Ficz I Come Back To Again And Again

There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.

Your high heels, specifically.

It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.

Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”

Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”

Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”

Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”

You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”

Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”

“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”

Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”

“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”

“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”

You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”

“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”

“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”

His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”

“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”

He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”

You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”

With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”

“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”

With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”

“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”

Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”

Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”

Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”

Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”

“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”

Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”

It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”

That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”

You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”

“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”

You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”

“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”

“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”

But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”

You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”

“No problem; give me two days.”

Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”

“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”

Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.

“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”

He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”

“I meant more that-”

“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”

“What does that mean?”

You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”

“Brutal.”

“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”

After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”

You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”

“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”

“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”

Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”

You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”

“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”

“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”

Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever I say.”

“In practical terms, please.”

You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”

His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”

“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”

Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”

“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”

Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”

“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”

Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”

You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”

He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”

“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”

He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”

You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”

The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.

It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.

Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”

As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”

“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”

“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”

All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”

You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”

“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful  woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”

“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”

“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”

With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”

“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”

You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”

“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”

You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”

He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”

The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.

The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.

But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.

That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.

You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.

But no.

Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.

Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.

“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”

You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”

“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”

“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”

“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”

You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.

By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.

Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.

You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.

While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”

Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”

Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”

“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”

Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”

“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”

“Ew.”

Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”

Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”

“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”

Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”

“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”

“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?

This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”

“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”

After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”

With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”

Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”

You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”

You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”

“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”

Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”

“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”

“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say,  “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”

“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”

You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”

He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”

A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”

“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”

You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”

Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”

You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”

“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”

“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”

“Yeah? How long?”

“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”

“See you soon, Viper.”

Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.

In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”

Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”

You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”

With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”

Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”

He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.

The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.

Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”

When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”

His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”

You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”

He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”

You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”

Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”

“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”

“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”

You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”

Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”

“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”

“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”

“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”

You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.

It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.

Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.

“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”

You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.

While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”

There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.

Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”

Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”

Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”

“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”

She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”

“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”

“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”

“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”

Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”

When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.

A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.

You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”

“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”

His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”

As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”

Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”

You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”

As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”

“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”

That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.

Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.

Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”

“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”

Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”

He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”

Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”

“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”

“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”

They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”

Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?

“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”

You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”

“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”

From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”

Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”

At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”

“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”

Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”

“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”

She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”

Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”

Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”

Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”

Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”

It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.

All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.

When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”

But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”

Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”

“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”

Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”

He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”

“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”

“What’d you say?”

Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”

“Very tactful.”

You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”

Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”

Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”

“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”

You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”

“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”

The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.

When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”

You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”

His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”

Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”

“Yeah, but you’re cool.”

He chuckles, “I’m cool?”

“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”

“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”

“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”

Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”

You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”

“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”

Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”

“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”

You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”

“I can see that.”

You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”

“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.

“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”

He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”

You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”

He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”

Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”

Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”

You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.

After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”

“Am I?”

“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”

“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”

“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”

Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”

The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”

The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.

With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”

His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.

Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”

It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”

“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”

And, god, is that sexy.

You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.

Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.

After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”

You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.

You eat lunch together.

You talk.

You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.

It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.

Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.

He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.

Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest.  With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”

His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”

Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”

“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”

You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”

His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”

That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”

“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”

You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”

“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”

“Sorry again for-”

“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”

“Then thanks.”

“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”

“I can tell.”

As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.

That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.

It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.

The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”

Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”

“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining” 

Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”

Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”

Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”

Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”

When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”

The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…

When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.

You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.

After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”

He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”

“So what was all the yelling for?”

Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”

A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”

Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”

All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”

With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”

“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”

Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”

“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”

“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”

“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m begging you.”

You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”

For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”

That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”

A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”

“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”

“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”

Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”

Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”

You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”

“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”

It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”

“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”

“I have the whole weekend.”

Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”

“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”

“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”

“Ten.”

“Pick me up at 9:30.”

“I could take you to breakfast first.”

“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”

“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”

“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”

Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.

He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”

You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.

Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”

Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”

“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”

“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”

He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”

“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”

“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”

“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.

Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.

When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.

“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”

“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”

Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.

When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”

With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”

His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”

You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.

By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”

He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”

He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.

“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”

You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”

He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”

Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”

“Yup, absolutely.”

You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”

He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”

You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”

“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”

You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”

Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”

It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”

You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”

“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”

Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.

Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1 

Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”

Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”

“Okay, but what if I-”

Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”

You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.

Then it finally starts to get good.

Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.

It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.

Possessive.

The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him. 

When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.

Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”

“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”

He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”

“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”

You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”

“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”

“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”

He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”

“Now that makes me feel sexy.”

“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”

As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does.

All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.

With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.

“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”

You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”

And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.

Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”

“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”

“Come on, Eijiro. You can hit him harder than that!” The ash blond shouted at the kid with the black hair and scar.

The boy put his hands together and looked down. “Sorry Katsuki, but I don’t want to hurt Denki.”

“Yah, Kacchan!” The yellow haired small boy shouted, standing behind the other boy with black hair and had a straight tooth smile. “I don't want to get hit. Look at me, I’m tiny.” He hid more of his body as he glared.

He’s false bravado made you giggle, causing attention to yourself.

“Oi!” The ash blond child, Kacchan you guessed, stomped over to you. “Who are you! Why are you spying on us!” He shouted at you.

You weren’t used to people shouting at you other than your older siblings. You didn’t tolerate it from others. Not liking it at all, you frowned. “I am princess Y/N! My daddy is the king and I can do whatever I want.”

Bakugou glared at you. He didn’t like how high you placed yourself. How higher you placed yourself above him. He pointed a finger at you. “You little brat!” Before he could do something he regretted, Kirishima quickly wrapped his arms around him.

He held the angry blond in his arms as he offered you a smile. It was odd watching them, being the same age, and yet Kirishima was restraining him pretty well. “Sorry about him, your highness.” He said, offering you a kind smile. Broad, sharp teeth and kind. You couldn’t help but soften at the look of him.

“Well…” You looked away. “It’s fine for now. But the next time he does it, I’m telling daddy.”

“You’re a princess?” Mina asked as she approached you bouncing on her heels in excitement. “That’s so cool. You look like the King so it must be true.” She said as she looked between you and her friends.

“Yah, she should call her precious daddy!” Bakugou mocked as he tilted his head side to side. “You wouldn’t be able to handle me by yourself, princess. You’re weak.”

“No, I’m not!” You stomped your foot and glared back at him.

Sero quickly moved to stand next to Bakugou. “Uh, Katsuki.” he said with a nervous smile.“Maybe you should calm down.” He offered.

Bakugou kept his eyes on you. “Never!” He stuck his tongue out at you childishly. “Weak little brat!” He teased you. “Can’t do anything without daddy’s help. Poor little princes-”

A slap went through the area. You stood with an angry face as you looked down at him. Clutching his plush cheek was Bakugou. His face was set into one of pure surprise. He didn’t expect you to hit him, let alone the slap to sting. The other children were silent, not fully believing that it actually happened.

“Keep quiet you… you… you dog!” You shouted at him angry.

Denki retreated back as he grew nervous at how quiet Bakugou was being. “Oh no. I don’t think you should have done that, princess.” Bakugou’s fists balled up as he faced you again. His eyes white with rage as he seethed in anger. “You’re gonna regret that princess.”

That’s when you did the smartest thing you did all day.

You ran.

You ran, not in fear but giggling for the most part. The angry blond throwing retorts and angry growls at you as you ran through the streets. People watched and wondered why you were running away from a string of other children all following one another. Bakugou was behind you trying to catch you. Kirishima was behind Bakugou trying to calm him down.

Mina was behind Kirishima wanting to see what would happen next. Sero was following Mina for the same reason. Denki followed because he didn’t want to be left alone for the most part. You ran straight into the main hall, giggling and squealing trying to get away from Bakugou. Kirishima and Bakugou both followed you into the main hall but Mina, Sero and Denki all stopped. In the main hall was where all the leaders were meeting. Your giggling, Bakugou’s shouting and Kirishima’s apologise were what disturbed the meeting.

You quickly ran over to your father and hid by his side. “Daddy save me!”

“Come here and fight me, princess!” Bakugou shouted in front of all the adults. Including his mother and his Jarl, Kirishima’s father, Takeo Kirishima. The two adults stood horrified as their two sons stood in front of the royal family.

Kirishima quickly stood in front of his best friend and stopped him from approaching you any further. He forced the blond down on his knees alongside him. They were both on one knee in front of you and your family. “I’m deeply sorry for the disturbance your majesty. We were just playing outside when things got out of hand.” He apologised profusely. He knew how much his father took pride in these meetings so he knew what was best was to apologise.

“SHE SLAPPED ME!” Bakugou shouted looking back up at you with a glare. Kirishima tugged on his friend’s ear harshly. “OW!”

“Forgive us.” Kirishima stated his head still down in respect.

All the adults were very amused at the whole situation. Especially your parents. Your mother laughed but looked down at the two young boys fondly. “What are your names?”

“Eijiro Kirishima, your majesty.” Kirishima answered immediately. “Son of the great Jarl Takeo Kirishima. And this-” He kept Bakugou’s head down with a firm grip that was clearly not relanting despite the blond's struggles. “Is Katsuki Bakugou, son of Mitsuki Bakugou.” He answered for his grumbling friend.

Your father turned to look up at the two embarrassed parents. Mitsuki was seething at her son for interrupting the meeting and showing little respect to royalty. Takeo, however, was rather impressed with his son’s level-headedness in this situation. Your father turned to look at you, who had crawled into his lap. You sat with your arms folded and a huff. “Daughter.”

You turned to your father innocently. “Yes, daddy?” You asked.

“Did you slap Katsuki?” He asked you.

You hesitated. You pouted. “He was being mean to me, daddy.” You pointed down at the two boys.

The king turned to Bakugou who had calmed down a bit more. “Katsuki.”

“Huh?” Bakugou asked as he looked up. He was roughly nudged in the ribs by Kirishima making him wince. “I mean… Yes, m’lord.” He corrected himself with a mumble. That made the other Jarls laugh. Mitsuki dragged her hands down her face as she tried not to burn with anger at her child’s show of no manners.

“Were you bested by my daughter?”

Bakugou huffed. “No, she ran away and I-”

“If a doe runs away from the wolves does that not mean that the doe has won?” Your father asked as he raised an eyebrow down at the blond child.

Bakugou opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. He crossed his arms and looked away. “Tsk.” He scowled. “One day I’ll be a strong warrior and no stupid doe will out best me!” He loudly proclaimed. “Especially you princess!”

Your mother laughed at the child's ambition. “I don’t doubt that, if you are anything like your mother.” She turned to Kirishima. “Little Eijiro. What do you think of the blond's proclamation? You are to be a future Jarl if all goes right.”

Kirishima was only silent for a moment. “He’s the best boy in my village, your majesty.” He said making Bakugou’s cheeks burn a slight pink but he still frowned. He nodded his head in agreement. “He’s fast, skilled and has great ambition. I don’t doubt what he says. I want him to be my second in command, like my father has Aunt Mitsuki as his.”

Your mother nodded her head as she looked up to Takeo. “Your son has a great eye, Takeo. If Thor will have it, he just might make a strong leader one day, especially if he can deal with a Bakugou.”

After the meeting had finished, with no more disturbances, both Jarl Takeo and Mitsuki both apologised to your family. No one minded. Bakugou, however, was now determined to try and beat you at something, dragging Kirishima along with him. There were many visits from the Bakugous and Kirishimas since that day. Whenever they were in your village with their parents you always spent time with them.

Whether it was watching them fight, or running through the surrounding woods with them in a game of tag. Where you were, they were. The three of you, even though you only saw each other every few months or so, you were all close. Everyone could see it. Some even wondered at your young age, who you would choose. The Jarl’s son or the fierce warrior?

You could never choose. Never split them apart. They were great together as is.

Then one day, when you were twelve, you woke up and there was blood everywhere. Everywhere means your sheets. You had screamed loud enough for Valhalla to hear you. You thought you were dying. You felt like it too. Your servants had run into the room you shared with your older sister. But next thing you know, no one was listening to the girl who was practically crying her eyes out. Everyone was celebrating. For what reason you hadn’t known till your mother and sister sat you down.

You weren’t a girl anymore to them.

You had to take your princess studies more seriously now. Your sister took pity on you, having had experienced what you were going to be put through a two years before. Suddenly she seemed less annoying and more like your only refuge.

So while the village celebrated and you were sulking around, you met Kirishima and Bakugou one last time.

You met them in the woods, your secret place by a river. The two of them stood in front of you who looked like you were anything but happy. Of course you couldn’t be. Not with all you had learnt today. The moon was high in the sky and the river was still. The dark area was peaceful other than the growing tension between the three of you.

“We can’t hang out anymore.” You let out finally and quietly.

Bakugou was the first to react like always. “HUH!” He shouted rather loudly. “Why not?” He asked as he stepped closer.

Kirishima stopped him and shot him a look to calm down. The blond took a breath and focused back on you. Kirishima had his black hair tied back in a small ponytail, sort of spikey at the end that reminded you of Bakugou’s hair. The boy’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is it because of today?” He asked.

The both of them weren’t entirely sure why today was a big deal. Nor why everyone was acting like it was a god’s birthday but it seemed important enough and that it had to do with you. Takeo had promised to explain to his son and his son’s best friend later when they went back home. It didn’t stop them from enjoying the festivities though. They did enjoy it until they noticed you weren’t.

You nodded your head as you held your elbows. You shrunk your shoulders as you furrowed your eyebrows. You looked off to the side. The cool night air blew making your long dress move with you. “I… I’m not a little girl anymore. I can’t play with you guys. I need to take being a princess and a woman of this village seriously.” You recited what your mother’s handmaiden had told you. “Besides, you guys will have to train to become leaders and warriors. You won’t have time for me for the next few years.”

The boys winced as they knew you were telling the truth. They would have to go to the trials and earn their place among men. Earn their place as warriors and protectors. They wouldn't be able to see you for the next few years. They would be plundering, training, earning their arm rings. They would have to be away from you. They didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. The three of you all knew that the day would come where childish games and fun times would come to an end.

Bakugou folded his arms over his bear chest. “How can we get your attention then?” Heasked. That caught both you and Kirishima's attention. “If you can’t give us it then how canwe get it?” He asked again.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. My mom said I would have to focus on my future partner.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He proclaimed. He had already made up his mind. The blond placed his hands on his hips and nodded. “WE’RE GONNA MARRY YOU!” He pointed to you.

“W-what!” You asked confused. “Both of you?” You asked shocked “My father won’t allow it.”

“Yes, he will.” Bakugou said shamelessly and certain. Kirishima however was blushing red and went stiff. Bakugou threw his arm around Kirishima next to him. “I will become the best warrior this kingdom has ever seen and Eijiro will become the next Jarl of our village! Right, Eijiro?”

Kirishima nodded his head, not entirely sure what exactly he was putting himself up for but he did know, if it concerned you and Bakugou, he would do anything. “Y-yes. As a Jarl, I’ll make sure we’ll marry you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. You clearly weren’t convinced. Bakugou turned to Kirishima. “Oi, Eijiro. What’s that thing that people do before they get married?”

Kiri looked at Bakugou confused. “Kiss?”

Bakugou’s face scrunched up as he stuck his tongue out. “Gross. No.” He pushed the other boy. That made Kirishima blush bashfully and you giggled. “The other thing.”

“Propose?” Kirishima suggested again.

“Yah but we did that.” Bakugou stated.

“We did?” Kirishima asked, confused.

Bakugou opened his mouth to speak but then realised Kirishima was right. He dropped down to one knee. His face went pink but he looked determined. His red eyes looking between the two of you. “I promise to Odin and any other fuckin’ gods I need to, that I’ll marry the both of you.” He nodded his head. He pointed to his chest. “And I’ll be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have.”

You and Kirishima shared a look. Before you could comment, Kirishima did the same thing. He went on one knee before the two of you. “I promise to Odin and Freya that I’ll marry the both of you and be the most manliest and reliable husband to… to the both of you.” He stared at the blond briefly, making Bakugou turn his head trying to hide his red face. Kirishima looked back up at you. “I promise.”

Watching them do it, you couldn’t just stand and not say anything. You pulled your dress to the side and went down on one knee. Your knee pressed against the cold damp soil. “I promise to Odin and Freya that I’ll marry the both of you and be the best wife you could ever need. Don’t think about trying to find another woman because she won’t be better than me.” You stated proudly.

And that was the last time you saw them for years. You grew, you changed physically and mentally but what stayed the same was where your heart belonged to. You were older, wiser and for one thing less spoilt. You did everything to be the best person you could be. You helped around the community, you supported your warriors and even learned a bit from them.

Your eldest brother had passed leaving your eldest sister as the next heir to the throne. That in itself scared you. Not because you didn’t support your sister. You did, but that also meant that she couldn’t be carted off. That she wasn’t to be used as a bargaining chip anymore. You were the next royal in line. You were terrified obviously. You didn’t want to marry some fat old man of a neighbouring village or kingdom. If anything you would have rather died single.

Your life was like that. Waking up each morning to fear.

But for one day, that disappeared. Your father was holding a great feast for a series of successful raids that had been occurring. The guests of honours were said to be ones you hadn’t seen in years. You hadn’t been that excited or nervous for something in months. You dressed in your best outfit, applied face point to your eyes, face and shoulders and made sure you looked more presantable than you were in months.

“You know you might just attract every other person other than them right?” Your sister teased from her place upon her bed.

You pulled on a fur around your shoulders. “Lets pray that doesn't happen.” You stated unbothered.

Your sister raised an eyebrow. She stood up. “I heard they were lovers.” She stated. You stiffened for a moment.

You heard stories about them. The beast of a redhead that tore through enemies like they were paper. The blond demon warrior that slaughtered and took with a smile on his face. An unstoppable duo whose affections towards each other, though not shunned nor hated on, were very apparent. You were glad they still were close and if the rumours were true, loved each other. If they couldn’t have you at least they had each other.

Your sister walked up behind you and placed her hands on your shoulders. “Sister, let them go. You can’t keep on holding on to silly childhood promises.” She told you as she bent down to look at you through the mirror. You looked down at your lap. “I am sure I can find you a lovely young jarl you could spend your time with. Plus what if you don’t find them attractive anymore?”

You looked up at her. “Well, I would need to get my eyes checked.” You stood up with her.

The two of you went into the main hall. You both stood next to your father and mother and younger brother. You watched as Jarl after Jarl and warrior after warrior came into the great hall but you hadn’t seen them yet. You kept your head high. Even if you were mistaken, even if they weren’t coming, you wouldn’t be disheartened. It only meant you would probably take your sister up on what she had offered.

Lastly, from the darkness outside were two men, built like oxen. You were stunned for the most part. The sea of people in the great hall parted for them, feeling the power and radiancy they carried with them. It was suffocating from even where you stood.

Finally making it in front, standing next to each other were the two men you had longed to see for years.

On the left was an ash blond with a white direwolf fur over his shoulders with a red cape. His hair was longer now. Half his head was braided in tight blonde braids and the rest was kept in his unruly blond locks. He was lean with a small waist that had even you envious. His large chest seemed soft to you and held few scars to them but clearly hard earned. His maroon piercing eyes, covered in black face paint looked at you instantly. They held no shame in looking at you or your figure, a smirk of pride and cockiness went to his face at your attention.

Your eyes then went to the giant next to him that you could hardly believe was the same boy you knew years ago. He had a growth spurt making him wider and bigger than the blond. He truly lived up to the reputation that the Kirishima’s held of being beasts among men. His broad and exposed chest was covered in markings and a few scars. He had long locks of red hair that fell down his back. You had heard rumours that his hair turns red permanently from the blood of his victims. His crisp apple eyes found you as well. An unreadable emotion behind his eyes. The two of them bent down on one knee before your family, their heads down. The tight arm rings around their right arms showing their vows to their fellow man here.

“Your majesties.” They both said.

Your father smiled with a laugh. “The demon warrior, Katsuki Bakugou and the Beast among men, Jarl Eijiro Kirishima. Stand men, stand. This whole night is in honour of you after all.” The duo stood back up straight, heads held high. “Your winnings and efforts have paid off my good and faithful warriors. Tonight we shall feast in your honour!”

With that the hall erupted into joyous cheers. Music played and food was served as everyone sat drinking and eating to their hearts content. Loud boisterous laughter and cheers rang through the warm air as there was celebration to their achievements. You sat dutifully next to your sister as she got lucky enough to sit next to Bakugou. Your father sat between the two men.

“Maybe you weren’t so wrong about dressing up.” Your sister whispered into your ear, making you both giggle.

You nudged her. “You never did like to listen to me.” You teased. Before you could continue you heard your father say something.

“I would like to reward the both of you with an opportunity as well with your riches… If you so wish…” He stated to the two of them. You peered over trying to hear what else he would say when your sister cut in/

“Whoever gets their hands on them would be a lucky person.” She stated as she picked up her cup of beer.

You nodded. “Yes, they would. If only the heavens would be so kind.” You motioned to her.

“Mother said that father might just reward one of them with the opportunity as King.”

You choked on your wine. “What?”

She nodded her head. “For my hand, they would be crowned King.”

Your ears started to ring at her words. “For… your… your hand?” You asked shakily.

She smiled. “Yep. Of course you could have the other one if you so wished.”

You absentmindedly nodded your head not entirely feeling all up to the party. Your first chance in years to see them, talk to them, be with them and it was taken from you. You stood up. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go out and check on our brother. He must be so bored.” You smiled and quickly made your way away from the main table. Red eyes watched you as you left.

You quickly made your way out of the hall into the cool night air. You dropped your shoulders and went into the direction of the woods. Your head down as you tried regaining your barings. She must have known your fathers plans all along. Which was probably why she told you to forget about them. You couldn’t have both. That’s selfish.

Or was it?

You didn’t mind being selfish.

You found yourself at the river, your meeting spot when you were kids. The night seemed identical to it was the last time you saw them. Bright big moon in the sky with the heavens twinkling and winking at you. The river was calm near you and the wind was only just strong enough to move the cape you wore.

This was a place where you could feel safe. Almost as if they were standing right next to you.

You heard a snap of a twig that made you immediately look back. Your heart raced in fear as you looked behind you. Your eyes dashed around the area looking for what the sound was. You moved backward in fear.

Your back bumped into what you thought was a tree.

“No hello, princess ?” You turned around immediately and your eyes widened in shock. You knew who it was from the way he said your title. Standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest was Bakugou. The moonlight his blond hair in a sort of luminescent glow as he stared down at you with red eyes that seemed to stare into your soul.

“Katsuki .” You whispered his name like it was something you never thought you would say again.

You took a step backwards and your back hit something again. “Years away from you and you haven’t even given us some of your attention. Do you not know how much we missed you, princess?” You turned around and you saw him. Kirishima. His tall stance is almost menacing in the dark, even with the moonlight falling on him. Eyes dark like a predator in the night as he looked down at you.

You gulped. “ Eijiro .” You whispered.

This was nothing like it was when you were younger. For one thing, this wasn’t the same Kirishima you knew when you were younger. He used to be so timid, keeping himself closed within himself most of the time. He was doubtful. This man in front of you seemed to radiate confidence and strength. A real Jarl.

“That’s not true, Eij.” Bakugou stated. “You should have seen the way she was staring at my chest. Perverted little princess.” Bakugou snarked with a grin on his face.

Kirishima laughed. “I don’t blame her Katsuki, but you’re right. She was staring at my arms like they were meat on a silver platter.” He too snarked.

The two of them started circling you. For a moment you wondered what was going on. Why were they saying such things? Why were they circling you? Why did your legs feel weak and your abdomen felt tied in knots? Then it hit you.

They were playing a game with you. A game they loved to play after the first day they met you. Wolves and doe. Wolves circle their target, their prey- the doe- and the doe has to get away from them. You were always a doe. They were always wolves. Back when you were younger it seemed easier since you were always a bit taller than them and could get away faster and probably climb a tree away from them. Now? Now you felt more like your fate was already sealed to the butchers than you having a chance.

But the thrill. The thrill you yearned with them overtook your judgement. The hunter and the prey. The wolves and the doe.

They saw the recognition in your eyes and their grins grew. You bit your bottom lip as you looked between the two of them. Kirishima’s eyes raked over your body with desire. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Look at her, Katsuki. Doesn’t she look just delicious?'' He asked as he licked over the edges of his sharp teeth, his clear want for you making your heart beat out of your chest.

Bakugou chuckled. “Indeed. Looks like a pretty doe for the fuckin taking.” Once he was behind you, his fingers dragged across the nape of your neck making you shiver. “I wonder how she tastes.” He growled close to your ear.

That’s when you ran. You pushed your legs as hard as you could away from them, away from the village and deeper into the woods. You heard their loud and amused laughter from behind you, but you couldn’t hear them following you. Your heart was beating out of your chest and you almost felt it hard to breathe.

You felt grateful you weren’t wearing a dress tonight. You probably would have been extremely handicaped due to it. You kept running, swerving between trees trying to put as much distance between them and you as possible. A glimmer of hope flickered within you.

Maybe you could win.

Then you heard it. Loud laughter. “Was she always this fucking slow, Eijiro?” To your left, running just a few trees away from you was Bakugou. He’s lean body moving agily between the trees and over fallen logs. He was keeping up with you as if it was child’s play.

“Nah!” To your right was Kirishima. Even with his huge size, he seemed to navigate the trees better than you ever could and you lived in the area. “I don’t think she’s even trying to get away.”

Suddenly just like that, they were gone. You couldn’t see them in the darkness of the woods or the light of the moon. You slowed down and looked around wondering where they had both disappeared to. Your eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Katsuki? Eijiro?” You let out scared.

Two arms wrapped around you. You let out a small scream as you were being held by the waist. You heard Bakugou’s rare laughter. Loud and obstreperous laughter. “ Katsuki! Eijiro! Where did you go? ” He mocked you, making you laugh. He held you up making you giggle and laugh louder. His big strong arms always made you feel safe despite the game you all just participated in.

Suddenly you were both pushed back by a huge force. You landed on Katsuki’s chest, with your back against him. Caging the both of you between the ground and his large frame was Kirishima with a grin on his face. The three of you all laughed at the situation, you between the two men. It reminded you of the good days when you used to let them win and you would end up in a similar position with all three of you on the floor laughing.

You calmed down as you looked up at the redhead. You admired his handsome features. A satisfied smirk on his face at getting to you. He leaned closer down to you. “Got you, doe.” He said condescendingly.

Your heart was beating loudly with how close he was to you.“Yah… you got me.” You affirmed, your eyes strayed to his lips. Bakugou pushed you forward, making you kiss the redhead.

Kirishima placed his knee between you and the blond’s spread legs, applying pressure to you both. Both you and Bakugou groaned. You leaned deeper into the kiss as he easily won for dominance. His kiss had a burst of passion and need for you. It was as if he was sucking the energy out of you, leaving you breathless. The moment his lips left yours, and air could return to your lungs, Bakugou had tilted your head back towards him and had taken your lips for himself. He kissed you deeply too. His touch was explosive and filled to the brim with desire. His grasp on your hips tightened as he held you. You hummed as you arched your back slightly, pressing harder against him, making him grunt.

Your eyes were closed even after separating from him. “Gods, I missed the both of you.” You whispered.

“And we missed you.” Kirishima placed his hand on your cheek.

“I… I had thought the two of you had…” You couldn’t let it out. Your own insecurities suffocating you.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow. “What? You thought we would just live on without you?” He asked. “Yah fuck no.” He shook his head. “Your ours, doe. We promised you, didn’t we?”

“I know. I know.” You looked away from the both of them. “My father wants one of you to marry my sister, doesn’t he?” You asked.

Kirishima let out a heavy breath. With that he got off the two of you, and pulled Bakugou up, automatically sitting you in his lap in the process. “He does.” He answered your question, making you shrink back more.

Bakugou had his hands down on the ground to steady himself as you leaned against him. “I wouldn’t blame you guys.” You stated. “One of you would be king and the other a Jarl. It would be the dream for you guys. I would support the two of you, even with my sister as your Queen.”

Bakugou scoffed. “We couldn’t give two shits about her.” Bakugou growled in anger as he looked off to the side. “But… we do care about you.” He told you, his voice softer than normal. With one of his hands he took yours securely. His calloused warm hands gave you comfort.

Kirishima placed a large hand on your cheek. He offered you a soft smile. The smile that would comfort you in your dreams. “We would deny Valhalla to be with you.” He told you honestly. You closed your eyes as emotions bursted into your heart at the declaration. “I would rather let Thor strike me down with his hammer, lightning in tow, than to love another that isn’t you and Katsuki.”

You smiled and placed your smaller hand over Kirishima's. You nodded your head. That reminded you of something. You chuckled and a small smirk went to your lips. You turned back to look up at Bakugou. “I heard you two were lovers? Is it true?”

Bakugou chuckled. His hold on your hand tightened slightly. He bent down closer to your ear. “It’s whatever you make of it.” He told you with a smirk of his own. That made a desire to know exactly what he was meaning burst from you. “What I do have to say though, is that you have never seen a cock like the one between his legs that’s for sure.” Bakugou shot you a wink as your cheeks warmed instantly at his vulgar words. Kirishima shot him a glare which Bakugou chose to ignore. “You should see him when he is straight off the battlefield, princess. When he’s covered in blood, veins bulging and looking like a fucking god. I’m tellin’ you, nothing sexier.”

“Can you shut up, Katsuki?” Kirishima asked annoyed.

Bakugou stuck his tongue out childishly making you laugh. “Make m-”

He was quickly shut up with a kiss from Kirishima. It was forceful but held the same passion and love as always. Kirishima’s hand snaked up to your thigh and gripped it roughly making you release a held in breath. Something about what the blond was saying, made you know he wasn’t lying about anything. Kirishima playfully bit on the blond’s lower lip. The blond held a smirk of his own at Kirishima’s actions.

Kirishima moved back and shook his head with a deep chuckle. “You are such a brat.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mother.”

“Well, your mother isn’t wrong, Katsuki.” You told him, making Kirishima laugh. Bakugou playfully growled at you next to your ear. He bit lightly on the top of your ear making you laugh. “We should head back before people get even more suspicious than they no doubt are already.” You let out with a sigh.

“Or we can just kidnap you.” Before you could respond, you were suddenly off the ground. You squealed as you were thrown over Kirishima’s shoulders. “Make you our chieftess and live the rest of our lives with you by our side and warming our bed. Right Katsuki?” Kirishima held you by your thighs as he stood up onto his feet not bothered by your weight at all. He turned to look at the blond who had gotten up beside him.

Bakugou placed his hands behind his head. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Red.” “You guys can’t just kidnap me.” You defended yourself. “What about-” You let out a gasp as a slap went to your ass. You arched your back in surprise at the stinging feeling.

“Oi! Stop spewing shit and just say yes. You already said you would be the best wife ever, so do that.” Bakugou reprimanded you.

Your face felt hot. You looked away. “But-”

Kirishima now slapped your thigh making you tense again, pushing them closer together. “Don’t worry princess.”

“Just focus on Eijiro’s ass and life will be a much better place.” Bakugou bent back to look at you. That’s when you noticed at the perfect view you got of said ass.

Holding you with one arm, Kirishima slapped Bakugou on the behind making him yelp. “The two of you are going to be the death of me.”

“What an honourable way to die.” You and Bakugou stated together.

-Glitch1d

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SULLY 1 min ag0

The shark is looking for his next meal.

Where the fuck are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not—“

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

No one dared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am so sorry, Dr–”

“ER needs an ortho consult.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.

Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing. 

“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.

She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”

“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”

There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.

Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”

You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”

“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.

Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”

You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind. 

“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”

“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”

“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.

You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.

Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble. 

Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”

If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either. 

The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.

“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.

You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”

You weren’t dallying.

If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.

You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”

“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”

If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.

It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.

“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said. 

Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.

That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached. 

You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time. 

With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.

You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”

“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you. 

Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“

“Sleep?”  Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.

Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.

Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”

His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in. 

Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?

After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,

When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.

SULLY 1 hr ago

Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.

The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got. 

You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.

As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor. 

Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back. 

You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep.  The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.

Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.

She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.

You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.

The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message. 

“How’s the patient?”

You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.

He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”

Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.

You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“

Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park?  Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.

“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”

He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.” 

You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.

“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”

The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.

Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.

God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.

You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.

It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.

Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.

The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.

Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.

It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.

Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin. 

She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”

“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.  

“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.

You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”

She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”

Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”

You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”

She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”

“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.

“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation. 

‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.

“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.” 

When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”

“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”

You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”

Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”

She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.

It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.

You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”

“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”

He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”

“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using. 

‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.

Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”

When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.

His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”

You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.

He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip. 

“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.

“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”

Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition. 

You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.

When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”

“Seriously?”  You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.

Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.

There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”

“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.

“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.

He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”

“Get to the point.”

He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”

Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”

He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”

Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”

“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”

“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”

You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.

It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious. 

Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”

You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”

“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift. 

She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”

“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”

“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”

You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously. 

While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.

That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.

Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”

You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”

Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.

“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.

“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.

“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.

“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”

“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction. 

She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”

“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.

You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.” 

“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.

The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.

When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”

Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”

“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities.  “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”

“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises. 

Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.

“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.

The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller.  “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”

She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”

“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”

“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you. 

You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”

“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.

You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”

Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”

Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”

When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.

Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.

You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work. 

There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.

Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound. 

When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”

“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”

“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”

“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.

“I’m not your attending.”

Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”

With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”

Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”

Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.

“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”

Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment? 

She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”

There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.

“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”

For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”

“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out. 

She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”

She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.

“See you around, daredevil.”

To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’ 

By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.

It did get him off your back a bit.

He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion. 

They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.

Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg. 

You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.

Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words. 

What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.

The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.

You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park. 

Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.

When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you.  “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”

With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”

“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.

“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.

“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”

He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.

“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”

His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words. 

It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.

“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place. 

Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.

“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.

With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.

“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume. 

He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”

You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.

Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you. 

You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once. 

It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program. 

It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover. 

When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.

Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.

“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.

You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was. 

Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."

A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.

You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.

It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.

That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.

It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.

As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.

“Come in.”

When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.

Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard. 

In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.

He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all. 

You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.

Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”

The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”

“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.

Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest. 

If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.

“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”

It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.

“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.

You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”

“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”

You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept? 

Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit. 

“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.

“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth. 

The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement. 

“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”

Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow. 

You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”

“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.

“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”

“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”

Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?

“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart. 

The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher. 

“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”

There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.

“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious. 

“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge. 

Too brilliant to apologize.

“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.

He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.

Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”

That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.

Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”

“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”

There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”

Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.

Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.

With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”

When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?

When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.

Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.

One had been asking if you needed help moving equipment.

One had been asking where Dr Mohan was.

The third had been an exhausted "Morning" at six-thirty after twenty straight hours in the hospital.

That was the extent of it.

Just another coworker.

Polar opposites. 

Day and night. 

Park. 

Your relation to the intimidating ortho surgeon wasn’t unknown to the entirety of the ED. 

Perhaps not common knowledge to those who clung to the day shift. But to those who frequented the nights in the ED. 

They all knew who your brother was. 

And it came as no surprise to them when they saw you side by side. 

The way you both held yourselves. It was eerily similar. Almost identical in the way you behaved. 

Work oriented and blunt, straight to the point. 

Though this was a fact that Mateo had yet to discover. 

Not until he had switched over to the ‘dark side’ as he had jokingly named it when talking with Javadi. 

From afar at times you appeared calm. 

Approachable even. 

Which Mateo would come to understand was not to be mistaken for friendliness.

‘Oh, look, a friendly little dolphin – It's a shark! It's a shark, and it ain't friendly! It looks like a dolphin. Tricky fish! Tricky fish!’ 

At least that was how it seemed when Mateo had begun working nights. 

When he was figuring out how it all worked. How everyone worked together. 

The environment was the same and yet the dynamic of it all was drastically different from anything he’d known from the day shift. 

Like they had warned him, the nights could certainly get…wild.

And then there was you. 

Level headed, calm and collected. 

It was well after midnight by now, and thankfully was quiet…not that anyone would say that aloud. 

So you were taking the opportunity to filter through the imaging requests. Ranking what was most to least urgent.   

Ensuring that everything was in order. Cross checking what had been left over from the day shift. 

Lips pulled tight into a thin line. Brows furrowed whilst you worked. Patience wearing thin. 

And no one knew that better than those on the night shift. They’d worked enough shifts with you to know that when the coffee wore off. 

Your tone would become clipped. 

Short. 

The way your eyebrow would begin twitching whenever someone interrupted you for something stupid. 

So to mitigate that. It would be routine for someone on staff to drop a coffee off for you. 

Tonight that was Abbot’s duty, while he had walked up to you with a fresh coffee in hand, placing it right before you with a small nod. 

As you shot him a thumbs up whilst you took a sip. A small smile forming on your face as a sigh slips from your lips. 

Letting the warmth of the coffee slip in. 

Those on the night shift shared an understanding that so long as you were caffeinated he could stop you from biting someone’s head off until at least 4 am… 

Definitely made it easier to request imaging when you were in a more agreeable mood. 

And from a far, Mateo had looked up catching a glimpse of your smile. 

The rarity of it all. 

Not once had he ever seen you smile before. And then–

He heard your laugh. 

Melodic and almost displaced coming from you. Moreso a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. 

As Abbot joked with you, just trying to pass the time until the ED would inevitably be thrown into chaos once more. 

But then your demeanour shifted once more. Whilst Abbot walked away headed onto the next case. 

You were headed towards yours. 

Shoulders pushed back. Steely eyes. 

An air surrounding you. One that screamed do not disturb. A woman on a mission. 

No longer smiling, just simply there, working. 

“Did you check the vitals for– Mateo?” the faint clicking of fingers snap in his face, “Mateo”

“Yeah?” he’s broken from his daze, gaze drifting down to meet Lena’s. Her brow raised as she looked at him expectantly. 

“Barely midnight and you’re already dozing off”

He grins with a shake of his head. 

“Well good, can’t have you shifting back onto days, they’ll start thinking we did something terrible to you,” she continued to joke. 

He rolled his eyes. Before changing the conversation, “So what’s Y/N’s deal?”

“Y/N? Oh, you mean Park?” Her eyes follow to find you across the room, as you wheel in a portable x-ray machine. Professional and polite as you work diligently. 

He questioned, “Park?” catching the attention of Ellis as she passed by. 

“You didn’t know?” Lena tilted her head. 

“Know what?” Mateo’s brows knitted together. 

Ellis grinned, jutting her head towards you, “Y/N’s our very own resident shark” 

“Shark as in, ortho’s shark”

“That’s the one,” Ellis and Lena nod. 

“No”

Ellis nods, “Oh yes” 

“But–”

She shrugs, “But what? Haven’t you seen them, they’re almost carbon copies of each other” 

While Lena heads back to the nurses station with a small smile. 

Ellis lets out a small chuckle, clasping her hand on Mateo’s shoulder, “Just be lucky our shark’s more agreeable with a bit of coffee in her, and just hope she won’t bite your head off” 

And so. Mateo had developed a little personal goal. 

A goal to make you smile. 

He knew it was possible. He had seen it done. 

He just didn’t know how. 

One evening he had simply come up to you, cheerful as usual. The exhaustion of the night had yet to seep in. 

“What do you want?” you asked, barely even looking up from the scans you were assessing. 

Stunned by your clipped tone, he tries to shrug it off, “Nothing, just wanted to say hi”

You look up at him. 

Unimpressed. 

You hum with a small nod. 

“Well, hi,” he follows up awkwardly. 

“Hello,” your voice was steady. As your attention turns back to your work. 

That attempt had quickly been determined an utter failure. 

Unaware of you flipping the fuck out inside...

No matter what he tried, he was never quite able to push past your boundaries. 

Not that he didn't try.

God, he tried.

You weren't rude.

That was the thing. 

People assumed you were rude.

They assumed the clipped responses and professional distance meant you disliked everyone equally.

But Mateo had learned that wasn't true.

You were polite.

Helpful.

Reliable.

You'd answer questions.

Show your colleagues and explain how the equipment worked. You’d help them track down scans.

But the second things threatened to become personal? Your guard went straight up. 

There was no getting through.

At least not for most people. 

Your resolve only ever cracking for a select view, and only ever briefly. Whether it be Shen passing by with a sarcastic remark. Or when Ellis would come by to tease you whilst you worked. Abbot would always check in, his humour never failed to make you crack a smile. 

Especially when Abbot would drop off a coffee to you. 

With that in mind. 

Mateo had convinced himself he could speed up the process.

One particularly miserable shift, Abbot had been making his usual coffee delivery rounds.

A sacred ritual at this point.

Everyone knew your caffeine schedule better than some of the patients' medication lists.

Mateo had looked up from his charting, catching Abbot before he could walk past, "Let me take it."

Abbot blinked, "What?"

"The coffee,” Mateo gestured to the cup in his hand. 

"...Why?" Jack raised a brow while he looked towards you. 

Mateo immediately regretted asking. Several heads lifted from nearby computers. Nurses exchanging looks.

Mateo ignored them. While Abbot’s grin widened.

Dangerously so.

"Mateo."

"Just give me the coffee."

"Mateo," Abbot probed once more, with a knowing look in his eyes. 

Mateo does his best to ignore Abbot’s tone, while he asks once more, "Give me the coffee."

The look Abbot gave him could only be described as deeply entertained. Still, he'd handed it over.

Mateo walked across the department.

Coffee in hand.

Trying very hard not to feel like everyone was watching. Because they absolutely were.

You barely looked up when he arrived.

"Abbot's outsourcing now?" you asked dryly. 

He set the cup down beside you, "He was busy."

A lie.

A terrible lie.

You looked up at him. Just for a second. Then at the coffee. Then back to your work.

"Thank you," you nodded. Hand curling around the cup as you take a sip. 

That was it.

No smile.

No conversation.

Nothing.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Mateo returned to the nurses' station under a chorus of barely concealed laughter.

Abbot looked insufferably pleased.

And somehow that almost made Mateo more determined.

Because there had to be something under all that professionalism.

There had to be.

Turns out the answer was sleep deprivation.

Or maybe shared suffering.

Possibly both.

The shift had been horrific. One of those nights where every ambulance in Pittsburgh seemed determined to arrive simultaneously. 

Too much had happened that night. Too many things that had piled up. A sea of chaos that you all worked to control. 

Until soon it steadied. Adrenaline wearing thin, the coffee barely able to tackle the fatigue from your bones. 

That was when Mateo had started humming, quiet enough that it didn’t disturb anyone, just amusing his tired mind. Something to take it off the shit it just went through. 

Even for just a moment. 

It just so happened that his humming had coincided with you passing by, the squeak of the rolling wheels and the shuffle of your feet filling the air. 

Then the tune hits your ears. 

Familiar. 

Iconic. 

"Dun... dun... dun... dun... dun-dun-dun-dun…”

Mateo hummed with a small grin. 

And instead of snapping or telling him to quit it. He had instead caught a glimpse of the quirk of your lip. 

The small airy laugh slipping from your lips with a shake of your head. 

And that was his way in. 

After that, the joke never died. 

Each time you passed him, or entered the room. Mateo would flash you a smile as he’d start humming the tune of Jaws. 

And it never failed to bring a smile to your face. 

Even as you groaned when you heard the first dun, leave his lips. 

Even as you grumbled to complain. 

“I’m literally carrying imaging equipment,” you said. 

“Dun–dun, dun” 

“You’re how old again?” 

He shrugs, “What’s it matter, you can’t tell me its not catchy”

You’d huff, biting back the grin forming on your face. Even as you complained. Deep down, his humming never failed to amuse you. 

He didn’t know what to expect from you. 

All he had known when starting was that you were;

The radiology tech on the night shift. 

Park the Shark’s sister. 

And well. 

You had a beautiful smile. Whenever it appeared. 

Especially when he was the one to make it happen, it elicited a feeling of warmth to settle into his chest. 

It was surprising to him the way you affected him

But the thing that surprised Mateo the most wasn't your smile. It wasn’t the fact that the theme tune of Jaws made you laugh. 

No, the most surprising thing he had discovered was just how funny you were.

Because nobody warned him about that. Not a single person on the night shift had given him a heads up, that you were hilarious. 

But only with those you let into your inner circle. 

The first time it happened he nearly choked.

Someone was complaining loudly.

Being dramatic. Making everyone's shift harder. Making their problems, everyone else’s problem.

The second they walked away Mateo sighed, "Difficult patient."

Without missing a beat you retorted, "Patient implies patience."

Mateo laughed so hard he snorted.

You looked mildly horrified. Then immediately started laughing too.

After that he began paying attention.

And realized you'd been making jokes the entire time.

Jokes that were dry.

Sharp.

So perfectly timed.

The kind that arrived so deadpan people needed a second to realize you'd said something funny.

You'd mutter things under your breath.

Offer one-liners that made his belly ache from laughter.

Completely dismantle someone's nonsense with a single sentence.

And every time. Mateo laughed.

Every single time.

The sound echoing through the department.

Warm and genuine.

Which only encouraged you.

Though you'd never admit it. You were developing a soft spot for the nurse. Each time you saw him now, it took everything within you to stifle the smile that threatened to grow. 

The changes between you had happened so gradually. 

Shifting. 

From mere colleagues. 

To friends. 

To something that neither of you could quite name. 

You’d let yourself linger for a few moments after your conversations. Seeking him out if something made you laugh. Tucking little stories into the corner of your mind for the next time you’d see him. 

With each coffee delivery, instead of Abbot or Lena, it would now be Mateo’s smiling face that would greet you in the twilight hours. Warm coffee in hand. 

It did not go unnoticed by those that worked with you. 

Watching as you’d soften around Mateo. 

How your eye lines would drift over to meet the other. 

It was obvious. 

That you two were catching feelings for each other. 

Even those from the day shift had begun to catch on. In the overlapping of shifts, as you waved goodbye, curt, a small nod towards your colleagues. 

But Cassie noticed how you wouldn’t leave. Not until you said your goodbye with Mateo. 

And she grinned from afar as she watched you two talk, how Mateo seemed to have this look in his eyes. Sparkling. Alight. 

There was something there. 

And one evening, as he walked in to start his shift, just as Cassie was ending hers. 

She decided to let him know just what she thought was happening. 

“Anything you want to tell me?” she has questioned, with a small arch of her brow. 

He looked at her in confusion, “Uh–No?” 

“You sure?” she continued. 

“What’s this about?” 

She hums with a small shrug, “Just noticed you’ve gotten pretty cosy with Y/N and was wondering if anything was happening–but if not, just tell me to back off and I will” 

His mouth twists, mind racing as it flicks through the memories he shares with you. 

“Ok. Maybe,” he relents. 

“And?” 

“And there’s nothing else. Really”

“But you’d like there to be,” she follows up. 

He takes a moment, unable to verbalise the mess of feelings cultivating inside, how you had managed to make his head spin. 

“Just don’t know if she’s interested”

Truly, he still couldn’t get a read on you. Not able to decipher whether your friendliness could lead to anything more. 

At first he'd dismissed it. Dismissing how your presence made his heart race. How he’d turn in an instant at the sound of your voice. 

You were his friend.

One of his favorite people to work with.

The person who could make a twelve-hour night shift feel manageable.

The person whose dry comments could have him laughing in the middle of absolute chaos.

That was enough.

It should’ve been enough. 

And yet. 

Mateo couldn’t help but wonder…what if it could be something more….

Cassie elbows his side, as she praises him softly, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny, kind and completely into her–look the most you can do is try, otherwise you’ll never know”

He nods, taking her words to heart. 

“You should get home, get some sleep before those eye bags become permanent,” he joked. Trying to alleviate the emotions he was feeling. 

Cassie let out a small huff in laughter, rolling her eyes. “Have a good night”

“Always do,” he grinned, while she walked away. 

That conversation had planted a seed in his mind. 

Perhaps. 

With every passing moment as you and he grew closer, the conversation would creep back into his mind. The possibility. Growing more and more appealing. 

Until he had finally said it out loud. 

He had rushed to catch up with you, as the morning sun hung in the sky, the air crisp. A slight chill still lingering from the night. Not yet warmed by the sun. 

As you shrug on your jacket. 

“Hey, wait up–” 

Mateo’s voice slipped past your headphones, just as you were about to pop them in. You turn around, tilting your head at the sound of his voice. 

Brows furrowing as he comes to stop before you, “Did I forget something?” 

“What–No. I just.” 

You asked, “What?” 

Why was this so hard? It really shouldn’t feel this difficult.

He dealt with trauma patients. Critical emergencies. Life or death situations. And yet somehow. 

This was so much harder. 

Here goes nothing.

“I was wondering if…” His voice cracked. Great. Fantastic.

You tried very hard not to smile, amused and curious all at once, “If?” 

Taking in a deep breath, he built his courage once more. 

“If you’d maybe like to go out sometime…With me?” 

Silence. 

Not a long silence. But long enough for panic to brew within Mateo. Preparing for rejection. 

You blink. 

Surprise flooding your features. 

For once your calm, controlled expression cracks. Fracturing into one of complete shock. 

“Oh” 

Oh. Mateo’s stomach sank. 

Your eyes flickering down before meeting his once more, “You’re asking me out?” 

“Yes,” he swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. All confidence dwindles with each passing moment.

“Like–” your mind races as you try to process this all, your hand gestures between you both, “on a date?” 

“I’m hoping so, yes,” he nods. “Unless you don’t–”

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just. Uh–”

You were speechless. 

Your cold demeanour kept most people at arms length. Had made most people double guess themselves. 

It meant that most of the time you were left alone. 

Never once really being the first choice. 

Not until now. 

“I’m just surprised. I’m not usually the one people ask out,” the words came out so casually, almost jokingly. And yet there was an undertone of something deeper to the words, something honest. Raw. 

Mateo stared at you. 

Then frowned. 

“What?” 

All you can muster is a small shrug, “I don’t know” 

“You don’t know?” 

His question only makes a small laugh bubble from you, airy with no weight to it, tone dry as you remark, “Guys don’t exactly line up”

His response had come out instantaneously. 

He simply couldn’t help it, as he replied, “Then it's their loss” his voice soft. 

Your eyes snapped back up to his.

He hadn't meant to say it so quickly. Hadn't meant for it to sound so sincere.

But it was.

Every word.

"Because you're smart."

You blinked, "Mateo–"

"And funny."

You laughed.

He kept going, "And you somehow make the worst shifts bearable."

"That's a low bar."

"Still counts,” The smile threatening your lips grew.

“So–how about that date?” he smiled, “Is it still an ‘I don’t know’? Or is it a yes? Because I really hope it's the latter”

“Yeah” 

“Yeah?” The look in his eye was so hopeful. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed once more. 

The grin that broke out across his face was immediate. Unrestrained. 

And in light of that. It had made the soft smile on your face widen. 

It was the beginning of something new for you. He balanced out your sharp edges. Breaking past your steely facade. Knowing the real you, with each passing date. 

And just as he learnt more about you.

You learnt more about him. 

More than simply the happy guy that looked out for those he worked with, more than just a nurse who took the extra mile when it came to his work. More than just the guy that never failed to leap at an opportunity to make a joke. 

No. Mateo was more complex than that. 

And you were privy to learning about it all. 

It felt natural. Familiar. 

Like you had both somehow been building towards this for months without ever realising it. 

You learned Mateo talked with his hands when he got excited.

That he sang terribly in the car.

That he could never remember where he parked. Despite that he was always so reliable. 

And so much more. 

All of which you were growing to love. 

While you’d catch his eye from across the room, already looking at you with a softness that made your stomach flutter.

Already wondering how he'd gotten so lucky.

Because somewhere between humming the Jaws theme and sharing coffee after night shifts–

You had become his favorite part of the week.

And judging by the way your smile appeared whenever he walked into a room. 

He was becoming yours too.

There was just one thing you hadn’t quite arranged yet. 

While Mateo was growing to love you. And all that made you, you. 

You hadn’t quite managed to arrange for him to meet your brother…in fact. You were definitely avoiding that. 

While you knew you could be clipped at times. 

Could be blunt. 

Standoffish. 

Your brother was in a whole other league. 

And the ED certainly had stories to tell when it came to your fearsome brother. 

In fact the topic of your brother had taken up a good chunk of one of your dates with Mateo, as you worked to reassure him that–

“Brendon won’t kill you for dating me,” you had huffed, leaning against him as you laid across the couch, brows furrowing as you tilted to look up at Mateo, “–It feels like we’re a few too many dates into this to only now be talking about it.”

To which Mateo replied, “Just thought I should check, baby–I don’t really want to become a patient in the ED, because your brother decided I’m not good enough for you”

That had earned him a shove from you from his joke. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. 

He argued, voice muffled as he buried his face into the top of your head, "I'm serious."

"You work in emergency medicine," you said with a raised brow. 

"Exactly"

"You see horrible things every day," you added.l 

“Yup,” he agreed. 

Shifting slightly, you move to face him, "And you're scared of my brother?"

"Have you met your brother?"

You opened your mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

It had done very little to quell his worries when it came to your brother. 

He remembered crossing paths with him during his time on the day shift. How easily he could reduce a med student’s confidence into complete rubble. 

And that was to someone who wasn’t dating his sister. 

The man could reduce someone's confidence to dust with a single raised eyebrow.

And somehow he rarely raised his voice.

Which made it worse.

Far worse.

So it was fair to say that you weren't necessarily eager to throw your boyfriend into that particular shark tank.

But sooner or later. 

Mateo was to be thrown into the deep end. 

The department was in the midst of a shift change, as the slough of day shifters stepped into the ED, those on the night shift just starting to hand over. 

When all of a sudden. 

An MVC was called through. 

A report of only one victim. Thankfully just one.

But it was certainly a very close call. 

A female, conscious. Barely. 

Suspected femur fracture and multiple orthopedic injuries. 

Everyone moved with practiced ease, a trait that came with far too many shifts dealing with this sort of chaos. 

Mateo found himself assigned to the incoming patient alongside Abbot.

The woman arrived pale and shaking, tears streaking down her face as EMS rolled her through the trauma bay.

Pain radiated from every movement.

One leg visibly deformed.

The possibility of additional fractures hanging over everything.

"Alright, ma'am, we're going to take care of you," Abbot’s voice was steady as always. 

The patient nodded weakly. A small cry broke out from her. 

Going through the motions as they checked everything. 

Ensuring she was stabalised. 

“Page ortho,” Abbot called out. 

Robby slipped to work alongside him, “and get Y/N in here”  

From the moment your name was called, you were hot on their heels, as you wheeled in the portable imaging unit, slipping in as you tug a set of gloves on. 

Eyes assessing, observant. 

Analytical as you pin point what was needed of you. 

Efficient as you do your job while they do theirs. 

Mateo always loved watching you work. How you moved with certainty. Confidence rolling off of you in waves. 

As the chaos began to settle ever so slightly. Mateo shuffled by your side, with a small quirk of his lips as he hummed lowly. 

But his little tune got caught in his throat when he looked up. 

Meeting the piercing eyes of your brother. 

Brows furrowed while he met Mateo’s eyes. 

You stifled the grin threatening to form on your face, biting the inside of your cheek, looking back down at the scans to hide your face. 

Brendon clicked his tongue before observing the scene before him, gloves pulled onto his hands. 

Firing off questions, straight to the point. 

Barely wasting any time. 

Before striding to stand beside you, sending Mateo a pointed look. Whilst you discreetly elbowed Brendon. 

A narrowing of your eyes as you looked at Brendon. 

He relented, ever so slightly, bending to your will. Eyes shifting to scan over the imagings. 

And that was when Mateo really saw it.

Not just the resemblance.

But the similarities between you both. 

The way both of you carried yourselves.

Your posture, the pushed back shoulders. The expressions, near identical analytical focus.

The way neither of you tolerated unnecessary nonsense once work started.

Standing side by side, nobody could have mistaken you for anything but siblings.

The same sharpness.

The same intensity.

The same tendency to cut straight to the point. The way you both behaved as though anticipating the other’s next move. 

Everyone knew of Park’s reputation. They knew of his fierce domineering presence. The way the room would silence as he entered, voices hushed when he moved through the room. 

But in this moment now. 

Mateo watched as Brendon’s demeanor shifted, almost imperceptibly. 

How his sharp edges softened. Tone not quite warm, but lacking a biting edge when speaking with you. 

Even your own behaviour morphed from your usual clean cut approach, to something a little more akin to what Mateo had seen outside of work. 

“It’ll need surgery,” Brendon commented, eyes flicking between the scans and the woman’s leg. Whilst Mateo does his best to calm her nerves. 

Stood beside Brendon, you muttered ever so quietly, “No shit, sherlock” 

He scoffed at your words.  

“That femurs halfway to another zip code,” you added. Quiet enough that it doesn’t reach the patient’s ears, but it doesn’t go amiss by Mateo. 

A small lilt of his lips holding back the chuckle from your little joke. 

An icy demeanor slipping back into place, professionalism taking over once more, as he directs the shift for them to prepare for surgery. 

As the other ready the patient for surgery, Brendon begins to exit the room before turning to Mateo, pointing at him, “You–”

Mateo points at himself with a raise of his brow. 

“–With me,” Brendon jutted his head. 

As a low hum of oohs, sound out from those nearby. 

You roll your eyes, packing up your equipment, reaching for Mateo’s hand as he passes, murmuring softly, “You’re going to be fine”

Your encouraging words do little to stifle his growing nerves, but he does his best to conceal it, while his feet carry him out of the trauma room. 

Finding Brendon standing by the elevator. 

Eyes observing him. 

Silence stagnant between them. 

His arms crossed over his chest as he simply watched Mateo, waiting. 

Mateo wouldn’t say he was easily intimidated. But right now. Standing before Brendon, Park the Shark – your older brother. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. 

He almost flinched when Brendon opened his mouth. 

“How serious are you?” 

Standing straighter he replied, “Very serious,” the instinct to say sir was definitely one he had to suppress. 

For a moment all Brendon did was look at him. 

Eyes narrowed. 

Lips pulled taut. 

“Good”

Brendon offered a small nod. Satisfied by what he saw. There had been many conversations between you and Brendon before this moment, and he had heard the way you softened when speaking of Mateo. 

How Mateo had made you feel so comfortable. 

How he made you feel free to be yourself. 

How you loved the way he made you feel. 

Mateo paused, blinking in surprise "...That's it?"

"No"

Of course not. Of course it wasn't. Of course there was more–

Brendon sighed, his cold resolve shifting whilst he scratches at his jaw, "Look."

His tone softened slightly. Not by much.

But just enough.

"My sister doesn't let people in."

Mateo smiled faintly, the memory of when he first met you coming to mind, "Yeah."

"You know that now."

"I do."

Brendon nodded. For a moment his gaze drifted back toward the department. Toward where you had disappeared. 

"She's always been like that,” A small smile graced his face. 

It almost felt out of place to see the man smile. The kind of look siblings got when remembering someone long before anyone else knew them.

Catching Mateo off guard. 

"Even when we were kids."

Mateo listened quietly, taking in Brendon’s words.

"If she trusts someone, it's because they've earned it,” Brendon glanced back at him, tone sincere, "And she trusts you."

That one hit harder than Mateo expected.

Because coming from you, it would've meant something. Something soft and so revealing. 

But coming from your brother–

The person who'd known you your entire life–

It somehow meant something even more profound. 

Especially when Brendon was only ever known for his blunt roughness. 

However Brendon immediately ruined the tender moment, "If you break her heart, though–" the firmness in his voice reappearing. 

As Mateo chuckled sheepishly, with a nod. “Yeah, yeah. I understand, you’ll probably break my bones”

Brendon only hummed in agreement, before disappearing into the lift. 

You slip beside Mateo, arm wrapping around his waist, while he tilts his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Told you he wouldn’t kill you,” you grinned cheekily. 

He let out a small chuckle, as he pulled you closer to his side, feet moving as you begin to walk towards the lockers. 

“He did threaten to break my bones”

You scoffed, “Yeah, but he’d be the one who’d have to fix them–besides, I wouldn’t let him hurt you”

Mateo smiled softly, remarking, “Glad I’ve got one shark by my side at least”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” You roll your eyes from his words.

He nods, “I am pretty lucky”

You let your lips curl up into a smile, twisting him as your hands shift to reach around his neck, fingers twisting through the ends of his soft curls.

Reaching up to place a soft peck upon his lips before pulling away.  

“How does getting some breakfast sound?” 

“Sounds perfect” 

Leading you and Mateo to leave the ED.

Hand in hand. Your composure softens just for him. Just for Mateo. Admiring him in the early sunlight as the city awakens. 

Happy that your brother approved. 

Not that his disapproval would’ve stopped you anyway. 

Not when Mateo never failed to make you smile. 

Not when he made your heart flutter in your chest while his hand intertwined with yours. 

Not with the sweetness of his voice, or how he never failed to make you laugh. 

Pushing past your steely facade. 

And Mateo wasn’t going to be dissuaded from seeing you – even if your brother could be intimidating. 

He just wanted to be the one to make you smile. 

That was all he could ask for.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my very first fic featuring Mateo, tried to keep it quite sweet. Also loved the idea of him knowing your relation to Brendon and still trying his luck anyway, unafraid of your brother. (I imagine it's a sweet thought for you) and these Park siblings are total softies deep down. and if you're wondering the idea for the name tricky fish, came from a lilo and stitch quote as said by Pleakly - it really just amuses me

Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Jesse Van Horn x Reader: Just Keep Swimming

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

The scent of laurel and iron is familiar when Megaera finds you first. She is leaning against a cold obsidian pillar where you turn a corner in the hall, caught in your daily wandering of the House of Hades. Her whip coils lazily around her hand, and you have felt the touch of those fingers too often to worry about what that hand is capable of against your beloved prince. You know Zagreus well enough to understand that even he takes some pleasure from their semi-daily spats.

Her golden eyes are alight with amusement when she catches you.

“Looking for someone?”

Her voice is smoke and steel, the kind of teasing only she can pull off — sharp enough to wound, sweet enough to make you crave more. It's a delicious rasp, one that pulls you in.

"I thought you were working," you say softly, meek even in your approach. Under Megaera's gaze, you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. It's a delicious feeling, like flames licking at your skin.

"Tisiphone is dealing with your fool of a husband, sweetling," she muses, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face. Her fingers drift, pinching your chin playfully. "Had it been me out there, Zag wouldn't be coming home in time for supper."

Before you can answer, a weight settles against your back, a touch cold as the space between stars. A hand, deathly pale yet soft in its tenderness, trails over your wrist before curling around your fingers. Megaera raises a brow as she lifts her gaze to the newcomer.

Thanatos does not need words. He never does. His presence alone speaks volumes — the weight of inevitability, of endings — pressing into you like the certainty of a final breath. And yet, there is warmth in him, one you have come to know intimately—a paradox of comfort in the arms of Death himself.

“Zagreus is coming,” he murmurs, voice quiet as the rustle of the Fields of Asphodel. “He was waylaid.”

“Waylaid,” Megaera echoes, smirking. “That’s one way to put it.”

You tilt your head up as you feel Thanatos shift, his golden eyes gleaming under the torchlight. He is beautiful in his quietude, just as Megaera is beautiful in her storm.

"Were you helping him again, Than?" you inquire.

It has been a long time since aiding the Prince of the Underworld in his escapades was seen as some form of treason by Hades. Even then, Thanatos still averts his gaze, his grey skin flushing with a dark shade like the murky waters.

"Helping is a generous term, dear," he mumbles.

Megaera snorts.

Their bickering is dry, almost entirely deadpan. There is none of that theatrical flair of Zagreus arguing with his father for eternities, but it is no less entertaining for you to watch. You've learned to take delight in the sharpness of their words, the furrow of their brows. In a way, it is strangely domestic.

You cannot help the little grin that tugs at your lips as you watch them in front of you. The laugh that tumbles out of your mouth is entirely accidental, and you squeak as two pairs of golden eyes snap to you.

"What are you laughing about, little flower?" Thanatos muses, his voice soft and utterly smitten.

"Isn't it obvious? They're laughing at you," Megaera scoffs, though it lacks in her usual malice.

Suddenly, the scent of wine and pomegranate blossoms floods your senses.

It comes before you even see him. You close your eyes, basking in the scent of it as if it were the spring that you have not felt in a lifetime. Beside you, Megaera and Thanatos fall silent.

Then, there he is: breathless, grinning, battered from the inevitable chaos that follows him everywhere, the floors of hell burning under his feet. His underworld-forged armor bears fresh scrapes, his knuckles bruised from the skirmish, but his smile—his smile is for you.

For all of you.

"There is your husband," Megaera drawls.

Zagreus is panting when he reaches you, still dripping in the blood from the River Styx. You have learned to disregard the viscera, delighting only in the way his hands reach—finding yours, Megaera's, brushing against Thanatos's in an unspoken promise.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Zagreus breathes. “Got a little distracted.”

"Distracted, he says," Thanatos deadpans.

Megaera rolls her eyes, but she lets him pull her closer. Thanatos sighs but does not resist the touch.

Death, treachery, rebirth; how odd for a maiden of the Earth to surround themself with. But you have learned like the goddess before you that love tends to find creatures like you in the strangest of places, like a stubborn dandelion blooming through the cracks of a cobblestone path.

You beam, lifting yourself up on your toes to press your lips against your husband's cheek, then your two other lovers. Their hands are cold like the touch of Death and unbearably warm like the flames of Asphodel, and you stand at the very center of it—something that was once warm and breathing and now is not; beloved in your death as you were in life.

"Shall we have our supper together now?" the bride of the Underworld asks.

you were a princess, born with noble and royal blood that carried the weight of generations before you. it was a quiet certainty that had never once been questioned as it settled into every part of your life from the moment you first opened your eyes.

as the youngest princess of the emerald empire, your place in the world had been decided long before you were old enough to understand what it meant, long before you could even speak your own name.

your older brother was raised to be the heir, the future king who would rule with authority and knowledge, taught to lead and command and carry the legacy of your family forward, while you were something else entirely. you were softer in appearance but just as important. a princess who would one day be placed where she was most useful, a piece in the quiet and constant game that was the monarchy.

you were loved, there was never a doubt about that.

it showed in the way your parents looked at you, in way your brother indulged you, in the way the entire palace seemed to soften around your presence. you were the only princess, the youngest child, and you were treated as something precious, something to be protected and cherished, and they spoiled you in ways that made your life comfortable and warm, but even in that warmth there were rules that never changed.

your family was traditional, deeply so, and their love never wavered from the expectations they held for you.

from a young age, you were taught what it meant to be a woman in your position, and those lessons were repeated so often that they became second nature, something you accepted without hesitation.

a woman’s first duty was to be a wife, to stand beside her husband and give him children, however many he desired, without complaint, without question, because that was her purpose. the second duty followed naturally, to be a mother, to raise those children, to nurture them while the husband worked and ruled and carried on the responsibilities outside the home.

it was a cycle that had existed long before you and would continue long after, and you saw it in the women who came before you, in your mother who carried herself with quiet grace as she fulfilled her role, in your grandmother, in your great grandmother, and every woman in your lineage who had done the same without hesitation.

you never questioned it, not once, because it was all you had ever known, and there was a kind of comfort in that certainty.

this is what you are meant to be.

the thought came easily and without resistance, and you accepted it as truth.

while your father spent his time guiding your older brother through the complexities of ruling, teaching him about politics, the history of their land, the alliances and conflicts with foreign nations, you were guided down a different path entirely.

your mother oversaw your upbringing with careful attention, shaping you into what she believed a proper royal woman should be. she taught you discipline, how to hold yourself, how to move, how to speak with intention and restraint, and she taught you grace, the kind that made every action appear effortless even when it was practiced a thousand times before.

you spent countless hours learning what was expected of you, your days filled with lessons in etiquette where every gesture mattered, where the way you held a teacup or greeted a noble could reflect not just on you but on your entire family. you learned to dance, not simply for enjoyment but as a skill, something that would be required of you in court and gatherings, your steps precise and controlled under the watchful eyes of your instructors. you studied cultures beyond your own, memorizing traditions, customs, and expectations of other lands so that one day you would not embarrass your future husband’s court.

and above all else, you were taught obedience. it was a necessity. it would allow you to become the perfect wife you were meant to be.

you listened, you learned, and you never resisted, because there was nothing in you that wanted to. you were good, you were proper, you were everything they needed you to be.

so when the time finally came, when you reached the age where marriage was no longer a distant idea but an immediate reality, you did not protest when the arrangements were made, you did not question the decision when your future was decided for you.

you were told where you would go, who you would marry, and what it would mean for your kingdom, and you accepted it with the same quiet understanding you had always carried.

that was how you found yourself leaving the emerald empire, the only home you had ever known, and being sent to the scarlet region.

the difference between the two lands was impossible to ignore, it settled into your senses the moment you crossed the borders, the shift so stark that it almost felt unreal.

the emerald empire lived up to its name in every sense, a land rich with deep green forests that stretched endlessly, fields of flowers that bloomed in colors that softened the eye, rivers that reflected the sky like glass as they wound through the kingdom. the air there had always felt light, fresh, filled with the scent of earth and life, and the palace itself stood tall and elegant among it all, a place that felt open and welcoming even in its grandeur.

the scarlet region was something else entirely.

it rose from the land like something carved from the bones of the earth itself, a kingdom built atop a massive dark mountain that seemed to loom over everything around it. the stone was not polished or soft in appearance, it was jagged in places, heavy as if it had been shaped by fire and force rather than careful hands. the ground beneath it was uneven, darkened by ash and heat, and the closer you came, the more you could feel the difference in the air. it was thicker, warmer, carrying the faint scent of smoke that never fully disappeared.

the mountain itself stretched high, its peak often hidden behind dark clouds that clung to it as if they belonged there, and somewhere deeper within. there was the constant reminder of the volcano that gave the region its name, a presence that could not be seen fully but was always felt. it was not a place of soft beauty, it was a place that demanded attention. it felt alive in a harsher, more dangerous way, and yet there was something undeniably powerful about it.

the fortress that stood upon it was just as imposing, built from the same dark stone, rising high with sharp edges and heavy walls that spoke more of strength than elegance. it was not delicate, not meant to impress with grace, but with dominance, with the kind of presence that made it clear this was a kingdom that did not bend easily.

this was where you were meant to belong now, far from the green and gentle lands of your home, in a place that burned in scarlet and shadow, where everything far less forgiving.

and yet you stepped forward without hesitation, because this was your duty, and you had always known that one day you would be sent away to fulfill it.

you knew since you were ten.

the memory had settled into you quietly, it wasn’t a shock to you, it was inevitable. it had always been waiting for you even before you were old enough to understand what it meant.

it had been a warm afternoon in the emerald empire.

you had been seated beside your mother, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you were taught to do, your back straight even then because discipline had already rooted itself deep into your bones.

your father and your older brother had been speaking across the long table, their voices calm but firm, their words carrying weight even if you did not fully grasp them at the time. you remembered the way your mother’s hand rested lightly over yours, a silent instruction to listen, to pay attention, to understand that what was being discussed was important.

it was then that you first heard of the treaty.

not just a simple agreement, not just a passing arrangement between two lands, but something far more binding, something that would shape the future of both nations and, though you did not know it yet, your own life.

the emerald empire, prosperous and abundant, a land overflowing with natural wealth, had long held resources that other nations sought after. among them, the most prized were the emeralds themselves, stones that were not only symbols of status and power but also held practical value in trade, crafting, and even in certain forms of energy use that had been developed over time.

the scarlet region, in contrast, was not a land of abundance in that sense, but it held something far more dangerous and far more valuable in times of unrest.

power.

military strength that few could rival.

the treaty, as it had been explained in terms that would later become clearer to you as you grew older, was both an agreement of peace and a formal alliance. it was structured with precision, written in language that left little room for misinterpretation, signed under the authority of both ruling powers to ensure its permanence.

the emerald empire shall supply the scarlet region with an agreed upon and consistent quantity of emerald resources, the amount determined through mutual negotiation and subject to periodic reassessment under stable conditions.

in return, the scarlet region shall provide military support to the emerald empire, offering protection, reinforcement, and armed assistance in times of conflict, threat, or war, under the obligations defined within the alliance.

it was balanced and it made sense, even to those who were not directly involved in politics.

one land provided wealth, the other provided strength. together, they ensured stability, or at the very least, the illusion of it.

but treaties like that were rarely sealed by ink alone.

they required something more binding, something that ensured loyalty beyond written words.

and that was where you came in.

the alliance was finalized not only through the signatures of two rulers but through a betrothal.

between you, the youngest and only princess of the emerald empire and the sole heir of the scarlet region, katsuki bakugo.

you did not know his name at ten in the way you would come to know it later.

back then, it had just been a name spoken among many others, one that held importance but did not yet carry weight in your mind. you had simply listened, your gaze lowered as expected, your fingers resting against your mother’s as she gently squeezed your hand once, a quiet reassurance or perhaps a reminder.

this is your duty.

as you grew older, the details became clearer.

the scarlet region did not follow the same traditions as your homeland. where the emerald empire upheld strict customs, where succession was determined by lineage and only passed on upon death to the oldest son, the scarlet region operated under a different set of rules, ones that were far less rigid and far more dangerous.

there, a ruler could step down whenever they deemed it appropriate. there was no obligation to rule until death. there was no enforced waiting.

at first, it sounded almost freeing, almost progressive in a way that contrasted your own structured upbringing. but as you learned more, as history lessons became more detailed and less softened for your ears, you began to understand what that truly meant.

power did not remain in the hands of those who were unwilling to give it up.

not for long.

stories, whispered at first and then later taught more directly, spoke of rulers who had been found lifeless in their chambers, their bodies still and cold before any official declaration of abdication had been made. others were said to have fallen ill suddenly, their decline too quick, too convenient, leaving the throne open for the next in line.

poison.

assassination.

betrayal.

these were not rare occurrence, they were part of the system.

the scarlet region thrived on strength, and strength was proven not just in battle but in the ability to take and to hold power by any means necessary. it was a land where weakness was not tolerated, where hesitation could mean death, and where loyalty was often conditional.

they were barbaric in nature, as many in your homeland described them, though never in official statements. it was a quiet understanding, one that lingered beneath formal diplomacy.

and yet, despite that, or perhaps because of it, they were powerful.

that power was what your kingdom needed.

that power was what secured your fate.

katsuki bakugo had ascended the throne in his early twenties, far earlier than most rulers in your own land would have ever been allowed to. but his case had been different.

his father had never wanted the crown. that much had been made clear in every account you had heard.

he had ruled because he had to, because the position had been his responsibility, but there had never been any true desire behind it. and so, the moment he believed his son was capable, the moment he was certain that the boy had grown into someone strong enough to take over, he stepped down.

willingly.

a rare occurrence in a land where most rulers had power taken from them rather than surrendered.

that was how katsuki became king.

young, powerful, and already carrying a reputation that spread far beyond the scarlet region itself.

they called him the dragon king.

the title alone was enough to spark curiosity when you first heard it, but the explanation behind it made it something else entirely.

he rode a dragon.

not just any beast, not just some distant creature tamed through force, but one bound to him in a way that was deeper, more personal, more dangerous.

eijiro kirishima is a dragon hybrid and katsuki’s right hand, his closest companion, his weapon, and his ally.

the stories described them as inseparable, two forces that moved as one, their presence on the battlefield enough to turn the tide of war before it had even fully begun. it was said that when the dragon king took flight, when the skies burned with the presence of that creature beneath him, there was no room left for doubt.

fear followed then victory followed short after… always.

and now, that same man was the one you were meant to marry.

though the pair interested you more than anything.

hybrids were rare.

even in lands filled with strange creatures, old bloodlines, and ancient magic that had existed long before kingdoms were ever built, hybrids remained uncommon enough to be spoken about with curiosity and caution. stories about them traveled across nations in whispers and rumors, changing slightly depending on who told them, but one thing always remained the same.

once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.

it was said they did not serve the way ordinary soldiers served a king. it went deeper than duty and far beyond simple obedience. the bond between a hybrid and their chosen master was something fierce, instinctive, almost animalistic in nature. once formed, it lasted for life.

they protected, obeyed, and stayed.

even death itself was said to struggle separating a hybrid from the one they devoted themselves to.

you had heard stories growing up in the emerald empire. servants whispered about dragon shifters in hushed voices while preparing your baths or brushing your hair. noble women spoke of them with fascination during gatherings while men discussed them as weapons that could change the outcome of wars. some stories painted hybrids as dangerous beasts pretending to be human while others claimed they were more loyal than any knight sworn by oath.

you had never seen one before.

not until now.

the realization settled into you the moment the large doors of the throne room opened.

the room was massive, carved from dark stone that stretched high above your head into towering ceilings supported by enormous pillars etched with old markings and scars from time. fire burned from iron braziers mounted against the walls, their flames casting flickering orange light across the gloomy chamber. unlike the bright halls of the emerald empire filled with sunlight and polished marble, this place felt heavy.

ancient.

the air itself carried the faint scent of smoke and iron.

your footsteps echoed softly as you walked forward.

the king’s council and court lined both sides of the long walkway leading toward the throne, their eyes fixed entirely on you. warriors stood among nobles instead of guards standing separately from politicians like in your homeland. here they seemed to blend together into one brutal court where strength mattered just as much as status.

you could feel their stares. some were curious. some judgmental. some openly assessing you as though trying to determine whether the foreign princess walking toward their king was worthy enough to stand beside him.

still, your posture never faltered. not once.

your head remained high, your expression calm and serene exactly as you had been taught since childhood. every movement was graceful and measured as you walked across the dark stone floor.

your dress stood out immediately against the dullness of the castle.

soft lilac silk flowed around your body with every step, the fabric delicate and elegant beneath the firelight. silver embroidery climbed along the sleeves and bodice in intricate patterns resembling vines and blooming flowers from your homeland. sheer layers of fabric draped from your arms and trailed lightly behind you across the floor.

in this dark place of stone and ash and smoke, the dress almost looked unreal.

the only other strong color in the room came from the red-haired hybrid standing beside the throne.

his hair was bright like burning crimson beneath the firelight, wild and striking against skin. large dragon wings rested folded behind him, the scales along them dark red and gleaming faintly. even from where you stood, you could see sharp scales trailing along parts of his neck and arms while red horns stuck on his forehead.

and his eyes never left the king.

you understood the stories then.

slowly, you reached the foot of the stairs leading toward the throne.

without hesitation, you lowered yourself into a proper curtsy, bowing your head respectfully. though you were royalty yourself, you stood in a foreign kingdom before another ruler. your mother had drilled that lesson into you countless times growing up.

respect the customs of the land you stand in.

your voice was soft and composed when you spoke. “my king.”then you lifted your gaze and finally saw him properly.

katsuki bakugo sat sprawled across the throne like he had been born for it… like the throne itself belonged beneath him.

his vermillion eyes locked onto yours immediately, sharp and intense enough to make your breath still for a moment. his ash blond hair looked messy and untamed as though no one would dare attempt controlling it.

he looked dangerous, beautifully dangerous.

his entire torso was bare, leaving every inch of hard muscle exposed beneath the firelight. scars littered parts of his skin, old marks that only made him appear even rougher, even more intimidating. his body looked carved from stone itself, broad shoulders leading down to a powerful chest and strong arms wrapped with strips of orange fabric around his forearms and hands.

a dark red cape lined with thick fur rested across his shoulders, the heavy material falling behind him while the fur framed his neck. black tattered pants hung low on his hips tucked into worn brown boots that looked made for battle instead of ceremony. and around his neck hung layered necklaces made from stone, jade, teeth, and rough beads that clicked softly whenever he moved.

beside his throne rested a massive broadsword. the blade alone looked large enough to split a man in half.

the room had gone silent.

completely silent.

your eyes remained locked with his as he slowly stood from his throne. the movement alone shifted the atmosphere in the room. he descended the stairs with slow swaggering steps, each one heavy against the stone floor. he did not rush. he looked like a predator approaching something that had caught his attention.

his eyes never left yours.

not once.

when he finally stopped in front of you, his body towered over yours easily.

you suddenly understood why stories about him spread across kingdoms because there was something overwhelming about him, something that demanded attention.

your breath caught quietly in your throat when he suddenly lifted a hand and pinched your chin between his fingers. his touch was rough as it was warm. he tilted your head upward slightly so he could look at you better.

the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

you could feel his gaze dragging across your face slowly, studying every detail in silence for several long seconds… then his lip curled.

“tch. at least they had the decency to send me a pretty little princess.” his voice was rough and deep, carrying easily through the silent throne room.

heat crept beneath your skin instantly.

before you could even react, he scoffed and released your chin before turning away slightly. “i might actually kill them then myself if they had given me one that looked like a mountain troll.”

a few people in the court laughed nervously.

you stayed perfectly still.

then katsuki waved a hand dismissively. “eijiro, send the woman to her quarters.”

the command was directed toward the red-haired hybrid beside the throne.

unlike katsuki’s permanent snarl and sharp gaze, the hybrid smiled warmly at you the moment his name was called.

and somehow, in this cold dark throne room filled with warriors and strangers, that smile was the first thing that felt welcoming.

you walked through the dark halls of the castle in silence, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the stone beneath your shoes as the heavy doors of the throne room closed behind you.

in the corridor, the walls were made from dark stone carved rough in some places and smooth in others as though parts of the castle had been built directly into the mountain itself. large torches lined the hallways every few feet, their flames flickering wildly and casting shifting shadows across the walls and floors. the firelight painted everything in deep shades of orange and gold, but it did little to soften the gloom surrounding the place.

there were no large windows letting sunlight spill through the halls. no fresh scent of flowers drifting through open corridors. instead the air carried traces of smoke, leather, iron, and something faintly earthy that reminded you of ash after rain.

in front of you, eijiro walked at an easy pace as he guided you through the winding halls just as the king had ordered.

your eyes drifted toward him quietly.

back in the throne room, nearly all of your attention had been trapped on katsuki bakugo himself. it had been impossible not to stare at him when he looked the way he did sitting upon that throne like some wild king from ancient stories.

now, with the two of you alone in the halls, this was the first time you truly got a proper look at the dragon hybrid.

your gaze slowly scanned over him.

like katsuki, his torso was completely bare beneath the warm firelight, exposing toned muscle across his back and shoulders that shifted with every step he took. his body looked strong in a different way than the king’s. where katsuki carried sharpness and intimidation, eijiro looked sturdy and grounded… protective.

metal pauldrons rested over his shoulders, dark and jagged in shape almost resembling broken pieces of rock layered over one another. leather bracers wrapped around his forearms while fitted leather pants and armored boots completed the rest of his attire. several knives rested securely along the belt around his waist.

but none of that held your attention for long. your eyes kept returning to the scales.

patches of deep red scales spread across parts of his arms and shoulders, blending into his tan skin naturally. more scales traced along the sides of his face near his jaw and temples, catching the firelight whenever he moved.

his hair was a vivid red that matched the horns protruding from his forehead. large leathery wings remained tucked behind him neatly despite their size, the dark red membranes shifting slightly every now and then as he walked.

you had never seen anything like him before.

your staring lasted just a second too long.

eijiro glanced over his shoulder before a grin spread across his face. “y’know, princess, if you keep staring at me like that i’m gonna start thinkin’ you like what you see.”

heat rushed to your face instantly. your eyes widened before you quickly looked away. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your voice embarrassed. “i did not mean to stare.” you hesitated for a moment before glancing back at him carefully. “it is just... this is my first time seeing a hybrid in person. let alone a dragon hybrid.”

eijiro let out a warm chuckle. “hey, don’t worry about it,” he said easily, waving a hand dismissively. “seriously. there’s no need to apologize. i get that a lot.”

his relaxed tone eased some of your embarrassment almost immediately.

you looked at him again, more carefully this time. “does it bother you?”

“nah.” he shrugged. “people get curious. especially people from other kingdoms. honestly, i’d probably stare too if i saw somebody with giant wings for the first time.”

you found yourself smiling faintly at that. the sight seemed to encourage him further.

“plus,” he continued with a grin, “you’ve been pretty respectful about it. some people act weird.”

“weird?”

“yeah.” he snorted. “either they’re terrified or they ask if i breathe fire.”

your brows lifted slightly. “can you?”

eijiro barked out a laugh so suddenly that it echoed through the hallway. “okay, see? that one’s fair.”

you lowered your gaze quickly, suddenly feeling foolish. “i apologize. that was inappropriate.”

“hey, no.” he shook his head immediately. “i’m messing with you. i do breathe fire. only on my dragon form though.”

his easygoing nature made conversation strangely comfortable despite how unfamiliar everything around you was. for a moment, the tightness sitting in your chest since arriving at the scarlet region loosened slightly.

“so,” eijiro said after a moment, glancing at you curiously. “what’s the emerald empire really like?”

your expression softened. “It is beautiful,” you answered quietly. “very different from here.”

you looked around the dim hallway before continuing.l “there are gardens everywhere. flowers grow along most parts of the palace grounds and the walls are covered with vines and roses during warmer seasons.”

eijiro listened closely. “sounds nice.”

“It is peaceful,” you admitted. “the air smells sweet during spring.”

“huh.” he smiled. “guess this place probably feels kinda… intense compared to that.”

you hesitated before nodding slightly. “a little.”

he laughed softly. “yeah, sounds about right.”

for a few moments the two of you continued walking while talking quietly.

you asked him questions about the castle, about the scarlet region, about dragons and hybrids. he answered all of them openly, seeming almost excited by your curiosity rather than annoyed by it.

in return, he asked about your home, what kind of things you liked, whether all nobility in the emerald empire were taught so formally.

“pretty much,” you admitted softly.

“that sounds exhausting.” eijiro said.

“it can be.” you let out the faintest laugh.

eijiro glanced at you again before speaking carefully.“you nervous?”

you knew immediately what he meant. your fingers tightened lightly together.

“about the king?”

he nodded.

you were quiet for a moment before speaking honestly. “i do not think he likes me.”

eijiro suddenly laughed. not cruelly, almost fondly. “trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “you’d know if katsuki doesn’t like you.”

“I would?” your brows furrowed slightly.

“oh, definitely.” he grinned. “he’s not exactly subtle.”

you thought back to the throne room. to the way katsuki had looked at you, the roughness in his voice, and to the way his fingers had held your chin.

your face warmed slightly at the memory.

eijiro noticed immediately and grinned wider. “see?”

you quickly looked away. “i simply assumed he was displeased by this arrangement.”

“well,” eijiro admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “he definitely wasn’t happy about being forced into marriage at first.”

your chest tightened slightly, but before you could speak, he continued.

“katsuki’s just bad with people sometimes. especially women.”

you blinked. “women?”

“pretty women,” he corrected with a teasing grin.

you looked down immediately, embarrassed at his constant compliments towards you.

eijiro laughed softly again before continuing more gently. “seriously though, don’t overthink him too much. he’s rough around the edges but he’s a good person. you’ll see pretty soon how he actually is when he dislikes somebody.”

the conversation slowly drifted again before you asked quietly, “how long have you known him?”

eijiro’s expression softened immediately. “since we were kids.”

you looked up at him curiously while he smiled faintly down at you.

“hunters caught me when i was eight,” he explained. “dragon hybrids sell for a lot depending on where you are.”

your eyes widened slightly. you remembered learning about how hybrids treated in some parts. some were either killed and butchered to be sold for their parts, or they were sold for entertainment. hybrids were rare as it is, but dragon hybrids were even more rare making them more valuable.

“they kept me trapped for a while.” his tone remained casual but you still felt sadness curl in your chest. “katsuki found me,” he continued. “he was around eight too. little psycho fought grown men with a knife.”

you stared at him as you listened, trying to take it all in.

“seriously. kid was terrifying… and i was a kid!” eijiro laughed.

you could strangely imagine it. after seeing katsuki earlier, just from that brief interaction, you can already tell he was much of a menace at eight as he is now.

“he saved you.” you said.

“yeah.” his voice softened. “and i stayed with him after that.”

“you are loyal to him. i’m not surprised.” your gaze drifted toward his wings.

eijiro looked at you for a moment before nodding once. “always.”

something about the way he said it made the old stories about hybrids echo through your mind again.

once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.

eventually, the two of you stopped in front of a massive pair of doors at the end of a quieter hallway.

“welcome to your new quarters, princess.” eijiro pushed them open.

you stepped inside slowly and was met with an enormous room.

dark stone walls surrounded the space but heavy curtains in deep crimson softened parts of it while large fur rugs covered portions of the floor. a massive fireplace burned along one side of the room, filling it with warmth. shelves carved from black wood lined the walls while candles flickered across various surfaces. the bed itself was enormous, layered with thick dark fabrics and furs.

despite the roughness of the castle’s aesthetic, the room still felt strangely luxurious.

eijiro watched your reaction carefully. “i know it’s probably completely different from your home,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “but the king made sure your quarters were comfortable for you.”

your eyes widened slightly. “he did? really?”

eijiro smiled sheepishly. “well... not really.”

your brows lifted in confusion at that.

“but he approved of all the things brought to your room! so that’s something!”

you could not help the soft laugh that escaped you. he reminded you strangely of a large puppy, earnest and friendly.

“thank you, eijiro. truly.” you nodded politely.

his grin returned immediately. “no problem. you are the future queen of the dragon lord. i live to serve you for you are his.”

his.

he stepped back toward the doorway. “i’ll send your new servants in to help with your bath before you retire for the night.”

“thank you.” you nodded again.

“get some rest, princess.” with that, he stepped outside and slowly closed the large doors behind him.

silence settled over the room.

you stood there for a long moment before slowly walking deeper inside, taking every little thing in. finally, you sat down carefully on the edge of the massive bed. your fingers brushed against the heavy sheets beneath your hands.

it was soft, warm… and foreign.

your gaze drifted slowly around the unfamiliar room.

this is my home now.

and for the first time since arriving in the scarlet region, the reality of it truly settled into your chest.

the last couple of weeks quickly fell into a repetitive pattern that slowly wore away at your patience no matter how hard you tried to remain understanding about the situation.

every morning you would wake up inside your chambers high within the dark stone walls of the scarlet fortress and ask one of the servants or guards whether the king was available, only to receive the same carefully rehearsed answers in return.

the king was occupied. the king was handling important matters. the king had already left the castle grounds before sunrise.

after hearing those excuses day after day, you eventually stopped asking as often because humiliation started creeping beneath your skin each time another servant avoided your eyes while informing you that your own betrothed apparently had no time for you.

most of your days were spent alone inside your chambers afterward. you ended up reading nearly every single one of the books on your shelves out of sheer boredom.

the books inside the scarlet region were nothing like the gentle romances and elegant poetry collections kept inside the libraries of the emerald empire. these stories were brutal and excessive and strangely honest about the people who lived within this kingdom.

there were tales about ancient wars fought between dragon riders that ended with entire mountainsides collapsing beneath fire and bloodshed. there were stories about barbarian kings who conquered lands with their bare hands and queens who poisoned enemies during feasts. some books were so violent that you occasionally found yourself staring blankly at the pages afterward trying to understand how someone even thought to write such horrifying details.

others were scandalously inappropriate.

one evening you accidentally spent an entire hour reading a story about a warrior taking a noblewoman against a castle wall. one of your handmaidens nearly dropped a tray in shock after realizing what you were reading. afterward she refused to look you directly in the eyes for the rest of the night while you quietly closed the book and pretended not to understand why her face had turned bright red.

still, despite the strange books and lonely silence surrounding most of your days, there was one part of your routine that you genuinely began looking forward to.

eijiro.

the dragon hybrid visited you almost every single day without fail.

sometimes he would arrive during breakfast and keep you company while the two of you ate together inside your chambers. other times he would take you through different sections of the castle while explaining the history behind certain halls and statues carved into the stone walls.

he told stories easily and enthusiastically, often speaking with his hands while his large red wings shifted behind him whenever he became excited.

unlike katsuki, who felt sharp and difficult to approach, eijiro was warm in a way that made conversation come naturally.

he answered your endless questions without irritation.

he explained the volcanoes surrounding the scarlet region and the old traditions involving dragon riders. he told you about battles fought generations ago and pointed out ancient carvings etched into the fortress walls. sometimes he made you laugh without meaning to. sometimes you caught yourself smiling more around him than you had since arriving here.

over time, your nervousness around the hybrid slowly faded.

and if you were being honest with yourself, there were moments where you quietly wondered who exactly you were supposed to be marrying. because while katsuki bakugo remained nothing more than a distant shadow constantly avoiding your presence, eijiro kirishima was the one actually beside you every day.

by the time three weeks had passed since your arrival in the scarlet region, you realized with growing disbelief that your wedding was only a week away.

a single week and yet you still had not properly spoken to katsuki since the first day you arrived. the realization irritated you more than you cared to admit.

that evening you sat in front of the vanity mirror inside your chambers while slowly brushing through your hair with careful strokes. soft firelight flickered across the room while one of your handmaidens prepared fresh oils nearby. you were waiting for eijiro again because he promised earlier that morning he would visit after finishing training with the soldiers.

you had begun expecting him.

which was exactly why surprise shot through you when the chamber doors suddenly burst open hard enough to slam against the stone walls.

your head snapped upward immediately.

katsuki bakugo stood in the doorway.

for a second, the entire room felt painfully still.

his broad figure nearly filled the entrance as firelight danced across his exposed skin and the heavy fur draped around his shoulders. his ash blonde hair looked slightly messy like he had run his hands through it repeatedly and those sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours instantly with an intensity that made your breath catch inside your throat.

it had been weeks since you last saw him.

weeks.

slowly, you stood from your seat before lowering your head respectfully. “my king,” you greeted softly. “what an honor it is to finally be graced by your presence.”

katsuki stared at you for a moment before clicking his tongue. “quit talking like that,” he muttered as he stepped further inside the room. “you sound like one of those damn council fossils.”

you lifted your gaze carefully toward him. “forgive me. i was simply trying to greet my future husband properly.”

“yeah, well, stop it.” he said, and despite his harsh tone, his eyes remained fixed on you far too intensely for comfort.

you slowly set the brush down against the vanity table. “to what do i owe this sudden visit?” you asked calmly. “i assumed you were occupied with your duties… as usual.”

something unreadable flashed across his expression at that.

then you continued before he could answer.

“it has been difficult, i must say. when the king is always occupied with ‘state affairs’ and his right hand is the only one willing to provide a tour of the grounds.”

katsuki’s jaw immediately tightened. “hair-for-brains has been babysitting you?” he asked sharply.

you frowned slightly at the insult. “eijiro has been kind,” you corrected as you stepped away from the vanity. “he told me about the volcanoes, the dragon-kin, the hybrids, and the history of this region. he has been a better guide than my own betrothed.”

a rough laugh escaped katsuki though there was no real amusement behind it. he moved closer until the warmth rolling off his body surrounded you completely. “kirishima’s an idiot who gives away secrets for free,” he scoffed. “if you wanted to know about this kingdom, you should’ve come to the source, not the help.”

your eyebrows lifted slightly. “i tried,” you answered, your voice firmer than expected. “every time i approached your chambers, your guards informed me you were busy breathing fire at your generals. eventually i began wondering if you were hiding something.”

for the briefest second, something shifted across his face. his stare softened just enough to notice before the scowl returned again. “i wasn’t hiding,” he said roughly. “i was preparing. do you have any idea what it takes to merge an emerald seat with a scarlet throne? despite the treaty, the court is looking for a reason to tear you apart the moment you step onto the altar.”

the words struck harder than you expected. your breath caught quietly in your throat and for a moment, you simply stared at him.

you had known this marriage was political from the very beginning. kingdoms did not bind themselves together through royal blood for romance. this union meant trade routes, military alliances, security, power, stability between two lands that could strengthen each other greatly. you understood that. you had been taught that since childhood.

but despite understanding all of that, despite knowing nobles could be cruel and proud and difficult, a part of you still had not expected that there were truly people within this castle who looked at you and saw someone unworthy.

you had crossed an entire continent for this marriage, you had left your home behind, your family, your kingdom, everything familiar, and somewhere within these dark stone halls, there were people waiting for you to fail.

they were watching and judging you, hoping you’d slip and fall and break you neck on the way down.

katsuki reached toward you suddenly, his gloved hand hovered near your chin. for a brief second, it looked as though he intended to touch you. then his jaw tightened sharply and he pulled his hand back with visible irritation, almost seeming angry at himself for the impulse.

“i didn't have time for royal pleasantries,” he growled. “but since you and shitty hair seem to have hit it off so well, i suppose you’ve learned enough to hold your own.”

despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly. “i’ve learned that the king is temperamental, guarded, and apparently very jealous of his second-in-command,” you said softly, tilting your head.

katsuki froze, his eyes widened for the briefest moment before narrowing into dangerous slits, a low sound rumbled from deep in his chest.

it sent a chill crawling down your spine.

“jealous?” he repeated sharply. “don't flatter yourself. i just don't like what’s mine being lectured by a soft-hearted mutt.”

his words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

your his property.

slowly, you stepped closer toward him until barely any space remained between your bodies. you could feel the heat radiating from him like fire against your skin.

“is that all i am to you?” you asked quietly. “property?”

katsuki stared down at you, his pupils shifted strangely. the sharp crimson of his eyes darkened until the color looked molten beneath the torchlight.

when he leaned closer, your breath caught, his forehead nearly brushed yours. “you’re a week away from being the queen of the scarlet region,” he said in a low gravelly rasp. “you’re not property, princess.” his gaze dragged across your face slowly, too slowly. “you’re the only thing in this godforsaken fortress that isn't made of ash.”

your heart stumbled painfully inside your chest. before you could respond, he continued.

“and if you think i’ve been busy playing soldier, you’re wrong.” he leaned even closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips. “i’ve been making sure that when you finally walk down that aisle, no one is left alive who thinks they can challenge us.”

us.

“eijiro kept you distracted,” he muttered. “i kept you safe.”

silence filled the room after that.

your mind struggled to keep pace with everything he was saying.

you had thought he hated this arrangement. thought he was avoiding you because he wanted nothing to do with you. yet now he stood before you speaking about protecting you as though it had become his responsibility long before you ever wore his name.

“there are truly people here who oppose me that much?” you asked quietly.

katsuki scoffed. “there are people here who’d oppose the sky if it changed color for too long.” he stepped back slightly before dragging a rough hand through his ash blonde hair.

“the scarlet court is full of old bastards obsessed with bloodlines and strength. you’re foreign, soft, and refined. they think emerald nobles spend more time playing music than surviving winters. despite the benefits this wedding can give our kingdom, they don’t think you’re fit to be queen.”

“that is not true.” your brows furrowed faintly.

“i know that,” he snapped immediately. “they don't.” his jaw clenched again. “they think you’ll break.”

something stubborn rose inside your chest at that. you lifted your chin slightly. “and what do you think?”

his eyes locked onto yours instantly, intensely burning. “i think,” he said slowly, “that anybody who crossed kingdoms to marry into this hellhole without crying halfway through has more spine than half the idiots sitting in my council chamber.”

heat rushed unexpectedly into your face.

before you could answer, katsuki abruptly turned away. “come with me.”

“what?” you blinked.

“you heard me.” he strode toward the door.

confusion crossed your face immediately. “your majesty, where are we going?”

“tch. just move.”

you hesitated only a second before following after him and the moment you reached him, his hand suddenly grabbed yours. your breath caught sharply. his grip was large and rough and overwhelmingly warm around your hand.

before you could react properly, he yanked you forward behind him. “quit dragging me,” you gasped softly.

“quit dragging your feet.”

the chamber doors burst open as he pulled you into the corridor.

the dark halls stretched endlessly ahead, lit by fire torches burning against black stone walls. shadows flickered across the floors as servants quickly moved aside at the sight of the king storming through the castle with his future queen in tow.

you struggled slightly to keep pace with his long strides. “where are we going?” you asked again.

“you ask too many questions.”

“that usually happens when someone drags another person through a castle without explanation.”

he shot you an irritated glance over his shoulder. “you wanted to know why i’ve been busy so badly, right?”

you blinked. “yes…”

“then shut up and keep walking.”

despite his harsh tone, he never let go of your hand, not once. and somehow that fact lingered in your mind more than anything else.

katsuki continued dragging you through the castle halls with long aggressive strides that forced you to keep close behind him if you did not want to stumble over the hem of your dress. his hand remained wrapped tightly around yours, rough and calloused from years of swordsmanship and battle, his warmth almost startling against your softer skin.

you tried not to stare too openly at everything around you, but it was difficult. the scarlet region fascinated you. even after weeks of exploring with eijiro it still felt foreign to you.

your eyes drifted upward as you noticed enormous carvings etched into the high ceilings.

“those are incredible,” you murmured softly.

katsuki glanced upward briefly before grunting. “hm.”

you looked back at him. “what do they mean?”

“they’re old carvings.”

“i can see that.”

his eyes flickered toward you and for a second, you thought you caught amusement there, almost hidden. “smart mouth,” he muttered.

“i was simply asking.” you blinked innocently at him.

he clicked his tongue before finally answering. “they tell the story of the first kings. every ruler in the scarlet region traces their bloodline back to them.”

you looked back toward the carvings again with interest. the dragons were enormous in the stone art, wings spread wide across the ceiling while warriors stood beneath them holding weapons toward the sky.

“so the real dragons did come first?”

“obviously.”

“you do realize not everyone grew up here, yes?”

“annoying.” he let out a sharp exhale through his nose. despite the insult, he still answered. “before the kingdoms were built, dragon ruled these mountains. then people started worshipping them. eventually the strongest warriors bonded with them.”

“bonded?” your eyes widened slightly.

“dragon pacts.” his grip tightened faintly around your hand as he continued leading you down another hallway. “some humans formed bonds with dragon-kind. loyalty for loyalty. strength for strength.”

your thoughts immediately drifted toward eijiro. “is that why hybrids exist?”

“partly.”

“you sound reluctant to explain.” you looked at him curiously.

“because you ask too many damn questions.”

“and yet you keep answering them.”

he shot you another look over his shoulder. this time you definitely saw it, the corner of his mouth twitched. gone almost immediately.

he’s enjoying this.

you followed him down a massive staircase leading deeper into another section of the castle. the air grew warmer the lower you went, enough that you could feel heat brushing against your skin.

“why is it hotter here?” you asked.

“lava tunnels under the mountain.”

your eyes widened. “there is lava beneath the castle?”

“we’re built into a volcanic mountain, princess. what did you think was under us?”

you stared at him. “rocks?”

he barked out a laugh suddenly, a real one. rough and sharp but genuine enough that it echoed through the corridor. “unbelievable.”

heat crept into your cheeks at the sound. you had not expected him to laugh, especially not because of you.

the two of you continued walking until the hallway opened into a massive chamber lined with weapons mounted against the walls. swords. axes. spears. shields. some looked old enough to belong in museums while others appeared freshly sharpened.

you slowed immediately. “this is beautiful.”

“it’s an armory.” katsuki snorted.

you stepped closer toward one of the blades hanging on the wall. the sword was massive, far larger than anything you had ever seen used back home.

“people actually fight with these?” you asked.

“what the hell do you think they’re for?” he spat, his eyebrows furrowing as he spoke.

you glanced at him carefully. “you truly speak as though every question pains you.”

“because half your questions have obvious answers.”

“for you, perhaps.”

he stared at you for a moment before crossing his arms over his bare chest. “you really know nothing about this place.”

there was no mockery in his voice this time. only observation.

you looked down briefly. “i was taught about diplomacy between kingdoms and trade agreements and court etiquette. not weapons and volcanoes and dragon pacts.”

silence settled between you for a brief moment.

then katsuki spoke again, quieter this time. “that explains a lot.”

“what does that mean?” you looked back at him.

he shrugged. “you walk around this place looking at everything like you got dropped into another world.”

“perhaps i did.”

his gaze lingered on your face longer than necessary. you felt suddenly aware of how close he stood, how large he was compared to you, and how intense his eyes became whenever he looked directly at you.

your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your dress, trying to steady yourself before you cleared your throat softly. “what are scarlet region weddings like?”

“why?” katsuki’s brows furrowed immediately.

“because i’m marrying you in a week.” you said with an obvious tone of sarcasm.

“unfortunate for you.”

you ignored that as you asked again. “i would like to know what to expect.”

he sighed dramatically before leaning against one of the stone pillars nearby. “there’s a ceremony.”

you waited for more, but he stared back blankly.

“…that tells me nothing.”

“there’s fire. vows. drinking. fighting.”

your eyes widened. “fighting?”

“friendly fighting.”

“those are two words that should not belong together.”

“depends who you ask.” he shrugged.

you could not help the quiet laugh that escaped you.

katsuki’s eyes flickered toward your mouth immediately at the sound. you noticed it again and suddenly forgot how to breathe correctly for a second.

“what about emerald empire weddings?” he asked abruptly.

you blinked at the sudden question. “ours are more formal.”

“sounds boring already.” katsuki rolled his eyes as if he regrets asking.

“there is music and dancing.”

“boring.”

“poetry readings.”

he looked at you, horrified.

you smiled despite yourself. “decorated gardens.”

“if anybody forced me into a garden for my own wedding i’d burn it down.” he said, his expression tight as if he was already picturing it in his head.

you laughed at the look on his face while katsuki stared at you like he had never heard that sound before, like he wanted to keep hearing it. the realization made warmth spread slowly across your chest.

maybe he truly was avoiding me because he did not know what to do with me.

and somehow that thought felt far more dangerous than hatred ever could have been.

a week passed after your walk through the castle with katsuki, and somewhere within those seven days, something between the two of you shifted. it was not a dramatic shift. there had been no grand confession or sudden tenderness that transformed him into a different man overnight.

katsuki bakugo remained exactly who he was. he was still rough around the edges, still aggressive in the way he spoke, still impatient whenever somebody irritated him which happened often enough that you were beginning to think irritation was simply his natural state of being.

but despite that, things changed.

he was still busy constantly buried beneath matters of court and military discussions and whatever else dragged the dragon king away for hours at a time, but now he made space for you within those busy days.

sometimes he would appear at your chambers without warning only to stay for a few moments.

you would be seated near the fire reading one of the strange books from the scarlet region shelves when the door would suddenly swing open, revealing katsuki standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.

“what are you reading?”

you had looked up in surprise the first time it happened. “a history book.”

he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “why?”

“because i enjoy learning.”

“sounds miserable.”

yet he still walked over and glanced down at the pages resting in your lap before grunting.

another time, he had appeared during your evening meal and simply sat down across from you without invitation. you remembered staring at him while servants awkwardly scrambled to bring another plate.

“your majesty?”

“what?”

“you are in my chambers.”

“obviously.”

then he started eating your food as though he had always belonged there.

sometimes he barely spoke during those visits. he would simply sit nearby while you read or embroidered or drank tea. strangely enough, the silence never felt uncomfortable.

other times, he joined you and eijiro during your walks through the castle grounds.

those were perhaps your favorite moments.

eijiro would be speaking enthusiastically about some story from his childhood only for katsuki to suddenly appear beside the two of you with an irritated scowl already on his face.

“why the hell are you telling her that story again?” katsuki would ask.

“because she likes hearing it,” eijiro would laugh.

“your stories are stupid.”

“you listened to all of them too.”

“shut up.”

yet he would stay, always.

and slowly, without realizing it, you started learning him in pieces.

you learned that he hated overly sweet wine but liked stronger drinks that burned your throat. you learned that he became quieter whenever he was exhausted instead of louder. you learned that although he complained constantly, he still noticed everything around him with sharp frightening precision. you learned that whenever he was thinking deeply, his fingers tapped against whatever surface was nearest. you learned that he looked at you intensely even during moments when he thought you were not paying attention.

and before you fully realized it, the day of your wedding arrived.

you stood outside the massive doors leading toward the throne hall with your heart pounding heavily inside your chest. the halls around you glowed with torchlight while distant music echoed through the stone corridors.

your wedding dress felt heavier than anything you had ever worn before.

scarlet region wedding attire differed greatly from the soft flowing gowns worn in the emerald empire. instead of delicate fabrics and flowers, your gown was designed like something worthy of a queen standing beside a warrior king.

the dress clung tightly around your torso with dark crimson fabric embroidered with thin golden threads shaped like dragon scales. the sleeves draped long around your arms while black sheer fabric layered beneath the heavier crimson silk. gold chains decorated your waist and hips, hanging against the fabric with tiny ruby stones attached to them that caught the firelight whenever you moved.

the neckline dipped lower than dresses from your homeland normally allowed, exposing the tops of your collarbones where matching gold jewelry rested against your skin. even your veil was different. instead of white lace, dark red fabric trailed behind you like smoke.

you barely recognized yourself.

then, the massive doors slowly opened and heat rushed into the hall immediately.

inside, the throne room had transformed completely. huge fires burned from enormous iron braziers positioned throughout the chamber while crimson banners hung from the towering walls. drums echoed loudly through the room in a deep steady rhythm that vibrated through your chest. warriors stood lining the aisle holding torches while musicians played harsh beautiful melodies from instruments unfamiliar to you.

this was nothing like emerald empire weddings filled with soft music and flower petals.

before you knew it, you were walking down the aisle and all eyes turned toward you immediately. the eyes of court katsuki’s councilmen, foreign guests from distant lands, warriors dressed in heavy armor, and nobles covered in jewels and furs.

you spotted katsuki’s parents seated near the front. the former king looked relaxed despite the importance of the ceremony while his wife sat beside him watching everything sharply. you had met them during your first week in the scarlet region and quickly realized katsuki had inherited more from his mother than his father. mitsuki bakugo possessed the same fierce presence as her son though hers carried far more control.

your gaze shifted toward the opposite side where your own family sat. your mother already looked emotional, clearly trying not to cry. your father sat tall with pride written across his face. your older brother, however, looked like he was considering starting a war simply to drag you back home.

you almost smiled. when your eyes met his, you gave him a reassuring look.

i’m alright.

slowly, your attention moved again, then you spotted eijiro.

the dragon hybrid stood near the front dressed in dark ceremonial armor lined with crimson detailing. the moment he saw you looking toward him, his entire face lit up with the biggest grin.

it was so warm and genuine that you nearly laughed. you quickly hid the smile threatening your lips before finally looking ahead.

and there he was.

katsuki.

your future husband stood waiting near the throne platform.

for once, his chest was not bare. instead, he wore ceremonial battle robes made from black and deep crimson fabric layered with pieces of dark armor over his shoulders and forearms. fur lined the heavy cape hanging behind him while gold clasps shaped like dragon claws held it together across his chest. thick leather belts wrapped around his waist where a dagger rested beside an ornate sword.

he looked terrifying, beautifully terrifying.

his vermillion eyes locked onto yours instantly and as you approached him, you noticed his gaze slowly travel over your body, from your face, to your dress, to the jewelry against your skin, then back to your eyes again.

the look in his expression made heat crawl into your cheeks.

the ceremony began shortly after.

instead of gentle vows spoken softly between lovers, scarlet region traditions felt almost ritualistic.

the officiant stood before a massive fire while chanting ancient words in the old tongue of the region. wine was poured into ceremonial goblets. your hands and katsuki’s were bound together briefly with crimson cloth symbolizing unity through blood and kingdom.

through most of it, you barely listened because katsuki kept staring at you, and somehow, you realized you were staring back just as much.

the rest of the room blurred around you. time itself felt strange and distant. until finally the officiant spoke again.

“seal this union beneath fire and blood.”

eyes widened slightly and before you could even fully process the words, katsuki suddenly grabbed the back of your neck. a sharp breath escaped you then he pulled you toward him.

his lips crashed against yours.

the kiss stole every coherent thought from your mind instantly.

he kissed you firmly without hesitation, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other settled against your waist. heat flooded through your entire body as his mouth moved against yours with rough confidence that left your knees weak beneath the heavy layers of your gown.

oh gods.

your fingers instinctively grabbed the front of his ceremonial robes. you could hear distant cheering erupting around the throne room, but it sounded muffled beneath the pounding of your heartbeat.

when he finally pulled away, your lips tingled painfully, you stared at him completely stunned. katsuki’s eyes looked darker somehow, his thumb brushed briefly against your waist before he stepped back.

the celebration afterward became a blur of noise and firelight and endless drinking.

true to scarlet region tradition, there were fights just like katsuki mentioned.

warriors and duelists stepped into the center arena one after another while crowds roared around them.

sero hanta from katsuki’s inner circle defeated one soldier after a brutal sword fight that ended with both men bleeding and laughing. denki kaminari won his own match shortly afterward while shouting obnoxiously toward cheering spectators.

eijiro fought next.

you found yourself watching in amazement as the dragon hybrid moved with terrifying strength and speed before ultimately defeating his opponent.

then came katsuki.

the entire room seemed to erupt when the king stepped forward. his opponent looked almost honored to stand across from him.

the fight started with swords.

metal clashed violently beneath roaring cheers while sparks flew from each impact. katsuki fought like something feral unleashed into battle. he was aggressive, brutal, and overwhelming.

eventually the swords were discarded. then they were on the ground beating each other bloody.

you sat perfectly composed at the royal table, but beneath it, your hands gripped tightly against your dress. stress twisted painfully in your chest.

suddenly, warmth covered one of your hands.

you looked beside yourself and found eijiro smiled reassuringly at you. “don’t worry,” he said gently. “katsuki’ll be fine. i’ve seen him survive worse.”

you swallowed slightly. “that is not comforting.”

he laughed softly. “when we were sixteen he fought three mountain raiders at once after getting stabbed in the shoulder.”

“what?” your eyes widened in horror.

“he won.”

“that really does not make it better.”

eijiro grinned at your expression of worry.

your eyes shifted back toward the fight where katsuki slammed the other man hard into the ground making you winced. “besides… it’s not him i’m worried about,” you admitted quietly.

eijiro blinked before immediately understanding, then he chuckled. “ah.”

you looked at him helplessly. “that poor soldier.”

“trust me, he’s honored.”

you stared at him incredulously, not entirely sure what to reply to his reassurance.

eijiro leaned closer slightly before explaining. “in the scarlet region, it’s tradition to fight for the person you love.”

your brows furrowed.

he nodded toward the arena. “me and the others fought earlier because we’re unwedded. it’s meant to show strength, protection, and devotion for our future partners.” then he looked toward katsuki. “but katsuki’s fight is different.”

“different how?” your stomach tightened.

eijiro’s smile softened. “the longer the fight goes and the more blood he draws from his opponent, the deeper the devotion is believed to be.”

you froze completely.

eijiro continued quietly. “he’s fighting for you, my queen.”

shock rushed through you instantly. you had never heard of this tradition before, never read about it, never learned it during your lessons back home. yet suddenly everything felt different watching katsuki fight down there beneath roaring firelight.

every brutal strike, every drop of blood, every second that continued was for you.

eventually the soldier finally collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss.

the room erupted into cheers.

breathing heavily, katsuki straightened before immediately turning his head toward you, his eyes locked onto yours across the hall then slowly, a smirk twitched against the corner of his mouth. he walked directly toward you afterward. you noticed the blood that stained his knuckles, his lip was split slightly, yet he looked almost pleased with himself.

once he reached the table, he dropped into the seat beside you and threw one arm casually across the back of your chair. “you look pale,” he said.

you stared at him. “you nearly killed that man.”

“he’ll live.”

“why does everything think that’s comforting?” you replied back.

he snorted then his eyes dragged slowly across your face. “you watched the whole thing?”

you swallowed softly. “…yes.”

“good.” his smirk deepened slightly.

the grand hall roared with celebration, the air thick with smoke from roasted meats, the bitter tang of ale, and the deafening clash of warriors re-enacting battles for entertainment.

you sat at the high table, your new husband beside you, a solid, immovable presence. katsuki downed the last bit of his wine, a deep, dark scarlet that matched the banners of his kingdom. he swallowed it like it was water, not savoring it, just consuming it. the heavy goblet clunked onto the wooden table.

then his arm, which had been draped loosely around the back of your chair, moved. his hand landed on your shoulder, a firm, heavy pat. once. twice. a third time, each impact a little heavier, a little more deliberate.

your shoulder tingled under the weight.

he stood up. the noise in the hall seemed to dip for a moment, the crowd’s attention shifting to their king. he held his hand out for you, palm open, fingers curled slightly while you looked at his hand, confused.

the festivities were still raging. it was relatively still early. then you turned your head to meet his eyes. dark red, like cooled lava, intense and utterly focused on you. in that instant, the confusion evaporated, replaced by a cold, clear understanding that rushed from your head down to your toes.

it was time. your duty. the consummation.

your fingers, trembling slightly, reached out and grabbed his hand. his grip was instantaneous, tight, almost crushing as he pulled you to stand. you rose, your wedding gown suddenly felt like a ridiculous, fragile costume.

as you stood, you noticed katsuki’s eyes flick to eijiro who sat on your other side, giving him a quick knowing look.

eijiro’s smile faded into a serious nod, his own crimson eyes understanding. they seemed to speak without words, a silent communication that made your eyebrows furrow.

what did that mean? what had they planned?

but before you could dwell, katsuki was pulling you away from the table, his stride long and purposeful. he didn’t walk with you; he dragged you.

your hand was captive in his, and he led you through the archway out of the hall, into the colder, darker corridors of the castle. the warmth and noise of the feast died behind you, swallowed by the silence of the passageways.

katsuki looked intense, his profile sharp in the torchlight. his jaw was set, his brows slightly lowered. he didn’t look at you as he walked, his focus was on the path ahead, on getting to where he needed to be.

silence filled the space between you, thick and heavy. it wasn’t peaceful. it was a tension that crawled over your skin, a prickling awareness of where you were headed, of what was about to happen in the dark, private heart of his domain.

he didn’t lead you to the wing where your chambers had been for the past few weeks. he turned down a different corridor, one guarded by two massive stone dragons carved into the archway. he stopped before a door of dark, aged oak reinforced with iron bands.

“this is my chambers,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hall. “now it’s ours. i had the servants move your things here this afternoon.” his tone was matter-of-fact, final. there was no discussion. this was where you would live… with him.

katsuki opened the door. it swung inward without a sound.

you were met with a room similar in structure to your old one but vastly different in spirit. it was bigger, dominated by a massive bed with a dark wood frame and black linens. the air smelled like him—like smoke, leather, and something wild. weapons lay around not as decoration, but as tools temporarily set aside: a sword on a table, its edge gleaming; a pair of axes leaning against a chest; pieces of armor on a stand. scrolls and maps were piled haphazardly.

it was chaotic, masculine, and utterly his.

“it’s very… you,” you said softly, stepping inside after him.

“it’s a fucking room,” he grunted, closing the door behind you. the click of the latch was loud in the silence. “it serves its purpose.”

you turned to face him, now alone in the intimate space. the tension from the corridors condensed here, in the few feet of space between you. he finally looked at you directly, his sharp eyes sweeping over your body in the elaborate dress.

“you wore this shit all day,” he stated, not a question. “must be heavy.”

“they told me it is the traditional gown of the scarlet region for a royal wedding,” you replied, your voice gentle. “they told me it represents power and prosperity.”

“it represents a lot of fucking fabric,” he said, a slight, sharp smirk touching his lips. “you look… good in it. but i’ll prefer you without it.”

your cheeks warmed at his blunt words. you didn’t know how to respond to such directness.

he stepped closer, until you were face to face. his warmth radiated against you. one of his calloused hands came up to gently play with a strand of your hair that had escaped its intricate styling.

the contrast was startling, the brute king touching you with such deliberate softness.

“do you know what’s about to happen now, hm?” he asked, his voice lower, gravelly.

you swallowed, your eyes wide. “i-i know my duty to my husband,” you whispered. “to… consummate the marriage. to bond both our kingdoms.”

his fingers continued their slow movement through your hair. “duty. bond.” he snorted softly. “i may be a brute, princess. i may be have a temper and called a barbarian. but i won’t do anything to you if you’re not ready.” the words were gruff, but the meaning underneath was startlingly clear.

he was giving you a choice, within the cage of this marriage.

your body reacted to his soft touches. a shiver went down your spine that wasn’t entirely fear. your eyes closed for a moment, feeling the rough texture of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your neck, behind your ear.

it was soothing and terrifying all at once.

you opened your eyes to find him watching your face intently, studying every flicker of reaction.

“i… i want to,” you promised him, your voice timid but clear. “i am ready.”

a low sound, like a grumble of satisfaction, emanated from his chest. his eyes darkened, shifting from assessing to predatory. his fingers left your hair and traced down your shoulder to the back of your gown, finding the complex laces of the corset.

“you love learning, right? reading those historical books,” he said, his voice now a seductive murmur as his fingers began to work the first lace. “so learn this. in the scarlet region, we don’t consummate marriages like they do in other kingdoms. it’s not clinical. it’s not prude.”

another lace loosened.

your breath hitched as the structure of the dress began to give way.

“they call us brutes. barbarians.” another lace. “and they’re right.” the final lace came free with a soft pull. “we fuck like animals. and tonight, i will make sure every single morsel and peasant in this kingdom knows what we’re doing. i won’t hold back.”

you shivered as his words washed over you, crude and thrilling.

the last of the fabric, freed from its bindings, pooled around your legs and slid to the floor with a whisper of silk. you stood before him, bare except for the delicate necklaces on your neck.

his eyes raked over your body, no longer obscured. his gaze was hot, possessive, and utterly focused. his warm, calloused hands followed his eyes, roaming everywhere—your shoulders, the curve of your waist, the outside of your thighs. his touch was firm, mapping you.

your breathing became uneven, shallow as you watched him.

“fuck,” he breathed out, the word almost reverent in its roughness. “look at you.”

then he grabbed you, not gently. his hands hauled you into his arms, your bare body pressing against the warm fabric of his attire. you felt the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his arms. for a second, you were enveloped in his scent and strength before he threw you onto the bed. you landed on the black linens with a soft gasp, the cool fabric against your skin.

he hovered over you, still fully clothed, a giant silhouetted against the torchlight.

his eyes grew darker, hungrier. he didn’t bother with ceremony. his own clothes were removed with swift, efficient movements, the ornate jacket torn off, the shirt pulled over his head and discarded carelessly on the ground, the trousers shoved down and kicked away until he was bare like you.

you shyly eyed his body from where you lay on the bed. he was… gorgeous. carved from muscle, scars mapping old battles across his skin.

“see something you like, huh?” he growled, noticing your wide-eyed look.

“you’re… very b-big,” you whispered, your politeness clinging to you even in this raw moment.

“ha! damn right i am,” he said as he moved onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. his hands pushed your thighs apart, making you shyly whine at the sudden exposure.

your palms came up to push against his chest lightly, a reflexive gesture of modesty. “i… i haven’t done anything like this before,” you confessed softly, your eyes pleading for understanding.

katsuki’s eyes softened for a fleeting moment. he leaned down, not entering you, but lifting himself up to kiss you.

it wasn’t a gentle kiss.

his lips crashed onto yours, hot and demanding. his tongue invaded your mouth, a battle you couldn’t hope to win but were compelled to join. there were bites; sharp nips on your lower lip that made you gasp, and shared spit, and breaths that grew ragged. you whined into his mouth, small sounds of overwhelm that only spurred him on. he groaned, a deep sound from his chest, and the wrestling of tongues was wet, messy, and utterly intoxicating.

“gonna taste every part of you, wife,” he muttered against your lips before breaking away.

he moved down your body, his hands holding your hips firmly. his mouth found your core, and he didn’t hesitate. he ate you out with the same aggressive dedication he did everything else. his tongue was relentless, exploring, licking, pushing inside you while grunted against your skin.

“so fucking sweet… like a prize… all mine…”

“s-shit—oh! katsuki… so g-good…” you moaned, a high, shaky sound.

katsuki groaned in between your thighs, his mouth moving messily on your mound, swishing vibrations through you that amplified the pleasure he was already giving you.

your body writhed on the bed from the shocking, unprecedented sensations crashing through you. your hands gripped the black sheets. you were confused by what you were feeling; this building, tightening coil of pleasure deep inside you, something you had no name for.

“i… f-feel—nghh…” you gasped.

“let go,” katsuki commanded, his voice thick. “just let go for me.”

and you did.

the coil snapped, and a wave of intense pleasure broke over you, making you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. he kept working you through it until you collapsed back onto the linens, trembling.

he moved back up, his body aligning with yours. his cock, heavy and hard, pressed against your slit.

“i can’t fucking wait any longer. i need to be inside you… been wanting you since i laid eyes on you,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “i’m gonna enter you now and you’re gonna take all of me like a good wife, hm?”

you were delirious in pleasure. just from that one orgasm, you felt indescribable pleasure from your husband. slowly but surely, you wanted everything and anything he was willing to give you. “p-please.” you begged.

katsuki glided his cock into you slowly, an inch at a time. you moaned at the intrusion, a mix of pleasure from before and the new, stretching feeling. he grunted, his own control evident in the slow pace.

“so f-fuuucking tight… wrapping around me like a damn vice…” he breathed.

you held onto him, your arms around his shoulders as he slowly inched deeper until he was fully seated inside you. it was a fullness that stole your breath, gasping as you clutched onto him. “ha—”

“painful?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“a little… but… it’s fading,” you whined softly. “p-please… move.”

“how can i deny such an honest plea?” katsuki teased, chuckling at your expression before he began to move.

his thrusts started slow but quickly gained speed and force. he fucked you on your back with a driving rhythm that shook the bed frame. each thrust punched a moan or a whine from your lips.

“oh! ah—ngh… s’good.” you threw your head back.

“such a good little wife… taking her king so perfectly…” he growled, his praise landing on you like a brand, making you cling to him tighter.

he paused for a moment, looking down at where your bodies joined. “fuck… you’re so small… made for me…” his thrusts became deeper, more harder. “gonna fill you up… gonna put my heirs right in here.” his desire was raw in his words, each slam of his hips a promise of possession beyond tonight.

“katsuki… please!” you begged, your nails clawing down his back.

“please what? need more, huh? you gonna cum again fro me?” katsuki groaned as he continued to plow into you.

“i… i don’t know—f-fuck!” you bit down on his shoulder as you ground up at him, meeting his thrusts.

“you do know, baby. feel it. come undone for me again.” katsuki nipped at your ear.

and you did, another peak crashing over you as he drove into you relentlessly, his own release following with a roar that echoed in the dark chamber, filling you with his cum as he collapsed atop you, breathing heavily into your neck.

but he didn’t stop.

the moment your second orgasm faded into tremors, katsuki kept driving into you, his hips setting a brutal, possessive rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. each thrust was a deep, claiming slam that made the bedposts creak in protest.

“k-katsuki…” you moaned, the name a broken sound on your lips. your hands scrambled against his sweat-slicked back, fingers digging into the hard muscle.

“that’s it, we’re not done yet. just like that, baby—oh, fuck,” he grunted, his voice rough with strain and pleasure. “moan for me. let the whole fucking castle know who you belong to.” his own moans were guttural that vibrated through his chest into yours. “so fucking good. taking me like you were made for it…”

katsuki’s hands, which had been braced on either side of your head, slid down to grasp your thighs. his calloused palms caressed the soft skin of your legs as he held them open, his grip firm, almost bruising in its intensity. he used that leverage to pound into you harder, deeper.

you arched off the bed, a sharp whine tearing from your throat as he hit a spot inside you that sparked white behind your eyelids. “right there… oh, gods, right there!” you sobbed.

“i know. found your sweet spot, huh? that feel good?” he growled, a smirk in his tone. “i feel you clenching around me, princess. greedy little thing.”

the sound of your bodies meeting was obscenely wet, a rhythmic slap of skin on skin that underscored every groan and whimper.

then, with a sudden, powerful shift, he manhandled you. his hands left your thighs to grip your waist, and in one fluid, dominant motion, he flipped the two of you around. you gasped as the world spun, finding yourself straddling him, his cock still buried impossibly deep inside you. the new position made you feel him even more profoundly, every inch of him stretching you.

“ah! fuck!” you moaned, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself.

“look at you,” he rasped, his vermillion eyes blazing up at you. “riding your king as if you’re riding a dragon yourself. so fucking perfect for me.” his hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking the bone. “c’mon. show me what my good little wife can do.”

you were obedient, eager to please. tentatively, you lifted yourself up, a slow, trembling movement that made you both moan as he slid partially out. then you lowered yourself back down, sheathing him fully, a grunt punched from his lips.

“fuck yes. that’s it… just like that,” he praised, his eyes watching your face with a dark, satisfied smirk. your expression was one of overwhelmed bliss, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed. he cooed at you, the sound strangely tender coming from him. “such a pretty queen. taking her king so well. now… set the pace f’me.”

your confidence grew with his constant praise. you started to bounce on him, slowly at first, then faster, finding a rhythm. each descent made your breath hitch, each rise brought a needy whine. your arched your back, your hair spilling over your shoulders.

“katsuki… it’s so… i feel so full…” you whimpered.

“you are full,” he agreed, his voice thick. “full of me. and you look so fucking small wrapped around me… perfect fit.” his lust for you bled into the words, the awe in his gaze as he looked at where your bodies joined.

but the heat from the friction on your inner thighs began to burn, making you slow your movements with a pout and a soft whine of discomfort.

katsuki chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “tired already? my delicate little flower.” he cooed at you, his thumbs still caressing your hips. “it’s okay. let me help, hm?”

instead of bouncing, you began to grind on him out of desperation. circular motion drew a deep groan from him. then you leaned forward, collapsing against his chest, tucking your face into the hot skin of his neck. you were surrounded by his scent, his heat, and it was intoxicating.

“please… please, katsuki,” you begged, your voice muffled against him. “i need—fuck… i don’t know what i need anymore… need more.”

“shhh,” he cooed, one hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. the other stayed on your hip, possessive. “i know what you need.”

katsuki planted his feet firmly on the bed, gaining leverage. and then, with a single, powerful beat of his hips, he started ramming up into you. he was fucking up into you from below, each upward thrust spearing you deeply, knocking the air from your lungs.

“ah—ngh… yes! right there!” you shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. your moans and whines became a continuous stream against his neck.

“just let me do all the work,” he grunted, his own breathing becoming ragged. “a king serves his queen… especially in bed.” his thrusts were relentless, powerful pistons driving you up and down on his cock even as you lay pliant against him. you were putty in his hands, letting him use your body exactly as he wanted, your face hidden in the safety of his neck.

the sounds filled the room; his guttural grunts, your high-pitched whimpers, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed, the filth coming out of your husband’s mouth. it was sinful.

“gonna breed you so deep—fuck—fill this perfect cunt with my heirs… mark you inside and out…”

your only replies were broken syllables, your desire for his praise making you sing with every rough compliment.

katsuki’s thrusts started becoming erratic, sloppy, losing their military precision as his own peak approached.

“i’m close… fuck, I’m so close,” you whined, your body tightening around him.

“i am too,” he gasped, his voice strained. he pulled back just enough to look at your face.

your expression was one of utterly ruined bliss. your eyebrows were drawn together, lips swollen and parted, eyes half-lidded and hazy. you looked so pretty to him, so perfectly claimed.

katsuki leaned up and placed a sudden, soft kiss on your forehead, a shocking gesture of tenderness amidst the carnal frenzy.

you clutched at his biceps, your nails biting into his skin. “k-katsuki… i’m gonna…”

he grunted, and with effort, he stopped thrusting.

before you could even whine in complaint at the denied release, his arms were scooping you up. katsuki stood from the bed in one powerful motion, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as you clung to him, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you.

“wh-what…?” you gasped, startled.

“tch. patience,” he growled, his own need evident in the tension of his body.

he gripped your thighs firmly, his hands huge and warm. and then he began to move you himself, bouncing you on his cock as he stood there, using the strength of his arms and the leverage of his stance to fuck you onto him.

the thought of it… of him manhandling you so easily, picking you up and using your body like this, made you physically shiver. that shiver traveled inward, making your inner walls clench tightly around him, which drew a ragged groan from his throat.

“fuck… you just got tighter,” he breathed, his pace increasing. “you like that? like when i just take what’s mine and use you?”

“yes… yes, i do like it. please… i’m close again, katsuki, please—ha…” you begged, your head falling back.

katsuki hummed, coaxing you over the edge. “give me another one, my good girl. cum again for your king and i’ll give you a reward.”

that promise, coupled with the overwhelming sensation of being fucked in mid-air by your powerful husband, was too much. a coil tightened deep in your belly, winding to its breaking point.

“shit! i’m—fuck, i’m…!”

“that’s it. let go,” he commanded.

“k-katsuki…” you whine, the sound muffled, as another wave of sensitivity makes you clench around him, where he’s still buried deep inside you.

a low, guttural groan vibrates through his chest and into yours. “fuck,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. one large, calloused hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your disheveled hair.

“gonna make you cum again. come on, baby. come undone for me again. you want to, don’t you?”

you nod frantically, a desperate little mewl escaping you as you moved desperately up and down on him.

“say it.”

“yes—cum… gonna cum f’you. only you.”

he smirks, that feral, triumphant curl of his lips while his free hand grips your hip, fingers digging in, helping you find a rolling rhythm even as he holds you locked to him. the sound of your slick skin meeting his, the wet slap of each movement, fills the heavy air of the chamber, mingling with his grunts and your broken cries.

“so good for me.” thrust. “so fuckin’ tight.” thrust. “all mine.” thrust. “gonna keep you full of me.” thrust. “always.” thrust. “breed you so deep you’ll feel it for days.” thrust.

when the next orgasm rips through you, it’s slower, deeper, a molten unspooling that has you sobbing into his mouth, your body seizing around him in rhythmic pulses. he follows you over with a sharp, choked-off roar, his hips jerking up to bury himself to the hilt as he spills hot inside you, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully.

before you can even form a coherent thought, he’s capturing your mouth again. this kiss is messy, sloppy, all hungry tongue and possessive pressure. it’s wet and it steals the air from your lungs. you can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet.

he pulls his head back just a few inches, his eyes blazing down at you, pupils blown wide with lust. his lips are swollen, his breathing harsh. “look at you,” he growls, the words rough with awe. “my perfect little wife. took me so damn well. fuckin’ gorgeous f’me.”

katsuki nuzzles into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. his voice is a low, satiated rumble. “since you’ve been so good… so obedient… you get your prize.”

prize? oh yeah, he said something about a prize. your hazy mind struggles to comprehend.

you feel him shift beneath you, still intimately connected, as he lifts his gaze from the top of your head to the chamber door.

“ei. get in here.”

your entire body goes rigid. confusion floods you, cutting through the blissful fog. your eyes fly open, wide and bewildered, staring at the carved wood of the door.

eijiro? as in kirishima? now? why? while we’re… we’re like this…!

“katsuki?” your voice is small, trembling. “what are you talking about?”

the door swings open silently. and there he is.

eijiro kirishima fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame, his chest bare, the hard planes of his abdomen and the dark trail of hair leading downward on full display. his crimson eyes, usually so warm and friendly, are dark, intense, and they lock onto the two of you immediately… onto you, specifically.

was he outside this entire time?

you feel the burn of his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over katsuki’s hands on your bare skin, over the curve of your spine, over the intimate join of your bodies.

a hot, shameful flush explodes across your face and chest. you try to shrink further into katsuki, but he’s already moving, walking with you still impaled on him, one arm hooked under your thighs. he walks you both towards eijiro, and the casual display of his strength makes your head spin.

“i’m not stupid,” katsuki says, nonchalant as if he wasn’t still buried inside you. he stops a few feet from eijiro. “saw the way he looked at you for weeks. like you were water in a desert. and you…” he glances down at you, his smirk deepening. “you greedy little thing got attached to your friendly dragon babysitter, didn’t you? spoiled princess.”

your heart hammers against your ribs. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean to make you feel—”

katsuki cuts you off with a low chuckle, his free hand stroking a soothing line down your sweat-damp back. “shh-shh. you didn’t do a damn thing wrong, princess. you just… showed me something.” his eyes slide back to eijiro, hungry and possessive. “showed me what turns my blood to fuckin’ fire. the depravity of it. the idea of him,” he thrusts up shallowly, making you gasp, “wanting what’s mine. touching what’s mine.”

he shifts his gaze fully to eijiro. “i’m right, aren’t i?”

eijiro’s eyes haven’t left you. a slow, deep hum resonates in his chest, a sound more beast than man. “i am bound to you, my king,” he says, his voice thicker, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “my life is yours. my loyalty.” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “and what is yours… is yours to command.”

katsuki’s grin is all sharp edges and dark promise. he looks down at you again, his expression turning curious. “so? is it okay with you, my greedy baby? if i share you? if he gets to have a taste of what belongs to me?”

the question is so blunt, so shockingly crude, that your mind blanks. but your body betrays you instantly. a violent, involuntary clench around katsuki’s still hard length, a fresh trickle of wetness that has nothing to do with fear.

katsuki grunts, his head throwing back with a sharp hiss. “fuck! see that, shitty hair?” he says, talking about you as if you weren’t clinging to him. “got even tighter just hearing it. her pretty little cunt’s begging for it.”

“seems eager to please,” eijiro murmurs, taking a step closer. the heat radiating from his body rivals katsuki’s.

“she’s a good girl,” katsuki agrees, his voice dropping to a coaxing rumble directly in your ear. “aren’t you? can you be good for me, hm? for us?”

the choice is no choice at all. not with katsuki’s seed still leaking from you, not with eijiro’s hungry eyes devouring you.

“yes, please. i’ll do anything for you.” you nod, eagerly, desperately, a whine caught in your throat.

“good,” katsuki purrs. he gives a single nod to eijiro.

in one smooth motion, katsuki pulls himself from your sensitive flesh, a gasp ripped from your lips at the sudden emptiness and the cool air on your wet skin. then his hands are on your waist, and he’s transferring your weight.

eijiro’s arms come up to catch you, and he is just as hot, just as solid as katsuki. you’re cradled against a chest that feels like carved stone, your bare skin flush against his, and you bury your flaming face in his neck, breathing in his scent of smoke, spice, and something wild.

katsuki strides over to a large ornate chair near the bed and sinks into it, sprawling with kingly indolence. he’s still gloriously naked, his cock hard on his belly. “alright,” he says, his voice a command. “i wanna watch. kirishima… eat her out. clean up my mess. then get her ready for you.”

eijiro lets out another one of those low, rumbling hums. “as my king commands.” he carries you to the bed as if you weigh nothing and lays you down gently on the rumpled silk. your eyes are glued to him as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and pushes them down.

your breath hitches at the sight.

he’s… huge. thick and long, already fully erect, the tip flushed and leaking. the sight sends a jolt of pure, dizzying arousal straight to your already throbbing core.

“like what you see, princess?” katsuki asks from his chair, a dark amusement in his tone. he’s lazily stroking himself, his eyes glued to the scene.

“she’s blushing all over,” eijiro notes, his voice softening as he kneels on the bed between your spread legs. his gaze is a physical weight, traveling over every inch of your exposed body; your peaked nipples, the flutter of your stomach, the glistening, well-used flesh between your thighs, dripping with katsuki’s release. he leans over you, caging you with his arms, his face inches from yours. his eyes search yours. “can i kiss you, sweetheart?”

you nod, wordless.

eijiro no longer waits. his mouth immediately captures yours.

it’s nothing like katsuki’s kiss. where katsuki is fire and possessive, eijiro is deep, lingering warmth. it’s sweet, almost reverent at first. a soft press of lips that quickly deepens into something more devouring. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you slowly, thoroughly. it’s no less possessive, but it’s a different kind of claim.

“good girl,” katsuki grunts from the side. “let him taste you.”

eijiro breaks the kiss with a soft sound, trailing his lips along your jaw, down the column of your neck. “so sweet,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath making you shiver. “so perfect.” he moves lower, taking a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before swirling it with his tongue. he pays equal attention to the other, his hands skimming down your sides as he kisses a path over your trembling stomach.

he doesn’t stop until his face is level with your aching core. the scent of sex and katsuki is thick in the air. eijiro’s eyes lock with yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that pins you to the bed.

“lick her clean, ei,” katsuki orders, his hand moving faster on his own length.

eijiro doesn’t look away from you. “with pleasure,” he rumbles.

his tongue was broad, hot, and surprisingly soft. it drags through your soaked folds in one long, deliberate stripe. he gathers katsuki’s cum and your own on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he savors it. a low groan vibrates from his throat into your flesh.

“fuck yes,” katsuki breathes. “doesn’t she taste so good?”

eijiro opens his eyes again as he hummed in agreement, watching your face as he does it again. and again. each slow, languid lap makes your back arch off the bed, a broken moan tumbling from your lips.

he’s cleaning you with a thoroughness that is obscene, worshipful, and unbearably erotic.

then he zeroes in on your clit.

his mouth closes over the swollen bud and he eats you like a man starved. his tongue flicks and circles, then presses hard and flat against you before spearing deep inside your entrance, fucking you with it, tasting both of you mixed together.

“oh gods—eijiro!” you cry out, one hand fisting in the sheets above your head, the other tangling in his red hair.

the sounds he was making were filthy. wet, sucking noises, his low growls of appreciation, your escalating whines and sobs.

“so good,” eijiro mumbles against your flesh, his words muffled. “taste like heaven. so fucking perfect.” he shifts, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, opening you up for his devouring mouth.

“that’s it,” katsuki praises from his throne, his grunts joining the symphony. “make her cum on your tongue. show me how good my wife tastes.”

you tear your eyes from the ecstasy on eijiro’s face to look at your husband. katsuki is stroking himself in earnest now, his gaze locked on where eijiro’s head is buried between your legs. he looks utterly captivated, a smirk of pure male satisfaction on his lips.

“k-katsuki! eiji—ugh’ngh,” you wail, feeling the coil within you wind impossibly tight.

“cum for him,” katsuki commands, his voice rough. “give him your reward for being so patient.”

eijiro redoubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth while thrusting two thick fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that perfect spot.

the dual assault shatters you. you scream, your body bowing off the bed as a brutal orgasm tears through you, your vision whiting out at the edges as you clamp down around his fingers.

eijiro rides it out with you, drinking every drop, until you collapse back onto the sheets, boneless and trembling. and when he finally lifts his head, his chin glistening.

“that’s it, baby,” katsuki’s voice is a low, approving rumble as you tremble through the last waves of your climax under eijiro’s mouth. “so good for us. but we’re not done.” he stood up from his seat before standing in front of you, his fingers, still tangled in your hair, give a gentle but firm tug, guiding your face up to look at him. his eyes are molten, dark with a possessive heat that makes your insides flutter anew. “up. on your hands and knees for me. show me how well my queen can listen.”

your body, still humming with pleasure, obeys before your mind fully catches up.

you push yourself up, limbs shaky, and maneuver onto your hands and knees in the center of the massive bed. the silk is cool against your flushed skin. you feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly wanton.

katsuki moves with a predator’s grace. he moved to sit on the bed, positioning himself right in front of you. he shifts to sit up against the carved headboard, his back supported, his legs spread.

he’s the picture of royalty, a king surveying his spoils. and you are on display before him.

a moment later, the bed dips behind you. eijiro’s large, warm hands settle on your waist, his thumbs stroking the dip of your spine. he leans in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the small of your back, then another higher up, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

a desperate, hungry sound escapes you, a whine that’s almost a sob. you push your hips back instinctively, seeking more of his touch, more of anything.

the refined manners of the emerald kingdom, the years of etiquette lessons, the poised grace of a princess—it’s all gone, incinerated in the scarlet heat of this room, of these men.

you are need and hunger given form.

katsuki watches you, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he thought of the same thing. “look at you,” he muses, his voice thick with dark amusement. “where’s my polite little princess now? huh? all those pretty curtsies and soft-spoken words… fucked right out of you.” he leans forward slightly, his gaze searing into you. “good. that girl belonged to them. this?” he gestures at you, trembling and eager on your knees. “this is mine. you’re my wife. my queen. and you’re in the scarlet region now. i could fuck you raw in front of my entire war council and not a single bastard would bat a fucking eye.” the sheer, brutal ownership in his words makes you clench around nothing, a fresh trickle of wetness slicking your inner thighs.

katsuki sees it, his smirk widening. “but i won’t do that. ‘cause this… this filthy, desperate, perfect look on your face… that’s for me. and for him.” he nods toward eijiro behind you. “no one else.”

his attention sharpens, focusing solely on you. his voice drops, softening into a coaxing, dominant croon that’s somehow more overwhelming than his shouts. “c’mere, pretty. closer to me.” you shuffle forward on your knees until you’re between his spread legs, his hard, thick cock standing proudly just inches from your face. the musky, masculine scent of him is overwhelming.

“i know you haven’t done this before,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle, like he’s instructing you in a sacred rite. “that’s okay. i’m gonna tell you exactly what to do. just be my good girl and follow my words, yeah?”

“i will. m’good girl,” you nod, your eyes wide and fixed on him, on the ruddy tip already beading with pre-cum.

“yes you are,” he praises you. “first… just taste me. use that pretty little tongue.”

leaning forward, you tentatively extend your tongue and lick a slow, careful stripe over the broad head. the taste is salty, uniquely him, and it sends a jolt of pure lust straight to your core.

“fuck,” katsuki hisses, his hips giving a tiny jerk. “just like that. perfect. so fuckin’ obedient for me.” his hand comes to rest on the top of your head, not pushing, just holding. “now… wrap your hand around me. show me how big i am for my queen.”

you reach out, your fingers seeming so small as you wrap them around his girth. you can’t quite close your thumb and forefinger. a soft, awed sound leaves your lips. “… so big.”

katsuki’s chuckle is ragged. “see? you need both hands. go on.”

you bring your other hand up, stacking it over the first, and finally manage to form a loose ring around him. the heat of him is incredible, the skin like velvet over steel. you begin to stroke, up and down, watching in fascination as his expression tightens with pleasure.

“yes… just like that… f-fuck, your hands are so soft,” he groans, his head falling back against the headboard for a moment before he forces it up to watch you. “doing so good. such a fast learner for me.”

meanwhile, eijiro is worshiping your back. his mouth is everywhere, sucking dark marks onto your shoulders, licking a hot path down your spine, biting gently at the swell of your ass. each touch, each possessive mark, makes you whimper and push back into him, your strokes on katsuki becoming less coordinated.

“so eager,” eijiro murmurs against your skin, his voice a gravelly vibration. “so perfect for him. for us.”

emboldened by their praise, by the fire coursing through your veins, you lean in again. this time, you drag your tongue from the very base of katsuki’s shaft all the way to the tip in one long, slow, wet lick.

katsuki’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, guttural “hnng!” rips from his throat, and his hand fists in your hair. “shit! where’d that come from, you greedy little thing?” but he’s grinning, all fierce pride.

you don’t answer with words, instead you open your mouth and take the head of his cock inside, sucking gently as you had seen done in erotic book and illustrations.

“oh, fuck yes,” he moans, his fingers tightening on your hair. “just like that… take me deeper now. slow—just like that. good girl…”

you obey, sinking down inch by agonizing inch. he’s so big, stretching your lips wide, filling your mouth until you feel him nudge the back of your throat. your eyes water, but you hold there, breathing harshly through your nose.

“look at that,” katsuki breathes, awe in his tone. he glances over your head, his eyes meeting eijiro’s. “she’s taking me so well… now it’s your turn, ei. fuck her. fill her up while she sucks me off.”

eijiro’s answering growl is pure hunger. you feel the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against your dripping entrance, still stretched and sensitive from before. “gonna put it in now, sweetheart,” he coos, his voice a rough contrast to his gentle warning. “gonna fill you up just like your husband wants.”

you moan around katsuki’s length, the vibration making him curse and thrust his hips up minutely.

the sensation is overwhelming. the stretch and burn as eijiro slowly pushes inside you from behind, and the heavy fullness in your mouth.

“that’s it… take him,” katsuki groans, his hand guiding your head down a little further, helping you take more of him. “ffuuuck, your mouth… so hot and tight.”

eijiro bottoms out with a deep, satisfied sigh, his hips flush against your ass. “gods… she’s s-so tight,” he rasps.

then he begins to move. slow and deep thrusts that have you seeing stars. each forward drive pushes you further onto katsuki’s cock, making you gag softly. each withdrawal pulls a desperate whine from your throat.

“listen to her,” katsuki pants, his own hips beginning to move in tiny counter-thrusts to eijiro’s rhythm. “listen to those pretty little sounds she makes for us. fuck her harder, shitty hair. make her fucking feel good.”

eijiro obeys, his grip on your hips turning vice-like. his thrusts become harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room accompanied by his guttural grunts and your muffled cries. “so good… taking us both… our perfect queen.”

katsuki’s control is fraying. his thrusts into your mouth become less measured, more urgent. “gonna cum… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum down your pretty little throat,” he snarls, his voice strained. he fists your hair tightly, holding you in place as his pace turns erratic. “you want that? want me to cum in your mouth?”

you’re eyes stayed on his as you hummed in agreement.

“then earn it, baby. cum for eijiro while you suck me like the good girl you are.” katsuki says.

the challenge, the sheer depravity of it, ignites something frantic in you.

determined to feel that shattering pleasure again, to please him, you bob your head faster, taking him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head on each upstroke.

katsuki throws his head back with a ragged roar, his entire body tensing. “yes! just like that! fuck, baby! i’m gonna—!”

the first hot, salty pulse hits the back of your throat. he holds you there firmly as he empties himself with sharp, jerking thrusts, groaning your name mixed with filth and praise. “take it all. swallow it… be a good girl for your husband…”

as you struggle to swallow, tears streaming down your cheeks, katsuki cups your jaw with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. his eyes are blazing, demanding. “look at me,” he commands, his voice raw. “give me your eyes while you swallow my cum.”

you force your watery gaze up to meet his. the connection is electric, intimate and degrading all at once. you see the raw possession, the awe, the unadulterated lust as you gulp him down.

“so fucking good… perfect girl,” he whispers, his thumb wiping a stray tear. he glances at eijiro over your shoulder. “now make my wife cum.”

with a look from katsuki, eijiro changes his angle, driving into you with deep, punishing strokes aimed directly at that spot inside you that makes you see white.

you fall forward, your arms giving out, but katsuki is there. you collapse against his chest, your face buried in his neck as eijiro pounds into you from behind. “ah! hngh—f-fuuuck. m’close. so close.”

“that’s it… let go… cum on my cock,” eijiro grunts, his rhythm becoming brutal, relentless. “gonna fill you up… breed you…”

katsuki holds you to him, one arm wrapped around your back, his other hand stroking your hair. his mouth is at your ear, a constant stream of filth and praise. “feel him? feel how deep he’s fucking my cum deeper into you? you’re gonna be dripping with us for days… our perfect, shared little wife… come on… let me see you fall apart.”

“katsuki, eiji!” you scream into katsuki’s skin as an orgasm more intense than any before tears through you, a convulsing, mind-breaking wave that has you clamping down on eijiro so hard he shouts.

“fuck! she’s—!” eijiro’s thrusts become erratic, then he slams home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he roars his release.

you feel the hot rush of his seed joining katsuki’s inside you, the overwhelming fullness making you sob through the last tremors of your own climax. “ngh… fu—no more. ah…”

katsuki holds you through all of it, whispering praises into your hair. “i got you. just ride it out… that’s my girl, took us both so well…”

slowly, gently, eijiro slips out of you, leaning forward to press a tender kiss between your shoulder blades. “you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice reverent.

you are utterly spent, a boneless, trembling mess between them.

katsuki shifts, lying back and pulling you with him so you’re sprawled half on his chest. eijiro settles behind you, his big body curling around yours, one heavy arm draping over your waist to splay possessively on katsuki’s stomach. you are sandwiched in their heat, in their scent, filled with their essence.

the last thing you feel is katsuki’s lips brushing your forehead and his final, drowsy murmur. “ours.” the last thing you hear is eijiro’s low, content hum of agreement against the back of your neck.

then the world dissolves into warm, dark, satiated nothing.

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Literally froze— one hand hovering halfway toward the cupboard, fingers curled around the handle of a ceramic mug he’d grabbed without even thinking. The sound of his own last name in your mouth wasn’t new. He had heard you tease him with it before, call it across a room to get his attention, but this time, it was different.

This time, it wasn’t just his.

You must’ve noticed his pause, because your eyes lifted from your phone, brows drawing together. “What?”

He shook his head too quickly, trying to mask the way something in his chest had just gone tight. “Nothing. Just… sounded different.”

Your gaze stayed on him for a beat longer “How?”

Spencer stepped closer to pass you the mug, his fingers brushing yours. “Like… it belongs to you, too.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but the corners of your mouth tugged up, slow and warm. He ducked his head toward the grocery bag again, pretending to busy himself with pulling out the rest of the vegetables, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

Your name and his, side by side— pressed together in black ink on envelopes that landed in your mailbox, on the neat block letters of appointment cards, on the return address of that electricity bill that lived for a week on the counter before one of you paid it. A quiet pairing that felt so permanent, so ordinary, and yet so startlingly tender.

He thought about the way it might sound in the wild: someone at the dentist’s office calling, “Agnew?” into a quiet waiting room, and both of you glancing up. That small, private jolt of recognition. The way your hands might brush as you stood, two people answering to the same name.

It was such a small thing, almost nothing at all. And yet, the weight of it made his chest feel just a little too small to hold everything that came with it.

x

It kept happening.

You were both carrying grocery bags (again) when Mrs. Kaplan from 4B appeared from behind the mailboxes. She was all bright lipstick and floral perfume, the neighbor who always had a story about “back in my day.”

“Well, if it isn’t the Agnews,” she greeted cheerfully, as if you’d been a matched set your whole lives.

You smiled without hesitation. “Hi, Mrs. Kaplan.”

Spencer managed a “Hello,” but inside, his mind snagged on the sound of it. The Agnews. Plural. Not just him, in the way he’d been for thirty-odd years, but you, standing there beside him.

Mrs. Kaplan asked about your weekend, and you both mumbled something about laundry and takeout, but Spencer’s focus kept slipping back to the fact that she’d said it so casually like your names had been printed on a return address label for decades.

When you reached your floor, you handed him your grocery bag to unlock the door, and he was still standing there smiling like an idiot.

“What?” you asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” he said, even though it wasn’t nothing.

At the dentist, it happened again.

You were sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine while he filled out some form on a clipboard. The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Agnew?”

Both of you turned your heads.

Spencer blinked, surprised, and then your hand found his knee like it was the most natural thing in the world. You stood first, answering for both of you. “That’s us.”

That’s us.Two words that hit harder than novocaine.

It even happened with the boring things.

The electricity bill came in the mail, and Spencer flipped it open without much thought until he saw your name printed neatly above his, both followed by the same word: Agnew. He stared at it for longer than he meant to before tucking it back into the envelope and setting it aside.

When you asked what it was, he just said, “Bill,” because it felt too big to explain that seeing your name there was, somehow, more intimate than sharing a toothbrush holder.

By the end of the week, he wasn’t even pretending it didn’t get to him.

He just woke and stared at you.

You stirred several minutes later. How was it that lovers always awake when their better half is staring at them?

“Morning,” you whispered,

“Morning.” Spencer said, pressing his forehead against your. 

Spencer let you wrap around him. The couple were both still naked, some joints sore from sleeping on a couch, both of them feeling the rug burn slowly creep into their consciousness.

“You know what I realized?” he murmured into your shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“You’re Agnew now.”

You laughed. “I know, Spence. You were there.”

“Yeah, but-” He kissed your temple, his voice softening. “It’s not just a name. It’s… us.”

You turned in his arms, giving him a look that was half teasing, half unbearably fond. “You’re getting sappy before breakfast.”

You genuinely don’t think there’s anything more embarrassing than ending up in the emergency department after twisting your ankle in the platform heels you insisted you would be able to walk in. 

Except, what is more embarrassing, is the fact that you’re not just in heels—you’re in a full-blown, tight, revealing Halloween costume. And you hadn’t even started drinking yet. 

“Okay, I’m gonna’ try to find a wheelchair, just sit,” Your friend says, ducking out from under your arm, letting you rest your palm against a nearby column. Your other friend is still holding you up on the other side, one arm around your waist. 

“This is stupid,” You say. “It’s not broken.”

“It might be,” Your friend says. “How would you know?”

“Because I can walk,” You counter. “Do you really think I’d be able to walk on a broken ankle?”

“You can barely walk,” She corrects. “Hence the wheelchair.”

“I don’t need the wheelchair,” You grumble, setting your injured foot down on the ground, clenching your teeth as sharp pain radiates up your leg. Your friend rolls her eyes, acting as though she didn’t notice as you shuffle away from her. “See? Walking.”

“I’ve seen babies crawl faster than that,” She says. “Just see what they say, okay? If it’s not broken then all the better.”

Your other friend comes around a corner with someone in tow, pushing a wheelchair. She’s young, wearing grey scrubs, and her hair’s pulled back into two braids with a few curls framing her face. Your friend doesn’t need to point her in the right direction, because your outfits make it more than obvious that you came together. 

“This is Emma,” Your friend says. “She’s a nurse.”

“Hi, Emma,” You greet, introducing yourself to her after. She repeats your name, then gestures to the wheelchair. 

“Come on, we’ll get you taken back,” She says, helping you into the chair. She lifts one of the sides up, elevating your left leg so it’s level with your hips. 

“Isn’t it a really bad sign to be taken back right away in an ER?” You ask. 

“Oh, no, well…sometimes,” Emma says. “But your friend was telling me how you injured your ankle, and we just want to take a quick look. Can one of you grab a clipboard from registration, please?”

Your friends nod, and one of them steps over to the line, getting left behind as you’re wheeled through the double doors. 

“Who do we have here?” A blonde woman, also wearing grey, asks, coming around the desk towards you. 

Emma says your name and age before continuing. “Twisting injury on an uneven curb, unable to visualize the area, her friend wasn’t sure if she hit her head when she fell—she was walking behind them.”

“I did not hit my head,” You say. “I don’t…think.”

The blonde woman, whose name tag reads ‘Dana,’ chuckles. “Alright, that’s a one way ticket to a room, sweetheart.”

“What?” You ask. “No, there has to be other people that need to be seen before I do.”

“There are,” She agrees. “Emma’ll take a look first, see what we’re working with. Sound okay?”

You nod, not really in a place to argue. Plus, you’re pretty sure Dana isn’t exactly the type to lose a fight. 

“Take her to four,” Dana instructs. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Emma nods, pushing you towards the right place. It’s not exactly a room, just a bed surrounded by curtains. She helps you onto the bed, sitting the back up so you can lean against it. 

“Can you tell me your full name?” Emma asks, which you do. “What about the date?”

“October thirty-first, twenty-twenty five,” You answer. 

“Do you know where you are?”

“PTMC,” You say, rolling your eyes when your friend gives you a thumbs up. 

“Do you remember falling?” She continues, hands hovering over your boot, trying to figure out if she can get it off without hurting you further or using scissors. 

“Yeah, I mean, mostly,” You say. 

She nods, coming back over to you, pulling something out of her pocket. “I’m just gonna’ shine something in your eyes, okay? Look straight ahead.”

You listen, doing your best not to flinch when the light hits your eye. She tucks it away, setting two fingers in both of your hands. 

“Squeeze my fingers,” She instructs. “Does your head hurt? Any nausea?”

You shrug. “A little nausea.”

“How’s it going in here?” Dana asks, pulling the curtain aside as she comes in, closing it behind her. 

“Pupils equal and reactive, normal motor function, minor nausea,” Emma explains. “I was just about to try and take her boots off.”

Dana hums. “They’re tight, might have to cut the left one off.”

You gasp. “What? No, they were expensive. I can do it.”

“We don’t want anything making it worse, hon,” Dana says, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Give it a shot, see what we’re working with.”

Emma nods, fingers careful as she unzips the boot as far as she can, pulling the edges back. She frowns once she can actually see your ankle, which is already swollen and likely starting to bruise. 

“Let me know if it hurts, okay?” She says, and you nod, ready to brave through any pain just so they won’t cut it off. She braces the bottom of your foot, up by your toes, then starts to slide the back half off your heel. All plans to suck it up go out the window the second it starts to move. 

“Ow, fuck, sorry,” You say, face wrenched with pain, hands curled into the mattress. She stops immediately, glancing at Dana, who takes her place. Emma continues bracing, and Dana actually manages to move it a smidge more before the searing pain returns. 

“No, no, just cut it, please,” You say. “I should’ve listened in the first place.”

“I liked the optimism,” Dana says, carefully setting your foot back on the bed. Emma grabs a pair of scissors from a drawer, slicing across the material, each snip ringing out in the quiet room. They peel the remains off, then your sock, revealing the injury in it’s entirety. 

“Should’ve painted your toenails,” Your friend says. 

You laugh, then wince when your foot shifts. “Didn’t know they’d be on display.”

“I’m gonna’ touch a few spots, let me know if it hurts,” Emma says, raising a gloved finger to your ankle, pressing lightly. You groan, clutching the sheets. Every spot hurts, two of them more than the others, and then she grips slightly higher on your calf, squeezing. 

“Jesus christ,” You grunt, leaning forward, a wave of nausea hitting with the pain. Your face twists, and Emma lets go. 

“Sorry, sorry,” She says. “You okay?”

You give a thumbs up, slightly hunched, taking deep breaths. 

“Still confident it’s not broken?” Your friend asks. 

You manage to say the name of your other friend, followed by ‘go find her.’ She listens, leaving you alone with the two nurses. The pain subsides after a few moments, and you sit back up, exhaling. 

“Please tell me we won’t have to do that again,” You say. 

“Hopefully not,” Dana promises. “You definitely need an x-ray, and let someone know if your nausea gets worse, alright? Emma’s gonna’ set you up with some ice and an IV, and I’m gonna’ go find someone to sign off on pain meds.”

“Okay, sounds good,” You say. “Thank you.”

Princess is standing outside your room, hidden by the curtain, leaning against the wall. Dana raises an eyebrow as she comes out, gesturing for her to go ahead with whatever she wants to say. 

“She’s gorgeous,” Princess says, keeping her voice down. “Is she a model?”

“Not sure,” Dana says, scanning the department, trying to find a free doctor. “Could be.”

“What’s she here for?” 

“Broken ankle,” She says, finally seeing Dennis come out of a room, calling his name before he can take a seat at one of the computers. “Need you for a minute.”

She meets him halfway, grabbing a tablet from the stand, pulling up your chart and passing it to him. 

“Twisted her ankle, bimalleolar tenderness, positive squeeze test,” She explains. “She needs some pain meds, x-ray’s already been ordered.”

He nods, looking at your name in the top left corner. “I’ll take a look in a minute.”

“Thank you,” She says, patting his shoulder as she walks off. Princess steps in front of Dennis, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“What?” He asks, wearily. 

“She’s pretty,” She says. 

“Who?” 

“Your new patient,” Princess clarifies. “Thought you might want a heads up.”

Dennis huffs, nodding, stepping around her. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Emma stays with you after Dana leaves. “You want a blanket?”

You glance down at your outfit, then towards the now open curtain. “Yes, please.”

She grabs one, draping it over you, leaving your arm exposed. She sets up your vitals, then gets the IV first try, hanging a bag of fluids on the nearby hook. 

“How’s your nausea?” She asks. “Any worse?”

You think for a second. “A little worse, but still okay.”

The curtain is pulled back again, revealing a man in black scrubs with blonde curls and blue eyes. Emma gives him a small smile, stepping away from your bed so she doesn’t get in the way. You feel your heart start to race, hoping that he doesn’t notice on the screen displaying your pulse behind you. He says your name as he walks in, and then he pauses for a fraction of a second. 

‘Pretty’ is an understatement. You’re stunning. 

He has to make a conscious effort not to look at your chest, which is exposed in the tiny costume you’re wearing, but he recovers quickly, tapping his badge against the sensor at the computer. 

“I’m Dr. Whitaker,” He introduces. “I hear we’ve got quite the ankle injury.”

“You could say that,” You say, grimacing as you shift up on the bed, trying to get comfortable. He scans your triage note, then looks at Emma.

“Neuro exam okay?” He asks, and she nods. 

“Completely normal besides a little nausea,” She explains. 

“No headache or dizziness?” He confirms, the question now directed at you. You shake your head. “Have you had any alcohol today?”

“No,” You say. “Didn’t exactly get that far.”

There’s a pause before you speak again, only filled by the sound of him typing. 

“Why, are you offering?”

Emma averts her eyes, grabbing a new pair of gloves, trying to seem busy. Dennis pauses, keeping his head forward, hoping that his cheeks and ears haven’t gone as red as they feel. Langdon can’t help but glance in as he passes by, having overheard the comment. His eyes widen when he sees you, and he quickly moves on to his patient’s room. 

“They already made last call,” Dennis says, trying to joke a little. “Best I can do is some pain meds.”

“Damn, I was hoping not all my Halloween plans were ruined,” You say. “But I’ll definitely take pain meds.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” He says, offering you a quick, small smile. “Do you have any drug allergies or kidney problems?”

“Nope.”

He nods, stepping back from the computer, looking at Emma. “Two of morphine, twenty of ketorolac. Let’s keep her NPO for now.”

“Yeah, on it.”

She leaves the room. Dennis gestures to your leg, which is under the blanket. 

“Mind if I take a look?” He asks. 

You smirk, your eyebrows raising suggestively. “Please.”

He swallows, trying to get his heart to stop pounding. There’s no way you’re flirting with him, right?

He lifts the blanket up, folding it back and setting it on your thighs. He avoids touching the pressure points, knowing how painful it would’ve been the first time, instead holding just below your knee as he tilts your leg to either side. It doesn’t matter though—you still wince, inhaling sharply. 

“Sorry,” He says, softly, trying to move slower. The bruising is bad, but the swelling is worse now that your boot has been off for a bit. 

“Tripped on a curb, hey?” He asks, putting the blanket back over once he’s done. 

You groan, leaning back against the bed. “Yeah, like an idiot.”

“Happens to the best of us,” He says, pulling a stool over, sitting down. He points to where your boots are sitting on the floor. “Those the heels?”

“Sure are,” You say. “What’s left of them, anyway.”

He leans over, getting a closer look, seeing how the left one has been completely mangled. He also sees how tall they are, and he clenches his jaw, trying not to think about how good they must've looked when they were on. 

“At least you’re having a better day than they are,” He says. 

You laugh. “Yeah, just wish I could’ve actually gotten some use out of them. They really tied the whole costume together.”

“What was the costume?” He asks, looking you over, having a few guesses in mind, but not wanting to be wrong.

“It makes more sense when my friends are with me,” You say, looking up at him through your lashes, folding your arms over your chest, exposing more of your cleavage. “You know the game ‘fuck, marry, kill?’”

“Uh, yeah, yes,” He says, stuttering. 

“We’re that,” You say. “You wanna’ guess which one I am?”

He blinks. 

“I probably shouldn’t,” He says, but he knows the answer. Your costume is blood red, and you have lipstick marks trailing up your neck and on your cheeks. He doesn’t want to think about who put them on you. 

You hum. “Then I guess you’ll live in mystery.”

He looks back at you, crossing his arms, trying to move on without showing how flustered you've made him. “Emma should be back with those meds soon, and then we’ll reassess once you get some imaging done. Sound okay?”

“As long as you come back,” You say, not missing a beat. He laughs a little, bringing one hand up to the back of his neck. 

“I will,” He says, checking his watch. “Still got an hour left, and x-ray should be here any minute.”

“Looking forward to it, Dr. Whitaker.”

Dana overhears that, making her smirk, especially when Dennis comes out of your room a second later, redder than she’s ever seen him. He clears his throat as he walks over, stopping on the other side of the desk. 

“She’s all good for now,” He says. “Got her some pain meds, let me know when the films are up.”

“Will do,” She says. “You alright? You’re a little flushed, kid.”

He nods, clearing his throat again, already walking away to avoid further questions. She laughs to herself, shaking her head. Princess leans over from her spot. 

“I tried to warn him,” She says. 

“About what?” Dana asks. 

“That she was pretty,” Princess says. 

Dana scoffs, still smiling. “I don’t think that was the issue.”

“Oh?”

“She was flirting with him,” Dana says. “Said she was ‘looking forward’ to him coming back once her x-rays were done.”

“No!” Princess exclaims, making eye contact with Perlah, who’s now listening intently. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Dana confirms. “Can you grab repeat vitals for twelve?”

“Okay, pain meds are in, and x-ray is on their way,” Emma says, standing beside you, a new pair of gloves on now that she’s finished administering the medication. “You’ll have to change into a gown, do you want help?”

You don’t, but you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to do it on your own. 

“Please,” You say, an apologetic look on your face. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Emma asks, incredulous. “Trust me, you are, like, the easiest patient I’ve had all day.”

She closes the curtain before helping you, folding the tiny two-piece set that you were wearing and placing it in a large bag. She puts your boots in there too, despite the fact that one of them is in multiple pieces. 

The curtain opens again, making both of you look up. The person looks up from her tablet, stopping in her tracks, eyes widening. 

“You are not my patient,” She says, glancing at the tablet again, eyes narrowing. “Ah, they moved him to fifteen. Sorry for barging in.”

“No problem,” You say. “Hope you find your patient.”

“Thanks,” She says. “Everything good in here, Emma?”

“Yep, just waiting on x-ray,” She says. “Thanks, Dr. Santos.”

She nods, then turns around, speed-walking away from your room. Once she’s done with her real patient she practically tosses her tablet onto a desk as she walks by, coming up behind Victoria and grabbing her arm. 

“Have you seen the patient in four?” She asks. 

“Uhm, no, why?” She questions, still walking, despite the hold that Trinity has on her. 

“She might be the hottest person I’ve ever seen in my life,” Trinity says. Victoria laughs in disbelief, stopping at a computer, pressing her badge to the scanner.

“What?” She questions. “That’s…not professional.”

“I didn’t say it to her face,” Trinity counters. “Go look, tell me you don’t agree.”

“I’m busy!” Victoria exclaims, pulling up a chart. “What’s she here for?”

“I dunno’, she’s not my patient. Check.”

Victoria scrolls through the dashboard until she sees your bed number, scanning across to the chief complaint. “LEI.”

Trinity laughs a little. “Probably had a bit too much to drink.”

“Who are we talking about?” Dennis asks, logging on to a nearby computer. 

“Patient in four,” Trinity says. 

“Oh, she’s mine,” He says. “X-ray just came back, did you see her?”

“Did she ever,” Victoria mumbles. 

“Briefly,” Trinity says. “You talked to her already?”

“Uh, yeah,” He says, bringing your chart up. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Santos thinks she’s hot,” Victoria says, earning a glare from the resident. “Do you agree?”

Dennis frowns, pulling up your x-ray, not actually looking at it yet. “She’s a patient.”

“Oh, come on, she’ll never know,” Trinity says.