him.

Some of your thoughts must show on your face, because the laugh fades, and something more serious takes its place. His expression is still more open than you’ve ever seen it though, and his lips remain faintly curved while he strokes your hair back from your face. 

“We have time, imp. You’re mine now.”

You should protest. You should tell him he’s wrong. You should tell him he’s being possessive and caveman-ish and not at all the kind of developed higher-being you pride yourself on embodying. You do not. Instead you melt like a popsicle and nuzzle into his touch like an overly-affectionate cat. You wait patiently while he turns off the lights and climbs in on the other side of the bed. And you go willingly when he reaches for you and pulls you against his chest.

“Goodnight,” you whisper against his shoulder in the dark.

He tugs you even closer and presses a lingering kiss to your hairline.

You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life. 

What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.

You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.

You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.

Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death. 

What day is it?

Do you know where you are?

What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?

Can you tell me what five times seven is?

Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.

The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.

Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon. 

It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do. 

Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-

That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.

Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.

“Imp.”

His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-

“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”

Well, now you’re definitely crying.

He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation.  He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.

“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”

The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Bren?”

“What room are you in.”

The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.

“I think Central Three-“

“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”

The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-

“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”

The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago. 

“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.

He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.

“Um, yes?”

None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”

Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.

“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”

Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.

You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”

Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.

“What happened.”

It’s a command, not a question.

Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up. 

“Um, I fell?”

His eyes narrow.

“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.

“Vitals and GCS.”

Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.

“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”

“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”

You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.

“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.

You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide. 

“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”

He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.

“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”

Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch. 

“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”

It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind. 

“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.

“Robinavitch.”

From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of. 

“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”

Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.

“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”

You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground. 

You tell him, and he nods.

“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”

You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse. 

“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”

“Like fuck she will.”

Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.

Oh god, maybe you are concussed.

Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.

“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”

“No one else is touching her.”

The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.

“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.

Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”

Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.

“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”

The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.

“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.

“What?”

It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.

“Someone bumped into me.”

His eyes turn downright murderous.

“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”

That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall. 

“Don’t move,” he orders.

Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs. 

“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.

He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.

“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.

You could say so many things.

Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.

“Because you make me feel safe.”

You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“

He kisses you.

He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”

He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.

“What?” he barks.

“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”

She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again. 

“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.

He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger. 

“Yes.”

You smile.

“But only if you don’t take too long.”

You’re laughing as they wheel you away.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robby

“Huh.”

It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.

He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.

He is indeed, surprised.

Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured. 

“What are we staring at?”

Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.

“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”

“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”

“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”

Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.

“Nearly took off my head, too.”

“That’s kind of sweet.”

Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma. 

“Excuse me?”

“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”

Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.

“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.

PTMC feels different this late at night.

It’s past eleven, and while the hospital is never truly quiet, the hustle and bustle of the day has died down. The only patients left are those staying overnight or those in the emergency room downstairs, and visiting hours are long over. The hallway outside your office is mostly empty. You’ve seen two night nurses and a janitor in the last hour, but that’s it.

You hadn’t meant to stay this late, but a random idea for a new model branch had turned into you hunched over your computer for four hours without eating or peeing. Then when your choices eventually became go to the bathroom or die (you’d chosen the bathroom), another idea had hit you in the stall. That had been three hours ago, and you’re now tired enough that the code on the screen is blurring. 

You push yourself out of your desk chair with a groan — clearly, having ergonomic chairs in shoe-cupboard-offices was not high on the hospital’s list of priorities. Completely understandable, yet unfortunate. And, if you’re being honest, your aching back is your own fault. None of the coding you had just done required actually being at the hospital. You should have just gone home and worked from there, but you’d been too excited about your idea and hadn’t wanted to wait. 

Sighing, you pack up everything in your worn backpack and pull it over both shoulders. Your mom had told you when you were in elementary school that if you only used one strap, you would have lopsided shoulders for life. You’d learned pretty quickly that she was exaggerating, but the habit had stuck anyways. You make a mental note to call her tomorrow and catch up as you leave the office and close the door behind you.

The trek to the elevator feels odd without a hundred people crowding the halls. Your makeshift office is by the admin wing, which means basically everyone in this part of the building is gone. You say good night as you pass the janitor you saw earlier, but you don’t see anyone else. You’re expecting the elevator to be empty, too, and you’re surprised when the doors open to reveal another person. You’re even more surprised to see it’s Brendon.

There’s a backpack slung over one of his shoulders and a set of car keys in one hand, and you realize he must be heading home just like you. He’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him. His scrubs are wrinkled, there are shadows under his eyes, and his hair looks like he’s run his hand through it fifty different times from fifty different angles.

“You going to get on, or just stare at me all night?”

Clearly his brain is just as sharp as always.

You’ve known Brendon Park for three weeks now, and while you wouldn’t call the two of you close by any means, you’re at least closer. He’s dropped by your office a couple of times between surgeries, and you’d ventured up to the fourth floor once to bring him an actual black coffee. Then there was the time he’d been called to the ED for a consult while you were there observing, and you’d watched him bite off a fellow attending’s head and make an intern cry. 

Your favorite though, was when he’d come to your research presentation. He had indeed pawned off his rounds on Dr. Feldman, and he’d shown up just like he said he would. He’d sat in the back, talked to exactly nobody, and had looked just as grumpy as he always did the entire time. But he’d been there, he’d listened, and he’d even stayed long enough after to tell you that was acceptable. You’d practically swooned. 

So are you closer? Yes. Has that made him friendly? No.

“Hello to you, too,” you sigh as you step into the elevator. 

He huffs noncommittally, and you choose to interpret that as a greeting.

“Parking garage?” is all he asks you as the doors shut.

“No, my car’s in the shop. I’m going to take the bus.”

That gets his attention. He turns to face you, a more-annoyed-than-usual scowl on his face.

“You’re going to take the bus at midnight?”

“It’s technically eleven thirty-seven.”

Something homicidal passes across his expression, and you fight a smile.

“You know what I fucking meant.”

It’s probably not the healthiest trait in the world, but you can’t deny you like needling him. Partially because you’re just giving as good as you get, partially because you know he secretly enjoys it, and mostly because everyone else seems too scared of him to do it. Not that you’re unafraid of him, per se. He’s six foot plus of muscles and condescension, but you kind of like the thrill that goes up your spine when his pelagic eyes meet yours.

Like now, when he’s glaring at you like he can murder you through force of will alone. Those icy blues feel like fire as they meet yours, making a pleasant warmth take root in your stomach. You don’t know whether you hope he does or doesn’t notice the way your breathing quickens.

The elevator has long since stopped on the first floor, but neither of you move to get out. You just stare at each other in stubborn silence. You don’t bother answering his question, since clearly yes, you were planning to take the bus at almost-midnight. PRT was free for CMU students, and you’d ridden it plenty of times before. There was nothing wrong with-

“I’ll drive you home.”

Your brain manages to shut down and go into overdrive at the same time. The logical, usually predominant part of you says it’s not a big deal. A sort-of friend offering another sort-of friend a ride home for safety reasons. The other part of you, the one that beats your logical brain into submission whenever Brendon’s around, say it is in fact, a big deal. 

“You don’t have t-”

“It wasn’t a suggestion. Again, you seem to forget I have a financial interest in keeping you alive.”

Instead of being insulted, you feel oddly reassured. You would normally waffle around, not wanting to be a burden or an inconvenience. You would probably insist you were fine with the bus, then be sad and cold later waiting at the shelter. But Brendon’s flat insistence means you can skip all of that. It feels…freeing.

“Fine,” you say, like you’re the one doing him a favor. “I accept these terms.”

He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. He doesn’t comment though, just steps off the elevator and starts walking away without checking to see if you’re following. You are, but only after making a rude hand gesture at his back.

He leads you to a parking lot you haven’t seen before, probably one reserved for staff. It’s fairly empty, though you do still spot one or two outrageously expensive sports cars. You’re secretly wondering if one of them is his, when he stops by a black 4Runner. You’ll admit you’re more than a bit surprised when he opens the door and throws his bag in the backseat. You must stare for a moment too long, because he shoots you a look and says-

“Get in, gremlin.”

You consider not doing it just to piss him off, then decide it’s not worth shooting yourself in the foot. Especially since you feel a raindrop hit your cheek. Defeated by the weather, you climb into the passenger seat and settle your backpack on your lap. The weight of your laptop and coding textbooks is crushing the circulation out of your thighs, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to put stuff in the backseat. Which is stupid, because you probably are, but you don’t want to take up too much space.

Brendon solves that when he gets in, looks from the bag to your face, then uses one hand to pick it up and place it in the back. Your first thought is presumptuous. Your second thought is he’s really strong. The second thought is the one that sticks around.

“Um, thank you,” you say, suddenly feeling shy now that you’re both in the car. “For the ride.”

He hums noncommittally. 

“Seatbelt,” is all he says.

He hands you his phone as he pulls out of the parking lot, and you type your address into the GPS. You feel a brief spike of anxiety when you pass it back to him — what if he’s a serial killer, and he’s been playing the long game to earn your trust? Really, you should have considered this before you got in the car. Because now you’re alone in a vehicle with him, and he knows where you live. You watch a lot of crime dramas. It’s probably not the best hobby for a woman who lives alone, but now you’re thinking about that episode where the guy-

“If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have left the hospital with you. There are cameras everywhere.”

You glance over at him and are both reassured and perturbed to see him kind of smiling. Sure, it’s more mocking than anything, but that tiny curve at the corner of his mouth still makes your breath catch.

“I wasn’t thinking anything like that.”

“Liar.”

Maybe you’re so tired that your brain is starting to malfunction, because you think he might sound…fond? Or maybe he’s the one who’s losing it. He does look exhausted.

“How was surgery?” you ask.

You may or may not have looked up orthopedic surgeons and their typical schedules a couple of weeks ago. For no reason other than expanding your knowledge base. But you know they generally keep to working hours for consults and scheduled surgeries. On call days are different though, which was likely why he’s just heading home now.

“The interns this year are particularly stupid, and the R4 on call was a fucking idiot. But the actual surgery went well.”

“I feel like you probably say that about the interns every year.”

“Yeah, well they keep finding new ways to disappoint me.”

You laugh, and his lips twitch again.

“Okay, you have to say one nice thing about them.”

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to give you a look that would have killed a lesser person.

“No.”

“If you keep treating them like you’re waiting for them to disappoint you, they will continue to disappoint you.”

“Or maybe they’re just really fucking disappointing.”

“Bren.”

That makes you both freeze. Him, likely because he’s thinking of ways to tell you off for the uninvited nickname. You, because you are already telling yourself off for the uninvited nickname. You don’t know where it came from, and you certainly hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Nicknames imply a level of familiarity you’re not sure the two of you have. What if he’s offended. What if he thinks you’re stupid. What if-

“Fine. They’re persistent, I’ll give them that. Or they’re just dumb and lack survival skills, which is equally as likely. Was that nice enough?”

Your body is still locked in fight or flight, and it takes you a second to understand what he said. Then another minute to process that he’s not upset. In fact, he indulged you, which does not help calm down your heart rate at all.

“It was acceptable,” you eventually manage.

You’re so frazzled by your blunder that you stop paying attention to where you’re going. It’s only when you drive by the movie theatre several blocks in the opposite direction of your apartment that you realize he’s not taking you home. You sit up straighter immediately.

“Relax, gremlin.“

You look over at him in alarm, and he sighs.

“I assume you haven’t eaten.”

“Well no, but-”

“I’m taking you to get food, not to kill you.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at the same time annoyance tugs your mouth into a frown. He offered to take you home, and now he wants to feed you. Your whole body softens and warms. But he also didn’t ask and scared you half to death, so there’s that.

“You could have let me know,” you say grumpily. 

“I just did.”

He would have been proud of the glare you give him if he wasn’t looking at the road instead of at you. Thankfully, he must feel the force of your ire, because he says-

“Fine. My apologies for trying to keep you alive. Any other complaints you’d like the lodge?”

His voice is dripping sarcasm, but you still choose to capitalize on the opportunity.

“Yes, in fact. I think you could pick something nicer to call me than gremlin.”

You can hear him rolling his eyes.

“No.”

“Come on, it can even be a synonym. There are plenty of small, playful folklore creatures to choose from. Pick one of them.”

“How about goblin.”

You squawk in indignation, and he laughs. 

“I will jump out of this car and tell everyone you pushed me,” you hiss.

“If you survive, which you won’t.”

“We’re not going that fast.”

“If I hear you unbuckle your seatbelt, I will speed up.”

Now you’re the one contemplating murder, though you acknowledge he has a point. You really are hungry. Hungry enough that you choose to keep your mouth shut the rest of the short drive. He pulls into a small diner, one of those old ones that has sketchy tile but is guaranteed to have amazing food, and your stomach grumbles.

“That is not me saying you’re right,” you say when he smirks at you.

The inside of the diner is exactly as you imagined it — red vinyl booths that are now more patches than vinyl, scuffed checkered tile, and the smell of coffee and bacon permeating the air. The lady behind the counter says hi, Shark when the two of you walk in and gives you a delighted smile that’s disturbingly reminiscent of Patty. 

“They call you Shark?” you whisper to Brendon when he leads you to a booth in the back corner.

“Should they call me Bren?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. You make it a point not to look at him as you sit down, then you hold the menu in front of your face so he can’t see you, either. He laughs under his breath, and though the sound makes a pleasant warmth burn low in your stomach, you studiously ignore him. Besides, you’re so hungry that everything on the menu looks delicious right now, and deciding what to eat feels harder than deciding your dissertation topic had been. 

“What can I get you guys?”

The lady from the counter walks up to your table, still wearing the same overly-pleased smile from when you’d come in. She’s looking back and forth between you and Brendon like she’s just won the lottery. Brendon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and tells her just the usual, Fran. Then they’re both looking at you, and you feel like you’re being quizzed by your qualifying committee. 

“The skillet hash with sunny-side up eggs, please,” you say.

“Anything to drink?”

“Just water, please.”

She’s still smiling when she grabs the menus and walks away, and something tells you it’s not because she’s feeling particularly customer service-y right now. She and Patty should compare notes you think to yourself.

Then it’s just you and Brendon, and you realize this is the longest you’ve ever spent with him. Usually it’s just a quick chat when you both have a free moment. But right now there’s no models to run, no patients to see, and you suddenly feel more nervous than you have since the day you met him. You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Why did she call you Shark?”

He arches a brow.

“You really don’t know?”

You stare back blankly, and his lips quirk.

“One of the residents started calling me Park the Shark during my first year as an attending. It stuck.”

“And you like it?”

“I never said that.”

“Your face did. It’s doing the…slightly less annoyed thing. You like it.”

You’re starting to recognize the nuances in his perpetually unimpressed expression, the difference between mocking smiles and genuine ones. You can tell by his tone what he really means even if his words are always sharp. And right now, the man is insufferably pleased by his moniker.

“The residents have nicknames for everyone, and Shark is better than anything the other attendings have. They call Lee ‘Kim Jong Un’ behind his back.” 

Your jaw drops.

“They what?”

“Are you telling me you don’t have nicknames for the professors in your department?”

“Well, yeah, but not Kim Jong Un.”

He just shrugs. 

There’s a pause then, and you’re surprised to find the silence isn’t uncomfortable. You’re not thrilled by it, but you’re not crawling out of your skin to find something to say, either. You’re content to just sit and look around the old diner. His phone pings at one point, and he looks at it with absolute disgust before typing an aggressive response. 

“Do you need to go back?” you ask.

He glances up at you, expression unreadable.

“Would you be upset if I did?”

It’s your turn to shrug now.

“Why would I be upset about you doing your job?”

It’s Wednesday, so if he’s on call today, he’s probably on call every Wednesday. You know he’s also likely on call at least one weekend a month. It’s just part of being a surgeon, and you knew the moment you saw him in the elevator earlier that there was a chance he’d get paged again. Ideal? No. But upsetting? Also no.

He stares at you for a long minute, like he’s looking for a sign you’re lying to him. He won’t find one. You might be a lot of things — prone to overthinking everything, plagued by imposter syndrome, simultaneously really smart and really dumb — but unreasonable isn’t one of them. 

“I don’t have to go in yet,” he eventually says.

You tilt your head.

“I feel like I just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.”

“What makes you think you passed?”

You’re about to open your mouth to tell him to go suck on an unripe lemon when Fran comes back. She sets the food down along with two glasses of water, and you pause mid-snipe to thank her. Brendon does the same, then hands her a couple of folded bills.

“In case I get paged before we finish,” he tells her.

“You want change, sweetie?”

He shoots her a grumpy look.

“Do I ever?”

“Well you’ve also never brought your girlfriend before, so I just wanted to check.”

You’re glad you hadn’t had a chance to take a sip of water yet, because you would one hundred percent have choked on it. You can’t tell if Fran is joking or serious, but either way, you were not prepared to be called Brendon Park’s girlfriend in a random diner at midnight on a Wednesday. Of course, Brendon himself doesn’t appear phased. Just gives her his normal unimpressed look and puts his wallet back in his pocket.

Fran takes that as her cue to leave, though she does so with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen. You watch her go while panic steadily brews inside of you. Desperate for something to do besides visibly freak out, you reach for your own wallet, only to stop when Brendon makes an offended sound.

“If you hand me money, I will drop you off on the side of the road.”

“That seems dramati-.”

“Besides, I have to take care of my girlfriend.”

The smirk he gives you sends heat arcing through your body and straight between your legs. Your breath actually catches, and you forget how words are supposed to work. He’s teasing, you know he’s teasing, but that doesn’t stop the thought from doing something embarrassing to your nervous system. Because part of you wants to know what it’s like. Not necessarily being his girlfriend, just being…his. 

You want to know what he’s like when he first wakes up, before coffee and hair gel. You want to curl up with him on the couch while he complains about the general stupidity of humanity. You want to find him in the back row of your presentations and know that he sees you. It’s too much for how short a time you’ve known him, but Fran’s words imprint the possibilities on your mind. 

Dinner passes in a blur after that. You know he talks to you, and you know you answer, but you wouldn’t have been able to recall the content of that conversation even if you were held at gunpoint. At least his pager stays silent. The two of you are able to finish eating in peace, and then you’re saying bye to Fran and walking back out into the damp Pittsburgh night. You still feel like you’re experiencing everything on a delay, right up until you turn around to ask him a question and collide with his chest.

Oh.

He must have been walking closer behind you than you thought, and his hand shoots out to steady you when you stumble into him. All of your senses suddenly go on high alert. You can feel the heat of his skin, can smell the vetiver and bergamot of his cologne. His chin dips so his eyes can meet yours, and you feel his gaze like a lightning bolt down your spine. You expect him to be annoyed with your sudden intrusion into his space, but there’s no irritation in his expression. Just steady patience and the slightest hint of amusement. 

“Careful,” he murmurs.

His hand is still on your waist from when he’d caught you, warm even through the material of your sweater. It’s big enough that his fingers splay across your rib cage, and you’re agonizingly aware of it every time you take a breath. You’re agonizingly aware of everything about him. 

“Brendon,” you breathe.

He hums under his breath.

“I like Bren better.”

Then he’s stepping around you to open your door for you, and you’re left gaping at empty air like a landed fish. He laughs, somehow mocking and fond all at the same time, and nudges you none-too-gently towards the car. It takes you a bit to reboot and comply.

“Mean,” you mutter when you pass him.

He doesn’t deny it, but he does close your door for you. Aggravating man.

The drive back to your apartment is relatively quiet compared to the one to the diner. You’re full, sleepy, and reeling from emotional whiplash. Brendon is…Brendon. Quiet, confident, smug. Looking stupidly attractive doing something as simple as driving a car. Extremely aggravating man.

Your building has a quite a few lights on when he pulls into the parking lot, especially given the hour. But you know a lot of the other residents are also grad students, so you’re not surprised by how many people are still up. Finals are around the corner, which means it’s prime cramming season. 

“Thank you,” you say when he puts the car in park.

He turns to you, his eyes cutting even in the dim light of the cab. Fatigue has sharpened his features, not softened them, and looking at him feels like looking at a carved statue. He’s beautiful like this, you think. With his hair mussed and exhaustion bruising his under eyes. So beautiful it makes something in you ache.

“Will you be in after your meeting tomorrow?” he asks in return.

You have a meeting with Dr. Nayar on campus in the morning, something you’d mentioned in passing when you brought him coffee last week. You’re both surprised and not surprised that he remembered. He remembers everything. 

“Yes, eleven-ish, maybe.”

“Good.”

There’s a world of meaning in that one word.

“Will I see you?” you make yourself ask before you can chicken out.

Thursday is one of his surgery days, which means he might have an unexpected break if a case wraps up early, or he could be stuck in the operating room from sunup to sundown.

“Do you want to?”

There’s a hint of his usual smirk in his voice, and your cheeks heat. He bought you dinner. He drove you home. Someone called you his girlfriend, and he didn’t correct them. Yet that simple question — do you want to —  feels more weighted than anything else has tonight. This is him handing you a simple choice that holds far more meaning than just tomorrow.

Do you want to see each other tomorrow?

Do you want to keep sneaking in visits between meetings and surgeries?

Do you want to keep needling each other and pretending neither of you enjoy it?

Do you want this? Whatever it might turn into?

“Yes.”

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Much later, when you’re curled up in bed under your nest of blankets and wearing your oldest, comfiest sleep shirt that you pull out your phone to text him. A million ideas of what to say cross through your mind, but eventually you settle on another thank you. You don’t expect him to answer, and you’re just about to close your eyes when your phone pings. 

His response is just two words, but they make your heart stutter.

Goodnight, imp.

You stare at your screen. Imp. You’re pretty sure those are tiny little demon things that like to play pranks. You’re also pretty sure they’re supposed to be ugly. It’s objectively not much of an improvement over gremlin, maybe half a step up if you’re being generous. But something about those three little letters makes your whole body warm with affection. 

Imp.

You don’t know why you’re doing this.

You’re standing in line at your new favorite coffee shop, the cute one on the corner that hosts Star Wars trivia and serves lattes in handmade mugs. You’d found it two weeks after you’d started working at PTMC, and now you show up every Friday like clockwork. Your pitiful grad student stipend makes it irresponsible to come more often than that, though you do occasionally cave on particularly early Monday mornings.

Noa, the barista, already knows your order by heart, and they smile in greeting when you reach the register.

“Just your usual today?” they ask.

You hesitate. You really don’t know why you’re doing this.

“Umm, can I add a long black?”

Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. The first time you’d come here, you’d told them you liked your coffee to taste as un-coffee-like as possible — clearly the extra drink isn’t for you. They don’t comment though, which you’re grateful for. You might see them every week, but you’re definitely not prepared to explain to them why you’re buying coffee for a man you’ve met exactly once and who wasn’t even particularly polite to you.

It’s gratitude, you tell yourself.

That’s not completely a lie. Working at a desk was significantly more comfortable than working on the floor of a supply closet, so you really are thankful. And if that’s not the only reason you walk out of the shop carrying two drinks, no one else needs to know.

The three-block trek to PTMC somehow feels both longer and shorter than usual. By the time you’re scanning your badge and riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, you’ve called yourself an idiot five different ways. It’s too late to change your mind though — the lady at the nurses station has already seen you, and you’ll look like an even bigger idiot if you just turn around and walk back the way you came.

It’s the same nurse you saw when you were here a few days ago. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, with steel grey hair held back by a sparkly butterfly clip and hot pink glasses perched on her nose. She’s sipping something from a mug labeled “World’s Best Grandma,” and her badge reel is shaped like a unicorn.

She must recognize you, too, because something horrifyingly close to amusement is dancing in her warm brown eyes. Patty, you read from her badge, looks down at the two coffees clutched in your hands then back up at you. She smiles.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

You’ve spent your entire academic career giving lectures in front of everyone from freshmen falling asleep in their seats to snobby faculty who disagree with everything you say on principle. You’re trained to be confident, eloquent. To answer any question thrown your way whether directly or by pivoting. Talking to a kind older lady with glittery clogs should not phase you.

It does in fact phase you.

“I’m uh, looking for Bre-, Dr. Park?”

Her grin widens.

“He’s is in surgery right now, but he should be closing soon if you want to wait.”

You shake your head immediately. There’s no way you’re going to stand here waiting for him like a lovesick teenager; you have more dignity than that. You’ll just consider this the universe telling you this was a bad idea.

“I have a meeting,” you lie.

Patty raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call you on it.

“Do you want to leave that here?” she asks instead, gesturing to your occupied hands. “I don’t usually play courier, but I’d be happy to give him that for you.”

It doesn’t take a genius to puzzle out why you’re looking for Brendon while holding an extra coffee, but you still feel yourself flushing at being caught. Maybe it’s frowned upon to interrupt surgeons in the middle of one of their operating days. Or maybe he brings random women to his office all the time, and you’re just the latest in a long string. Either way, you’re overthinking, mad at yourself for overthinking, and late to an imaginary meeting.

“That would be great, thank you,” you say.

You hand over the coffee like you’re handing over contraband. She takes it with what feels like an inappropriately pleased expression.

“I hope your meeting goes well,” she replies.

Yeah, she definitely knows you lied.

Mustering as much dignity as you can manage, you thank her again before turning and heading back to the elevator. You can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of your head as you go. It’s not until you reach your tiny little borrowed office on the second floor that you finally relax a bit. You sit down in your chair, drop your bag on the floor, and take a sip of your coffee. Then promptly gag and nearly spit it out.

The taste of bitter black coffee coats your tongue like a violation. You glare at the innocuous looking to-go cup like it’s responsible for the mixup. Your beloved, sugary monstrosity is rotting upstairs, but you would rather gnaw your arm off than go back and switch drinks with Patty. You groan and drop your head into your hands.

It’s going to be a long day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Who the fuck sits like that?”

You jump and nearly knock over your coffee. You’d taken it to the cafeteria and loaded it with as much cream and sugar as possible until it was almost palatable. You’d been sipping it on and off while you worked in silence for the last hour, and you hadn’t notice Brendon arriving at your door until he spoke. He stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed and lip curled like he’s looking at a zoo exhibit.

You blink slowly.

You’re sitting with your knees drawn up, feet tucked close. Your chin rests on your knees, and your arms are wrapped around them so you can reach the keyboard.

“It helps me think,” you reply slowly.

“You’re not doing much to beat the gremlin accusations. You look like fucking Gollum.”

Far from being offended, you feel your face light up.

“You’ve read Lord of the Rings?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

He looks deeply unimpressed, which you find deeply attractive for some reason you’ll explore in therapy next week. He’s just as handsome as you remember, even with his hair mussed from his scrub cap and a small mark on his nose from his eye protection. It’s kind of annoying, if you’re being honest. No one should look that good in hospital-issued scrubs.

“You have terrible taste in coffee,” he continues.

You choke.

You’ve been so disgruntled while slogging through your sad-black-coffee morning that you forgot it meant he did not have sad, black coffee. You’ve been worried about your own drink, when you really should’ve been worried about his. Horror dawns at the realization you brought a six-foot-plus, scowling orthopedic surgeon a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup.

You wince.

“I gave you mine by mistake. This one was supposed to be yours.”

You gesture to your own cup weakly.

“It’s just a long black.”

“So you have some taste,” he snorts.

That pulls a scowl out of you, which in turn pulls a smirk out of him.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you retort. “I wait all week for that drink, and you didn’t even appreciate it.”

“Thank you.”

You’re shocked by how sincere he sounds. He looks at you steadily, not a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he ruins it two seconds later by opening his mouth.

“Poor timing on your part though, Patty is having a fucking field day over this.”

“Well excuse me for not having your operating schedule memorized.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Besides,” you continue. “It’s just a thank you coffee, not a marriage proposal.”

“Why, you thinking about marriage?”

You should absolutely not blush at that. You blush. Then you blush even harder when that slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. Asshole.

“Did you come all the way down here just to be a jerk?” you scowl.

“Not only.”

He walks into the office then, and your breath catches. The space is small to begin with, really more of a shoe cupboard than anything else, but it feels positively minuscule with his massive frame inside of it. He stops on the opposite side of your desk and nods at your computer.

“I saw the hospital memo — you’re giving a lecture on your research next week?”

“I-, uh, yes?”

You’re shocked that he actually reads his memos — you certainly don’t — and even more shocked that he noticed your tiny little line in the million-page document. It’s nothing big, just you giving an overview of your dissertation and its projected implications for the hospital. Really, it’s mostly just so you can tell people they might see you popping in and out of their departments for observation and to not call security on you.

“Are you planning on going?” you ask hesitantly.

He shrugs.

“If I can pawn off rounds on Feldman, then yeah.”

Oh.

He says it like it’s a forgone conclusion, like of course he’ll be there and you’re an idiot for thinking otherwise. He’s smart, handsome, maybe secretly nice underneath ten layers of grump. But once again, the thing that strikes you most is that he sees you and takes you seriously. You can count on one hand the number of people outside your committee who actually care about what you study, and you wouldn’t even need all your fingers. Even your parents’ eyes kind of glaze over when you get too technical.

Your face must betray some of what you’re thinking, because he’s quick to add-

“I just want to make sure you’re on track to give me my 20%.”

You actually laugh then, and something in his expression softens so minutely you almost miss it. Your heart stumbles over its next beat. You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.

You’re searching for something to say that won’t give away your inner crisis, when you’re saved by the sound of another voice at your door. Although once you glance over and see who it is, you decide you would rather have confessed your undying love than deal with whatever this is about to be.

“Hey, y/n, I brought you some-, oh.”

Several things happen in quick succession. First, you make uncomfortable eye contact with Jeremy Hayes, who’s standing in the doorway clutching a cup from the hospital cafeteria. Second, Brendon looks over at you and clocks your vaguely pained expression. Last Brendon and Jeremy look at each other, and you can almost feel the instant dislike that passes between them.

“Hi, Jeremy,” you say quickly, trying to defuse the situation.

His eyes peel reluctantly away from Brendon’s, and he gives you a slightly more strained version of the smile he was wearing a minute ago.

“Hi,” he greets again. “I got you something.”

He walks into the office, passes Brendon, and then rounds the desk to stand next to you. He places the cup on your desk and lingers by your side. You wonder if it’d be rude to scooch your chair away from him.

You’ve known Jeremy since he started as a post-doc in your department ten months ago, and you have enjoyed approximately zero of those months. It probably makes you mean, but there’s just something about him that rubs you the wrong way. You don’t know why — there’s nothing technically wrong with him. He’s handsome, smart, and well-liked by most others. Maybe, you think as he grabs your old cup of coffee and tosses it in the trashcan next to the desk, it’s because he does stuff like this. You weren’t enjoying the lukewarm drink, but still. It feels presumptuous if not rude.

Brendon must feel the same, because he arches one imperious eyebrow that conveys an entire speech’s worth of words. Jeremy flushes, but powers through.

“I’m Dr. Jeremy Hayes, Carnegie Mellon,” he says.

Brendon just stares at him, arms crossed and expression flat.

“Y/n and I work quite closely together.”

That’s a gross over-exaggeration of your basically non-existent relationship.

“I didn’t know you were working with PTMC,” you say when it becomes clear Brendon has no intention of contributing to this conversation.

“I’m not.”

“Oh, so are you um, visiting someone here?”

“I was just in the area and wanted to come check on my favorite grad student.”

PTMC and CMU are relatively close to each other, only about twenty minutes without traffic, but it still feels…excessive. Even if he really was just in the area. And it’s news to you that you’re his favorite grad student — if you’re being honest, you don’t really want to be.

“Well, um, thank you for stopping by,” you say, hoping he gets the hint.

He does not get the hint.

Instead, he turns to Brendon and smiles confidently.

“You must be one of y/n’s new friends.”

Brendon says nothing, and the smile falters.

“Sorry if I interrupted, you were saying?”

Brendon just cocks his head.

“I can wait until you’re gone.”

Jeremy looks like he’s just been slapped, and you realize you’re going to have to put an end to whatever pissing match this is. Although calling it a match seems unfair. It’s more like Jeremy trying to talk to an uninterested brick wall.

“Thank you for stopping by to check on me,” you say to him. “I’m doing well. I’ll see you at the department brown bag next week?”

Something passes across his expression so quickly you don’t quite know what to make of it, before he pastes on another megawatt smile and nods.

“Of course. I’ll come by another time when you’re not so busy.”

He heads for the door then, but not before casting one more weighted look at Brendon. Brendon, for his part, just looks back with the same bored expression he’s been wearing for the past ten minutes. That is, until Jeremy actually leaves. Then he makes it approximately five seconds before rounding on you.

“You-”

“You don’t have to say it,” you grimace, rubbing at the ache forming at your temples.

“Someone has to. You have shit taste in friends.”

You glare at him.

“He’s not my friend, and that’s rude.”

“So is throwing away someone’s overpriced coffee and replacing it with cafeteria sludge, but you didn’t have anything to say about that.”

You open your mouth to respond, then close it, because he’s not wrong. You thought the exact same thing. You’ve thought the exact same thing about Jeremy several times in fact.

“He your advisor?”

You nearly choke.

“No, he’s a post doc. We don’t actually work on anything together.”

“And yet he came all this way to see you.”

You wince.

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.”

“Because it is. You told me I was terrible and knocked over my pens the first day I met you.”

He stops there, but you hear the rest of it anyways. So why don’t you say anything now? You don’t answer right away, partially because you’re not sure. When you stay silent, he shifts forward, and you brace for whatever scathing thing you’re sure he’s about to say. Instead, his expression softens, and his voice is careful when he asks-

“Is he a problem?”

That’s all he asks, but you once again hear the unspoken words that follow. Is he a problem and do you want me to do something about it? Warmth blooms in your chest. You met Brendon three days ago, talked to him for maybe half an hour, and did indeed knock over his pens after he specifically told you not to touch anything. Twice. But here he is showing real concern for you. Add that to his genuine interest in your research, and you suddenly find yourself too deep in a pool you weren’t aware you were swimming in.

“He’s just…really friendly,” you say when you remember how words work.

“Y/n.”

He says your name flatly, but it still manages to convey disbelief, annoyance, and try that again all at the same time. You feel a mortifying lick of arousal. This is not the time, but your body doesn’t seem to care. Hearing your name in that tone, from his mouth, short-circuits you for a second.

“Okay, maybe he’s too friendly,” you amend, “but I don’t think he’s a problem.“

He looks at you for a long moment, considering, before nodding.

“You can tell me if that changes.”

He’s serious, and you’re gone.

“Are you saying you care?” you joke in an attempt not to confess your undying love on the spot.

He immediately scowls.

“I’m saying that if you get murdered by your stalker before I get my cut, I’m going to be pissed.”

That makes you grin. In a lot of ways, Brendon is the opposite of Jeremy — snappy, rude, not a people person — but you find you prefer that. He’s straightforward, intentional. Sharp-tongued, but respectful of the things that matter. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to hold your ground with him.

“I’m serious,” he says when you keep smiling at him. “Stop looking at me like that. We’re not friends. You’re still an office gremlin with shit taste in coffee and terrible posture.”

“Technically matcha isn’t coffee.”

“For fuck’s sake-, I have a surgery to get to.

He shoots you a look cold enough to kill and leaves without another word. You laugh at his retreating back, then laugh harder when he flips you off over his shoulder. Your morning is starting to feel significantly better.

Maybe getting him a coffee wasn’t a bad idea after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brendon doesn’t get home until eleven. 

You’re curled on the couch under the fluffy shark-patterned blanket you’d gotten him for his birthday (he’d told you it was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, then proceeded to use it basically every day since), and the TV is playing some Netflix romcom you don’t really care about. He’d texted you somewhere around six telling you there was a trauma incoming and to not wait up for him, which meant you’d of course waited up for him. 

In the year the two of you’ve been together, you’ve learned that there’s no way to predict how trauma cases will impact him. There are days he comes home like nothing happened, days he comes home even more smug than usual. Then there are the days where he loses a patient or the outcome isn’t what he was hoping for, but he’s typically quick to make peace with it. He’s calculating, pragmatic. He knows when the odds are unfavorable and doesn’t dwell when they beat him.

Then there are days like today. 

Days when you know something has gone wrong the moment he steps inside the house. He’s not particularly talkative as a baseline, but usually he’ll at least call a greeting. Today there’s nothing but stony silence. The only sounds are the slight shuffle of him taking off his shoes and the click of the closet opening so he can hang up his coat. When he finally steps out of the mudroom and into the den, he does barely more than nod at you before disappearing upstairs.

You’re not upset. You might have been, once upon a time, but you know him well enough by now to know this is just how he copes. He’ll probably take a shower, eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy, then curl around you in bed like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But he’ll hold you, and you’ll let him, and that’ll be enough for both you.

You sit quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the shower come on, and are startled when he instead comes back down the stairs wearing training shorts and an old t-shirt. 

“Bren?” you question softly.

He pauses. His spine is rigid, his jaw tense, and you can see the weight of every life he’s ever held resting on his shoulders in that moment. Something heartbreakingly vulnerable flashes in his eyes so quickly you almost miss it, before he hides it behind iron walls.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

Then he disappears into the basement. A few moments later, the sound of weights clanking together floats up the stairs.

Your heart squeezes, but you don’t follow him. You know he needs to work through whatever it is on his own. Instead, you turn the volume on the TV up to give him some privacy and busy yourself with cleaning. 

You grab his bag from where he’d dropped it in the mudroom and unpack it — putting the food he didn’t eat back in the kitchen and plugging in his laptop to charge. You wash the few dishes in the sink by hand and then spend some time prepping lunches for both of you for the following day. Then you go upstairs and throw his dirty scrubs in the wash along with a few other things. Really, there’s not enough laundry to warrant a load, but you need something to occupy you. No matter what he said, you won’t be able to sleep knowing how upset he is. 

Eventually, the load finishes, and you put it in the dryer. Then that finishes, too, and Brendon is still in the basement. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearing 1:00 AM. You bite your lip. You’re exhausted, so you can only imagine how tired he must be. He’d been out the door by five that morning, and you know he’d had no break between his regular shift and the emergency trauma. You also know he hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, if his mostly untouched lunch was anything to go by. 

You start folding laundry while glancing at the clock every five seconds. You want to give him his space, but you’re also getting increasingly worried. You’re not quite sure where the line is between letting him process and leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually though, when you’ve reorganized your nightstand twice, when the hour hand is closer to the two than the one, you decide you should at least check on him. 

You pad softly down the stairs to the first floor and then pause at the doorway to the basement. You can no longer hear weights shifting around down there. In fact, it’s eerily silent aside from the low hum of the TV, and you feel a frisson of nerves as you descend the dimly lit stairs. 

“Bren?”

He’s sitting on the FID bench facing the wall of mirrors. Several dumbbells are discarded at his feet. Sweat stains his shirt and his brow, and he’s still breathing heavily from whatever set he just finished. He’s still apart from the rising and falling of his chest though, his eyes fixed unseeingly on one of the heavy rubber mats lining the floor. He doesn’t even move when you say his name, and you’re not sure if it’s because he can’t hear you or because he doesn’t have the energy to respond.

The two of you exist in silence for a long moment, and you know he won’t break it unless you do. Carefully, like you’re afraid any sudden movements will make things worse, you cross to the mini-fridge on the back wall. You grab a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap as you walk back across the room to stand next to him.

“You should drink something,” you say softly, holding it out to him. 

He might not want to talk about anything, but you can at least take care of him physically. Or you can try. He doesn’t take the water, and you only hold it out for a second longer before recapping it and setting it at his feet. Worry grips your chest like a fist.

“Do you-”

“You should go.”

You freeze. Your first reaction is hurt, which you quickly shove as far down as you can — this is about him, not you. Then comes the instinctual urge to obey. If he wants you to go, then you will. But just as your body is about to turn and move on its own, your mind catches up. 

“You said I should go,” you venture carefully. “Does that mean you want me to?”

He doesn’t say anything, which tells you more than if he had.

Feeling steadier now than you did a second ago, you go to round the bench and stand in front of him, only for his hand to shoot out and keep you from coming closer.

“You can’t be around me right now,” he reiterates tightly.

“Because of me? Or because of you?”

His gaze snaps up to you then, and you inhale sharply at what you see there. Fury, bright and sharp, cuts through you like a blade. Right alongside it is grief so raw it’s almost anger in itself. There are other emotions buried there, too — frustration, self-loathing, hopelessness — so many that he looks like he’s drowning in them.

“Careful,” he says lowly.

Your heart stutters nervously, but you don’t back down.

“If you want me to leave, I will, but don’t tell me to go because you think you’re protecting me.”

His jaw tightens, and he stands. Towering over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. It works and it doesn’t. Your body responds the way it always does when he’s this close — your heart rate picks up, your breathing goes uneven, and awareness prickles across your skin. But you’re not scared of him. You don’t think you ever could be.

“You want to be soft right now,” he grits out, teeth bared. “You want to be sweet and gentle until everything’s better.”

You shake your head slowly.

“I want to be whatever you need me to be,” you tell him.

Wrong answer, or right one. You don’t know. All you do know is he makes a low, mean sound, and takes a predatory step towards you. You instinctively back up. The backs of your knees hit the bench, and you drop down on it with a graceless oof. Now it’s your turn to sit while he stands over you. 

“You have no idea what I need right now,” he snarls.

Realization hits you so fast you feel dizzy, then ridiculous for not realizing sooner. The way he’s practically vibrating in his skin. The way he’s been down here punishing his body for nearly three hours. The way he seems to want you close and also want you as far away as possible. 

He feels out of control.

He’s not just angry, he’s not just grieving. He’s spiraling. Tough cases always challenge his need for control, but he’s also pragmatic enough that he usually bounces back quickly. Whatever control he felt he lost with this trauma, he can’t get it back. He’s been trying to — down here alone, for hours — but it’s clearly not working. 

He must see the realization in your face, because his expression shutters further, and he makes a low warning sound in his throat.

“Don’t,” he grits.

You don’t say anything, just reach out slowly and grab one of his hands. It flexes almost spastically in yours, but he doesn’t pull away. At least until you bring it to your mouth and brush a soft kiss across his knuckles. Then he tries to jerk it back, but you won’t let him. 

“I can’t be gentle right now,” he scrapes out.

“I don’t need you to be gentle.”

He growls in frustration and crowds even closer.

“You don’t get it, I don’t trust myself around you.”

Your heart breaks, even as determination solidifies in your mind. Slowly, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to, you lift his hand to your neck. His fingers twitch as you wrap them carefully around your throat, and his breath punches out of him like you struck him.

“I trust you,” you whisper.

A brief pause—

And then he’s moving. He spits out a curse and then he’s hauling you to your feet. His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s all teeth and anger wrapped in desperation. The awareness that’s been humming under your skin since he got home morphs into arousal from one breath to the next. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt as you do your best to keep up with his relentless pace.

“Brave fucking girl,” he hisses against your mouth.

You whimper in response, concerned, relieved, and turned on all in equal measure. He kisses you like he’s punishing you. He kisses you like he can burn out his anger through your body, and you kiss him back like you want it. You do, you think, when he yanks your head back so his lips can find your jaw. You want whatever he wants, want to be whatever he needs.

He worries a bruise onto your neck, more teeth than lips. It’s petty, mean. It makes your cunt clench around nothing. You tilt your head further back to give him more access, and he rumbles a low sound of approval.

“So eager for me,” he mutters against your skin.

You nod frantically — you are, you always are. 

You tug at his shoulders to bring his mouth back to yours. He allows it, indulgent. One hand is still buried in your hair, while the other bands like steel around your waist, and it presses you as close to him as possible and then closer still. He seems content for a moment, letting you guide the kiss, at least until he nips sharply at your lip and slides his hand back to your throat. It tightens just enough to make you work harder for every breath, and the feeling goes through you like lightning.

“Hmm, you like it when I get to decide if you breathe?” he asks. 

Your only response is a whimper, and his eyes flash dangerously. You feel dazed, floaty, and he’s barely touched you yet. The same thought must cross his mind, because his grip loosens for a second, and the hand at your throat reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from your face.

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I don’t know how to be gentle right now.”

You hear him fighting to keep his voice calm, to truly give you the out if you want it, and that more than anything makes your decision for you. He might not trust himself, but you do. You know he won’t hurt you.

Slowly, keeping your eyes locked with his, you sink to your knees.

Something complicated crosses his face. Longing and vulnerability mixed with love so deep it’s pain. He looks at you like you’re tearing him apart and remaking him at the same time, like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. His hand, steady enough to piece bodies back together, shakes as it reaches out to touch your face. His thumb brushes reverently over your cheek.

“Brave girl,” he whispers again.

Then all the softness disappears behind steel. You watch him physically piece his armor back together— his breath evening, his shoulders straightening. His eyes glint like ice, and the hand on your cheek grabs your chin and forces you to look up. You stare at him, feeling small and exposed.

“Clothes off.”

The words are quiet, but there’s no doubt they’re an order.

Your breath hitches, but your hands move to obey without thought. They grab them hem of your sweater and pull it off. Next comes your bra, and you blush a little when you drop it on top of the sweater. He’s seen you naked a thousand times before, but there’s something about it that feels especially vulnerable when you’re on your knees like this. You start to get up, so you can take off your shorts, but his voice stops you.

“I didn’t say you could stand.”

A shock of heat lances through you and goes straight to your cunt. You make a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a whimper, and stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares unblinkingly back. Hands unsteady now, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties and start tugging them down. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassing trying to wiggle out of them while still kneeling. You have to contort and do a sort of shuffle to get them off,  but you finally manage it.

Now naked, you look up at him and wait for whatever comes next. The air in the basement is cooler than the rest of the house, and you feel your nipples start to pebble. The subdued lighting that usually feels soothing now feels too bright, too revealing. The only sound is the quiet hum of the fridge, which makes you hyper aware of your own breathing.

Part of you is uncomfortable, itching to move, to say something — anything to break this silent standoff. It doesn’t matter how safe you feel with him, the stark power imbalance between the two of you — you naked and kneeling, him clothed and towering over you — never fails to tug at something soft and unprotected within you. You force yourself to remain still though. As strong as the urge to retreat is, the need to obey is stronger.

“Eyes closed,”he says at last, and you comply gratefully. “Stay here.”

You’re startled when you hear him disappear up the stairs, but you obey and stay still. You think you hear him continue to the stairs to the second floor, but you can’t be sure. Then there’s nothing. Alone, waiting, the anticipation feels sharper. The rubber mat under your knees feels slightly too firm, and the air feels slightly too cold. Your legs are starting to cramp. Time passes oddly while you wait, and you’re relieved when you hear him coming back down.

Anticipation runs down your spine like a physical touch when you hear him come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your eyes are still closed, and you have no idea what he’s doing or if he’s even looking at you. The uncertainty, the feeling of being completely at his mercy, makes your thighs clench together. The action makes you suddenly aware of how wet you are, and an involuntary sound escapes your throat.

One of his hands comes to rest briefly on your head at the sound, grounding, then vanishes. 

“Hands.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. Carefully, you stretch your hands behind you. He moves, looping something around your wrists and securing them at the small of your back. You test the bindings once — snug enough they won’t slip off, but loose enough you could get out of them without much effort. They’re more symbolic than anything, but they still make your cunt pulse.

Next he slips something over your eyes. You open them on instinct, but aside from a vague haze of light, you can’t see anything through the fabric. Now truly unable to see and with your hands bound, your awareness of everything else around you skyrockets. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, hear the measured rhythm of his breathing. He trails a hand lightly down one of your arms, barely anything, and it sets off fireworks in your body.

He stands, and you feel more than hear him walk around you. He stops in front of you, one hand coming to rest on your face. You feel his fingers press against your lips, and you open obediently. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Your cunt clenches around nothing again. You suck lightly on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead, and feel yourself getting steadily wetter. Your breasts feel heavy, your nipples tight, and you want him to touch you so badly it’s nearly pain.

“Good girl,” he repeats, then draws his fingers out. “Open.”

You do and are rewarded with the slide of his cock over your tongue. You make a grateful sound that would have been embarrassing if your brain was functioning. Instead, all you care about is the weight of him in your mouth and the low hiss he lets out when you start sucking.

“So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he mocks.

You hum in agreement, lost in the taste of sweat and skin and the slightly bitter flavor of pre-come. 

He lets you play for a while, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. You alternate between sucking the flared head, tongue flicking the slit until his hips twitch, and sinking down further until your jaw aches. His fingers card through your hair, misleadingly gentle, and you think then that you could stay like this forever. Your knees ache, and your shoulders are starting to protest, but all that matters is this. Him, his taste, the sounds he makes. You’re actively clenching your thighs together now, trying to get any friction on your clit. He lets out a mean laugh when he notices, but he doesn’t stop you.

You know his patience won’t last though, and you’re proved correct when his grip suddenly tightens.

“I’m going to fuck your pretty throat now,” he says darkly.

You make a sound that might be agreement, might be a plea, and then his hips snap forward sharply. You nearly gag around the intrusion — too much, too fast — but you force yourself to breathe through it. He hums in approval, and you fairly whine. 

He sets a slow rhythm, steadily fucking his way deeper with every thrust. His hand at the back of your head holds you in place, and you moan at the feeling of him bullying his way into your throat. You gag around him a couple times, spit sliding down your chin and tears pricking your eyes. He doesn’t stop. He knows if you really wanted out, you would slip the loose bindings and tap his thigh. But you don’t, and he mutters filthy encouragement as he slides even deeper.

“So fucking pretty like this-”

“Feels so good-”

“Fuck, baby, just like that.”

By the time you’ve finally taken all of him, you’re shaking, hips grinding down against nothing. Your jaw aches and you can feel the tears on your cheeks, but all you want is more. You make a desperate sound, and he groans in response, before slowly drawing back. A pause, then he returns with a harsh snap of his hips, and you’re whining. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you relish it. You want him everywhere, stamped on your body inside and out. 

His breath punches out of him harshly as he fucks your face, and for a brief second you think you could come like this. Untouched, just the taste and feel of him and the sound of his voice spewing filth.

“My perfect girl, take- ah, take my cock so fucking well.”

You swallow around him, and his hips spasm.

“Shit, don’t-. Baby-, fucking Christ.”

You know he’s getting close. He’s spending longer down your throat with each thrust, grinding your nose against his pelvis. His breathing goes ragged, and his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Sure enough, one, two thrusts later and he’s yanking you off his cock with a curse. 

You hear the obscene slide of his fist over his spit-soaked cock, and then you feel the first splash of come hit your cheek. He grunts as he fucks his fist, painting your face and chest. You moan at the feeling.

“Fuck, you did so well,” he says when he’s finally spent.

You preen under his praise.

“You think you deserve a reward?”

“Please.”

You sound wrecked, desperate, but you don’t care. Your body is hot, your skin too tight, and you want his hands on you more than you want your next breath.

He makes you wait for a minute.

He moves away from you, and you hear a rustle of cloth. You think he’s wiping his hands off, but you can’t be sure. Then he’s coming back over to you, and you’re nearly squirming in anticipation when he lowers himself behind you. His chest touches your back, and you feel his legs on either side of yours. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t seem concerned.

“Spread your legs,” he tells you.

You do, ignoring the way your knees protest the movement. Now that you’re not focused on his cock, you’re fiercely aware of how long you’ve been kneeling. He doesn’t tell you to get up though, and any discomfort vanishes a moment later when his arms come around you and then his fingers are running through your folds. Your hips jerk forward.

“Oh, sweetheart. Did you get this wet just sucking my cock?”

You don’t answer right away, too focused on the feeling of finally, finally being touched. But his fingers stop when you stay silent, and you cry out in protest.

“Answer me, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Yes, what?”

Even after everything he’s already done to you, even with his come drying on your face, saying the words makes your cheeks burn.

“Yes, sucking your cock made me this wet.”

“Good girl.”

And then he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, and you nearly fall over. There’s no build up, no ease in. Just his fingers crooking in a practiced motion and rubbing relentlessly at the spot that makes you see stars. You moan, high and helpless. Your head drops back against his shoulder, and your hips move gracelessly as you chase his fingers. His thumb eventually moves to swipe against your clit, one brief moment of fire-tipped pleasure. Then his hand is withdrawing, and you nearly sob.

“Bren,” you cry pathetically.

He body pulls away from yours, but before you can protest, you feel something else moving between your legs. Not his fingers-

“Oh,” you gasp.

It’s a dildo. Not as thick as his cock, but definitely thicker than his fingers. Your walls clamp down around the intrusion. He fucks you shallowly with it, teasing more than anything, but you’re grateful for anything after waiting for so long. It’s more than enough to get you there, and your hips are starting to stutter when he says-

“No coming, baby.”

He actually laughs at your cry of distress.

“Don’t you want to be good for me?” he asks. 

That alone almost makes you come.

Your cunt spasms around the dildo, and everything in your body pulls tight. Yes, you want to be good for him, it’s all you want right now. Sometimes you think it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You garble out some version of that and preen at his murmured approval.

“Spread your legs a little more-, just like that. Sink a bit lower-”

You obey, not quite knowing what he’s trying to do yet, when you feel something against your clit and it clicks. Oh. You know exactly which dildo he’s using now. The dark purple one with the rabbit attachment at the base, which means-

The vibrator switches on, and you make a sound like you’re dying.

“Hmm, feel good?”

You’re nodding, babbling, something. 

“Now be a good girl and keep that in for me.”

He stands then, and while part of your mourns the loss of his warmth behind you, most of you is too focused on the incessant buzzing against your clit to care. It feels like it’s been years since he first kissed you, and you’ve moved past arousal into physical distress. You try to focus on something else, anything else. Your attention turns to your legs, which are cramping badly now, and your knees, which are aching as they dig into the ground. It doesn’t work though — you still feel like you’re a breath away from coming. 

That’s when you hear it.

A scraping sound, followed by the click of weights hitting each other. A few footfalls hitting the floor, then the same sound again. Your brain short-circuits. He’s working out. You’re kneeling bound and blindfolded, his come drying on your skin and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, and he’s working out. He must see the understanding dawn on your face, because he huffs out a laugh.

“Focus, baby.”

It takes a moment for your brain to come back online, even longer to notice the dildo is slipping out of you. You’d started rising up on your knees without realizing it, until only the tip is left inside of you. Startled, you drop back down without thought, only to yelp when the movement slams the rabbit into your clit. 

Another laugh, meaner this time, and then he goes back to his workout. 

Time ceases to matter. You can’t see anything, and your attempt to count the seconds that go by lasts approximately ninety seconds before you give up. The only thing you have to mark the passing of time is the rhythmic sound of him breathing his way through every rep, punctuated by longer pauses between sets. 

The base of the dildo perches precariously on the ground, held upright only because it’s inside of you. When you sink all the way down, it rests snugly inside of you, but it also pushes the rabbit directly against your clit. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough at the same time — almost numbing after so long, but still just one wrong twitch away from making you come. But every time you rise up to get away from it, the dildo threatens to fall out. You can only lift a couple inches without it slipping, and the awkward half-kneel makes your already-trembling thighs scream after only a minute. 

You can’t stay pressed against the vibrator without coming, and you can’t get away from it without the dildo falling out. Either way, you’re going to disobey him. The thought fills you with dread, and you fight to be good, cycling between both agonizing positions. You don’t know how long passes like that. Your body is on fire, but your mind is full of static, the only clear thought you have: be good. You repeat it in your head until it’s all you know, all you are. 

You start drifting, experiencing things through a haze, like they’re happening to someone else. The need to come is still there, but it’s not as urgent anymore. It’s been muted by distance. You’re somewhere else, floating and far away and-

A hand lands on top of your head and you come crashing back into your body. 

Sensation comes back, ten times sharper than before, and your body convulses as you fight the sharp, stabbing need to come. You make an agonized noise. You’re sweating, trembling, and you’re so wet you can feel it dripping out of you. Every nerve ending is on fire, your legs feel like they’re going to collapse even though you’re already kneeling, and you need to come, you-

“Shh, breathe, sweetheart.”

You gasp out a breath.

“That’s it. Focus on me.”

He starts taking deep, even breaths, and you fight to mimic him. Slowly, the frantic energy in you eases into something manageable. His hand stays on you the whole time. It’s not gentle, not rough, but it grounds you enough that you’re able to settle all the way back into your body.

“Good girl, I’m going to turn this off now okay?”

His fingers tap lightly at the vibrator, forcing a whine out of you. But you nod, and he murmurs more praise. The buzzing switches off, followed by him removing the dildo altogether, and you don’t know whether to sob in relief or to wail at the loss. 

“Fuck, baby, you made such a mess. Are you sure you didn’t come without permission?”

You shake your head frantically. No, you were good. You’re always good. Panic wells up in you, and you garble out a protest. You wouldn’t do that, you-

“I believe you, sweetheart. Always so perfect for me.”

You wilt in relief.

“Next is your wrists, okay?”

He waits until you nod before slipping the bindings off. Your shoulders scream in protest when you bring your arms back in front of you. His hands are there immediately though, rubbing carefully to help you through the worst of it. And even though it hurts, even though your knees ache and the muscles in your legs feel like they’re on fire, you still moan at the feel of his hands on you. Your body is caught somewhere between overstimulated and touch-starved, and you arch into his touch even though it’s painful.

“Alright, sweetheart, hands and knees. Do you think you can do that for me?”

You honestly don’t know if your limbs can hold you up anymore, but you try. You’d do anything he asked you at this point. Anything if he’ll finally let you come. You place your hands on the floor in front of you and lean some of your weight on them. Encouraged when they don’t give out right away, you shift slowly forward until you’re properly on all fours. You’re shaking, but you don’t fall.

“Doing so well, my perfect girl.”

The praise washes over you like a physical touch, and your pussy spasms weakly.

“Listened so well; I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”

You’re beyond words a this point, but you make a desperate sound of agreement and arch your back as best you can. He makes an appreciative noise at the sight. One hand finds your hip, the other running down the length of your spine, and you feel all of it like you’ve touched a live wire. Then he’s moving behind you, positioning himself, and the noise you make when you feel the head of his cock against your swollen pussy is feral.

“So fucking wet,” he says, dragging the tip through your folds. 

And then he slams into you in one, harsh thrust, and you choke on a scream.

He sets a brutal rhythm immediately, his hands bruising your hips to hold you in place. The respite you got when he took the dildo out vanishes, and you’re suddenly back to teetering on the edge of coming. His cock is so much thicker than the dildo, so much longer — you can feel him in your throat. You can feel every ridge, every vein as he fucks you like he’s trying to mold you to the shape of him.

“Shit,” he snarls when a particularly rough thrust makes you clench around him. “This perfect-, ah, perfect fucking pussy.”

His shifts slightly behind you, and you wail at the change in angle. Every thrust sends lightning down your spine, pleasure so sharp in hurts. Your arms shake, then give out, and you collapse forward onto the floor. He doesn’t pause though, just tightens his grip on your hips until you know you’ll wake up with his fingerprints on your skin. The thought makes you moan.

“That’s it, baby, taking my cock so well. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath is coming out in pathetic little moans every time he buries himself inside of you, but you try to respond, try to say yes. The only thing you manage is an incoherent approximation of his name. 

“My smart girl, so cock drunk you can’t speak.”

You don’t know which part of that sentence affects you more. Either would suffice to ruin you, and you feel your wetness start to drip down your thigh. You’re so wet you can hear your cunt trying to suck him back in every time he withdraws. The sound is loud, obscene in the small room, but you don’t care. You want more. Want him closer, harder, more.

Like he can hear your thoughts, he hooks one arm around you and reaches between your legs. He thumbs your clit lightly, barely a touch, but you clamp down so hard you nearly force him out.

“Jesus fucking-, hngg, fuck, fuck.”

His hips stutter, the first crack in his iron control. He keeps rubbing your clit though, and you know without a doubt that if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to come. 

“P-please,” you gasp. “Bren, please. Please let me c-come. I-, ah, I need to come.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Please.”

You’re outright crying now. Crying, begging, willing to do anything if he’ll let you come. It’s not a matter of willpower anymore, it’s a matter of survival. Your body has been denied for so long that you’re either going to come or pass out.

“Shit, alright. You’ve been so good for me, baby, you can come.”

He delivers a particularly brutal thrust and pinches your clit, and you detonate.

Lightning explodes through you. Your body spasms with it, your hands scrabbling for purchase against the floor. Pleasure so intense it’s agony forces a sob out of your mouth. It’s too much, and you feel like you’re going to break under the pressure of it, but you can’t escape. His hands are still pinning you in place, and you’re too weak to move, so all you can do is lay there as it tears you apart.

Dimly, you’re aware of him coming, too. His hips stutter, then slam forward one more time before he’s twitching inside of you. He holds you through it, spewing a litany of curses and praise, but it’s like you’re hearing from underwater. You’re still coming, drenching his cock with it. Every time you think it’s over, another wave hits you, and your vision actually greys out for a second. 

When you finally settle back into your body, you feel hollowed out. Everything is too much, too sensitive. Your breath is coming in broken gasps, your legs are shaking, and you can’t stop crying.

When he pulls out, it’s relief and loss all at once. You make a distressed noise, but quiet when he scoops you up into his arms. He sits on the ground and settles you in his lap, and you immediately burrow as close to him as humanly possible.

“Shh,” he soothes. “You did so well, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”

The words are like a balm to your ragged nerves. 

“Listened so well, my perfect girl.”

You’re an absolute mess — a mixture of both your releases dripping from between your legs and tears mixing with the remnants of dried come on your cheeks. He ignores all of it, cradling you close. For a while, there’s only the sound of him murmuring reassurances in your ear, only the feeling of being totally surrounded and safe. He doesn’t rush you, and eventually you calm enough to accept the bottle of water he holds to your lips. 

“Can I take off the blindfold?” he asks once you finish drinking.

You nod.

The overheads in the gym are dimmed all the way down, but you still wince at the first stab of light. You have to blink several times to adjust, and the first thing your eyes settle on is the reflection of you and Brendon in the mirror. You look about as wrecked as you feel, and though he looks similarly exhausted, you can immediately tell that the simmering anger from earlier has cooled. His pelagic eyes are calm as they stare back at you, his hand steady as it cards through your hair.

“You with me?” he asks softly. 

You hum in agreement, and he huffs a laugh.

“Words, sweetheart.”

A weak spark of arousal runs through your body.

“‘m with you,” you mumble. 

The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.

“What the fuck?”

The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.

“Um…hi?”

He does not smile back.

In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.

“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”

His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.

“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”

“It has an Ethernet port?”

He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet. 

“You work for CMU?”

“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”

He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue. 

“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.  

He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-

“What’s your dissertation title?”

“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”

“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”

“I’m s-”

He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.

“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”

He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating. 

“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”

This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:

“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.

On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does. 

“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks. 

You blink twice.

“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter. 

“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.

He nods once, as if in approval.

“Good.”

Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.

The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.

Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again. 

“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”

You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin. 

“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.

“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.

“Nope.”

He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.

“So why’d you come in the closet?”

“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”

“I do not talk to myself.”

“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”

You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.

“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.

“Park.”

The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning. 

Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace. 

A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”

“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.

Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.

You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.

“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.

Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.

“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up. 

“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”

You scowl.

“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”

He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:

“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”

You hiss of indignation. 

“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”

That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation. 

As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.

“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”

A pause.

“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”

Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh. 

“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.

He shrugs.

“Yes.”

He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.

“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”

He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away. 

“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”

“What, breathe on anything?”

Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.

If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing. 

“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”

You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.

“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.

Time feels suspended for a second.

He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.

Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.

“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”

That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it. 

“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.

You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.