𝒮unshine

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.”

The deep, guttural rumble of his pickup truck tearing through the gravel drive is a warning, a proclamation—he’s home. Your spine straightens before you even realize it, ears attuned to the familiar sequence of his arrival—the creak of the screen door, the slam, the heavy thud of boots being kicked off near the welcome mat.  

Except today—silence. 

No boots. No pause. Just the hurried, uneven thud of his footsteps, heavier than usual, more urgent. A shiver races down your spine, instinct flaring before you can even turn—  

And then him.

Big. Encompassing. Swallowing you whole.  

His heat presses into your back, rough hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t need to look up to know his expression—you feel it. The tension coiled in his muscles, impatient huffs against the curve of your throat.  

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly as your fingers lift, clawing back into the wild strands of his hair—midnight black, nearly blue in the dim light. It’s longer now, unruly, a messy tangle between a wolf cut and a short mullet, the front nearly falling into his eyes. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, and he exhales sharply through his nose, his apology a low, graveled grunt against your skin.  

“‘Couldn’t get to you fast enough." 

You know him.  

His anger, his irritation, the frustration clings to him like a second skin. It seeps into you like ink in water, dark and suffocating, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. Your body responds before your mind can catch up—arching back into him, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch. 

That’s when your hands shift, turning you just enough in his grasp to catch his gaze—and the moment you do, the world narrows.  

Those eyes. 

Deep gray, like storm clouds rolling in over the pasture, narrowed and restless beneath the weight of his scowl. His brows—thick, dark, almost severe—are knit together, tension carved into the space between them. At thirty two years old to your twenty nine? The years have only sharpened him, etching his features with an intensity that makes your breath catch. A full blooded Japanese man raised in the heart of the South, he’s a walking contradiction—heritage and home clashing in the best ways.  

And today, every inch of him shows it.  

Dust clings to him like a second skin, ground into the fabric of his filthy wifebeater, streaked across the navy and black flannel rolled up to his forearms. His tattoos—a sprawling canvas of ink swallowing his egregiously broad frame—peek out from beneath the dirt, the edges of them smudged with the day’s labor.  

Head ranchmen. Raising livestock. Wrestling miles of fencing. Hauling hay, operating machinery, fighting with the land and the heat and the men under him who can’t keep up—it’s all written across the stars. His muscles are still coiled tight, his jaw working as if the frustration hasn’t fully left his bones.  

And yet, god, he’s yours.  

The scent of him—sweat, leather, and something wild washes over you, a pheromone laden reminder of exactly who you belong to.  

You reach up, thumb smoothing gently between his furrowed brows.  

“You okay?”

He exhales sharply, "M’alright. Always doin’ this, woman. Thinkin’ I’m about to cry."

A laugh bubbles in your chest, but you press closer instead, fingers trailing down to cup his jaw.  

“My soul’s with yours," you remind him, tilting your chin up despite the height difference—“I know when you’re sick before you do—" 

He grunts at that, but there’s no real irritation behind it. Instead, he ducks his head, nudging his nose against yours in a rare moment of tenderness, the gesture contradicting every rough edge he wears so well.  

Toji’s head dips low, those storm gray eyes scanning you with the kind of focus that makes your pulse flutter.  

You stand there in white fuzzy socks, swallowed whole by the oversized replica of his flannel—the deep blue of it sharp against your caramel skin, sleeves slipping past your wrists, the hem hanging dangerously high on your thighs.  

And as your husband, he knows what’s beneath. 

The way your waist cinches in like a damn hourglass, unnaturally narrow compared to the flare of your hips—so wide, so heavy it looks like you’ve carried a child before. The ass that fills his palms perfectly, fat, jiggling with every step. And those tits—full, heavy, sitting high like they belong on a sultry pin up poster. His name—Fushiguro—in tiny cursive beneath the curve of your left breast, a claim he never gets tired of seeing.  

Your fingers drag gently through the hair at his nape, nails scratching lightly as you murmur, “Yumi missed you.” 

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, calloused and rough—“‘Momma missed me too?”

You nod, just slightly, tilting your head with those fox eyes of yours—narrowed, knowing, stripping him bare of any lie he could try to spin.  

“Tell me what happened at work.”

His brow twitches, “You tellin’ me?”

You don’t argue. Just raise your brows, waiting.  

A beat. Then, with a sharp exhale, it spills—

“Men actin’ like goddamn children. Argued with me ‘bout the fence line—then one of ‘em nearly flipped the ATV ‘cause he wasn’t payin’ attention. ‘Whole damn day wasted fixin’ other people’s—” His voice deepens, slipping into sharp edged Japanese, “…Nande kon'na baka-domo to issho ni hatarakanakya naranē nda? Mattaku, kuso jikan'nomudada.” 

Why the hell do these idiots work for me? Total waste of fuckin’ time.

You stand on your tiptoes, pressing your thumb between his brows again, smoothing the crease there as you answer him—fluent, just like he taught you. 

“Son'nani ikatteiru to, fukeru no ga hayamarimasu yo.” 

You’ll age faster being so angry.

He pauses, nostrils flaring—before he lets out a sharp exhale, forehead dropping against yours.  

"...Goddamn, woman. ‘Always knowin’ how to shut me up.” 

You hum, pressing closer.  

“So that’s why you keep me around?” 

“Nah. Keep you ‘cause you’re mine.” 

You hum, fingertips tracing the corded muscle below his neck, your touch featherlight. 

“Did talking about it help?" 

His jaw flexes, “You want me to lie?" 

“I’d rather you be honest, Fushiguro.” 

A rough exhale escapes him, “I’m on the news tomorrow? ‘Know I killed one of those bastards." 

You know he doesn’t mean it—but the frustration is real, simmering beneath his skin like an untamed storm. So you tease just a little, trying to loosen the tension coiling in his shoulders—“Fussier than a baby, ‘swear." 

That gets you a glare—"Nowhere near a damn child."  

You react before he can pull away, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, holding him just firm enough to ground him.

“Hey," you murmur, voice softening, “I was just pokin’, love. Yeah?" 

He stares down at you, that perpetual scrawl of his features more habit than anger now. After a beat, he nods.  

You press on, voice a gentle lull. 

“Rough days are inevitable…but there’s your favorite meal to look forward to. And cuddles from me an’ Yumi." 

His expression doesn’t change.  

"Or," you offer, tilting your head, “I could rub your ear  ‘like you like?” 

Something shifts in his gaze then—dark, heavy. He looks at you—really looks. That sweet, sultry face he’s seen crumble beneath him, twist in pleasure, pout in frustration. It all hits him at once, a wave of something possessive and hungry that makes his fingers flex against your waist.  

And in response?  

“Yeah." 

A single word. Deceptively simple.  

Because you did rub his ear, sure—but what you didn’t expect?  

Was ending up bouncing stupidly on his cock in the process.  

Now, here you are—hair a mess of copper, cinnamon, and black curls, wild like a halo around your flushed face, the flannel hanging open, barely clinging to your shoulders. The fabric dips, revealing the sinful swell of your tits, the heavy weight of them barely contained by the parted material. Your fuzzy socks—adorable, ridiculous in contrast to the filth of this moment—curl helplessly into the bedsheets as you struggle to steady yourself.  

Your thighs ache, burning from the relentless pace he’s set, but you barely feel it. Not when he’s got his hands wrapped around your waist, his fingers so big they nearly touch when he grips you—effortlessly hauling you up, then slamming you back down, forcing you to take every inch of him.  

“F—Fushiguro—!" 

You choke on his name as he pulls you all the way up, the slick length of him just about to slip free before he yanks you back down, letting his dick carve straight into your g-spot with every punishing thrust.  

And the worst part?  

He hasn’t even undressed.

Leaned back against the vintage headboard, still in his dirt-streaked wifebeater—tugged halfway up to reveal the hard planes of his abs, ink-dark tattoos trailing down the cut of his V-line. The roughness of his pubic hair grinds against your clit with every brutal snap of your hips, the friction almost too much, threatening to push you over the edge before he even lets you.  

And his face— 

Dark brows pulled low, storm gray eyes locked on you with an intensity that borders on cruel. He watches you with that same scowl, like you mean nothing to him in this moment—just a warm, trembling hole for him to use, fucking you with ruthless precision.  

He leans back, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you again, dragging you down onto his cock with a sharp snap of his hips.  

“C’mon," he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Keep fuckin’ feelin’ me.”

You’re silent—trying to be—but your pussy isn’t.  

Loud. Obscene. Creaming around him in thick, slippery pulses, gushing with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of it—wet, filthy, shameful—fills the space between your ragged breaths. Your lips stay pressed together, but your expression betrays you—eyebrows pinched, a cute little frown twisting your face as pleasure burns through you, sharp and unforgiving.  

Discomfort. Overstimulation. The kind of pleasure that hurts, that makes your toes curl and your stomach clench. Because god, the way he stretches you—thick, unrelenting, carving into you like he was made to ruin you.  

The worst part? He knows.  

Knows that in places where you’re soft, silent, observant—here, like this? You’re a mouthy little thing when he gets you there. Which is exactly why he cocks his hand back, fingers tangling in the back of your flannel, yanking you down harder on his cock before—  

SMACK. 

The sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room, your flesh jiggling from the impact, the heat of it blooming fast.  

“Ain't hearin’ shit from you," he growls. 

“C’mon. Gimme’ somethin’.”  

The rough clap of your thighs against his hips—hard, frantic, skin slapping skin—does something to you. Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers sinking into his forearms, claws digging in as a whiny little cry punches out of you.  

It’s a domino effect afterwards. A whimper slips free, trembling, desperate, and then another—another, slurring into heavier, broken whines, like you’re trying to swallow them back every time they threaten to escape. But you can’t. Not when he’s like this—when his thighs are so thick, his grip so bruising, when he makes you fuck him like he hates you.  

“There it is,” he grunts, fingers tightening around your waist, hauling you down harder, heavier. 

“‘Know my wife more than anyone in this fuckin’ world.”

You're an eye-rolling, pouting, mess. 

His mess. Your pussy keeps gushing, clenching forcefully around the thick swell of his cock, kicking off a series of unfinished, half-shattered orgasms that leave you spiraling—dizzy, overwhelmed, ruined.  

Tears brim your dark, pretty eyes, lashes sticking together as broken little whimpers spill from your lips.  

“I'm—‘M cumming.” 

But Toji? He doesn’t stop. 

His grip tightens, digging into the softness of your hips as he finds a devastating new rhythm. Slower now, but heavier. Louder. Each deep, punishing thrust drags a wet, filthy sound from where you’re stretched around him, the slap of skin echoing through the room.  

And the scent of him—god. 

Woodsmoke, leather, the erotic musk of a hard day’s work still clinging to his clothes, swallowing you whole even as he lounges beneath you, lazily using your body to chase his own pleasure.  

“Wanted me to feel better, ‘ain’t you?" 

His palm lands against your ass again—hard—the sharp crack reverberating through your bones before he spreads you open with that same rough hand, exposing your flushed, dripping cunt as he starts fucking up into you with renewed force.  

“Gonna fuck you ‘til every nut makes me less angry," he grunts, fingers biting into your flesh—“Had a hard fuckin’ day, remember?" 

You lean forward, sniffling pathetically, nodding in meek submission—like you’ve lost a game you never even meant to play.  

“Okay," you squeak, voice surrendering, small.  

His teeth flash in a wicked grin.  

“Atta fuckin’ girl." 

And then he takes—pounding up into you with a brutal pace that has you muffling trembling little moans into the crook of your arm, body jolting with every deep, claiming thrust. 

Toji slides his broad palm against the top of your head, fingers threading through your curls as he tilts your face up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. 

“You here with me?" 

You nod, and that's all he needs before he tugs you forward by your hair, sealing your mouth with his in a deep, tongue-filled kiss. It's filthy, possessive, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he pulls back just as swiftly.  

And then—SMACK. 

His palm meets your cheek with enough force to make your breath hitch, just sharp enough to snap you back into focus. 

“Fill your fuckin' mouth up.”

You sink down instantly, taking him between your lips with breathless little whimpers, your lashes fluttering as you suck him in deep. You pull back just enough to kitten lick along his length, teasing the flushed tip before swirling your tongue around it. Then lower—sucking his heavy balls into your mouth, your fingers lightly jerking the base of him.  

It's adorable in the most pathetic way—how easily you obey when you're usually all quiet fire and defiance. But like this? You're truly his.

Toji watches as you work him over—his cock glistening with your spit, your lips stretched around him. Then he takes himself in hand, slapping his length against your flushed cheek, dragging it over your lips with a filthy, wet sound.  

“Look at you," he grunts, voice rough with satisfaction.  

And he does look—drinking in the sight of your dark, caramel skin flushed raw, your pretty eyes swollen with tears, your lips parted and trembling. It makes him crave more.  

“C'mere," he growls suddenly, gripping your waist before flipping you both in one swift motion—your back now pressed to his chest, his thighs bracketing your head as he maneuvers you into a 69. 

The second you're settled, he buries his face between your thighs with a groan, his tongue devouring you. You gasp, trying to refocus, wrapping your lips around his cock again—but it's impossible to concentrate when he's sucking on your clit like he's starved, his tongue dragging hot and wet through your folds, slurping obscenely. Your hips jerk, back arching as pleasure zings through you, your forehead dropping against his hip as you whimper around him.  

“Focus, baby.”

He mutters this against your cunt—right before his hand comes down on your ass again, the sharp SMACK making you jolt.  A broken moan slips past your lips, and then you're bobbing your head faster, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him back into your mouth with desperate, sloppy devotion.  

And Toji?  

He just feasts—grunting, licking, taking—his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks his tongue inside you, making sure you feel every second of it.  

You don’t stand a chance.

The air is thick with the sound of skin on skin, your breath ragged and wet as you lose yourself in the rhythm of him. You move without thought, drunk on the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue—both palms wrapped tight around the base of his cock, jerking him from root to tip in slow, filthy strokes. Your tits bounce with every movement, swaying heavy and lewd as you work him over in a way that’s downright pornographic, your body moving like it was made just for this.  

Toji’s hips twitch, his breath catching when you suddenly take just the head of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip while your small hands take care of the rest. His head knocks back against the headboard with a low groan, his voice rough, strained, as he mutters something under his breath—half curse, half praise—before his hand comes down again, another sharp SMACK landing on your ass.  

“Edge of the bed. Now.”

You crawl there on shaky knees, face pressing into the blankets, ass up—presented, waiting—and before you can even brace yourself, he’s sinking into you, stretching you open in a way that punches a muffled whine from your throat. His fingers tangle in the nape of your hair, tugging just enough to make your back arch as he yanks you back onto him, filling you to the hilt with a single brutal thrust. Your face stays buried in the blankets, lips pouting, muffling little whimpers and breathless complaints—but they’re weak, half-hearted, lost in the haze of pleasure as he starts moving, fucking into you with rough, measured strokes.  

“Fussin’ just like Yumi," he growls, voice thick as you tuck your face deeper into the sheets, hiding the way your cheeks burn. 

“Tch—feet closer to your chest.”

He rasps this, voice gravel-scraped and impatient. You whimper but obey, knees pressing tight to your body, hips lifted higher—exposed, helpless. Then, in Japanese, sharp and commanding—

“Jibun no handan de ugoite kudasai.”

Move on your own. 

And you do.  

At first, it's slow—tentative—your hips rocking back and forth in small, uncertain motions, your body arching as you try to find the right angle. The sight of you like this—spread open, trembling, taking him—is obscene. Erotic in the rawest sense.  

His fingers snap once, sharply. Another order, another growled phrase—“Head up.” 

You just obey, lifting your face from the sheets, breath ragged as you look back over your shoulder at him.  

“If you don’t move, I’ll show you how I wanna’ be fucked.” 

You pout—lips trembling, eyes wet—but then you start moving again.  

Little bounces at first, your ass clapping lightly against his hips—gentle, testing. Then deeper. Faster. More. Until you’re fully fucking yourself on him, your body taking over, driven by instinct, by the need to please. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as you pant, as you whimper—  

“…M’sorry, baby." 

It slips out without thought, weak and breathless.  

Toji only grunts, “Yeah?” 

You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. But you say it again, lips quivering. 

“M’sorry—"

You’re squirting. 

A hot, sudden gush, spilling around him without warning, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. The words turn into something else—deep, shuddering sobs, your voice breaking as you keep repeating it, "M’sorry, m’sorryyy...” 

Your husband? He could care less. 

Toji fucks you through it. His grip on your hair tightens, his hips snapping up to meet yours as you sob, as you tremble, as you fall apart. 

Because this? This is how he takes his anger out.

The world narrows to nothing but the brutal snap of his hips, the sound of skin meeting skin in sharp, wet slaps. Toji yanks your legs out from under you, planting your feet flat on the floor—forcing your spine into a deep arch, your ass tilted up just right for him to sink into you even deeper, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.  

You can’t help the noises that tear out of you—loud, broken, punched out moans that rise higher with every merciless drive of his cock. His fist tightens in your hair so everlasting, wrenching your head back as he growls above you, the sound rough and satisfied—because nothing pleases him more than hearing you unravel, your voice frayed beyond coherency.  

Your fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white—until he tsks, a single sharp sound of disapproval that has you scrambling to correct yourself before he can fuss. Arms straight back, wrists together, like you know what he wants without him even saying it.  His free hand wraps around both your wrists in one brutal grip, pinning them against the small of your back as he drives you into the mattress, fucking you so deep you squeal, high and desperate, your body jerking beneath him.  

“Fuckkkk…!” 

It’s a shriek, really—raw and guttural, your cunt gushing around him as he pistons in and out, his grunts syncing with your cries in a filthy, primal rhythm. He’s not gentle. Not close. Every snap of his hips is punishing, claiming, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you until you’re keening, your thighs shaking, your mind gone beneath the sheer intensity of it.  

And then—  

His rhythm stutters.  

A deep, guttural growl rips from his throat, his fingers tightening hard in your hair as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing ropes. Your sounds drown his—whimpers, choked cries, the way your body clenches around him as if trying to milk every last drop.  

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing—his, yours—both ragged and uneven.  

Then he slowly pulls out, leaving you limp beneath him, your lower body trembling, your nerves still alight with aftershocks.  Toji catches his breath for a beat—just one—before he leans down over you, his voice rough but soft now, murmured against your ear in Japanese.  

“Daijōbudesuka?”

You alright? 

His hand cups your throat from behind, tilting your face toward his. And then—kisses. Tiny, chaste pecks against your swollen lips, one after another, as if checking that you’re still with him.  

You let out a breathless little giggle, your lashes fluttering.  

“Mmm...legs feel numb." 

He hums. 

“They should.” 

The moment his hands twist you around, your breath catches—but it melts into another light giggle as he scoops you up effortlessly, depositing you onto the bed like something precious. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the burning imprint of his body still lingering on yours.  

And then he looks at you. 

His fingers slide through your hair again, slower this time, almost reverent, before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s startlingly gentle. You nudge your nose against his, affectionate, lingering, before you pull back just enough to murmur—  

“…‘Gonna have a better day at work tomorrow?" 

Sweet. Hopeful.  

Toji rumbles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead—“Already havin’ a better day now." 

Your eyes dilate at that, lashes fluttering as you whisper—"Really?" 

“Murder’s still in question for ‘them employees, though.” 

Your face falls immediately, lips pressing into a pout as you sigh, long suffering. Before you can protest, his palm lands on your thigh—a light, teasing smack—and then he’s pushing off the bed, leaving you sprawled there. You scramble to grab his discarded flannel, draping it over yourself like a makeshift shield before flipping your hair back with an exaggerated huff.  

“You’re hardheaded!” 

“Got a hard head, baby.” 

You suck your teeth. 

But then? he reappears in the doorway, Yumi cradled in his big arms. 

The whiplash of it nearly gives you an actual headache. One second, he’s got you bent over the bed, fucking you like you owe him money, and the next? He’s holding that Persian kitten like it’s spun glass, cooing at her in a voice three octaves higher than you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.  

You roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your own brain.  

“You don’t talk to me like that.”  

Toji ignores you, of course. Because why would he ever acknowledge the way your metaphorical tail is swishing back and forth in irritation? He’s too busy booping Yumi’s tiny pink nose, murmuring, “Momma’s the fussy one, isn’t she? Yeah?" 

“Boy, please. I don’t win the hot head award. You’re an overachiever for that score." 

He just smirks—smirks!—as he sets Yumi down on the bed, watching with that stupid, smug expression as she prances toward the headboard like the little princess she is, tail held high as she lets out a dignified Mrrow. 

One second you’re lounging there, all sass and post coital glow—the next, he’s on you, knocking you flat onto your back in the sheets with a oomph that dissolves into breathless giggles as you shove at his chest.  

“Go away!"

He doesn’t.  

“You know how much I love you?"

You tilt your head, pretending to think. 

“Not sure."

The air between you shifts—just for a heartbeat—from playful to something deeper, something heavier. His rough fingers catch yours, and he brings your hand up, pressing a slow, almost reverent kiss to the gold band on your finger. Against the metal, he murmurs something low and raw—something that sounds suspiciously like—“Mines forever." 

You sigh, but it's a warm sound, your fingers curling around his, intertwining like they were made to fit there. Playfully, you squeeze.  

“Hungry?"

He exhales through his nose, “Been thinkin' about those red beans all day."

You bat your lashes, feigning innocence. 

“I wasn't part of the meal plan?" 

His thumb drags over your pulse point as he leans in, breath hot against your ear, “You were the meal plan."  

Then, just like that, he's hauling you up—one arm under your thighs, the other bracing your back as he tosses you halfway over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but your legs lock around his waist instinctively, arms looping his neck as he starts moving.  

“C'mon. I'm starvin'."

You press your lips to his jaw, nipping just to feel him tense—“You're starvin’, and you love me?" 

He grunts—but for him? It’s not a denial. It’s yes, a thousand times over. 

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

He had always been strong per se, but Clark had begun working out at the gym within the apartment complex and, well, his bodily assets had grown with sturdy muscle, making it a hard task to wriggle into the suit with haste. 

You, sat on a stool, with one leg crossed over the other had been there for moral support. Other than that, you weren’t required but the Kent family had a hard time peeling themselves away from you.

(Sort of made sense with Clark’s inability to detach himself when his own mother ushered you into the sewing room to keep her company.) 

Clark turns to look at you from where he is standing, and warns, “Honey.” 

“Seriously, Clark,” you start in a tone of astonishment whilst your eyes are cast downward, “It’s massive.”

Your husband throws his mother an apologetic look from where he is standing, because—as much as he loved this aspect of you—he was married to a woman with zero filter, or means to bite her tongue. You say it how you see it, and what you had been seeing was the protruding backend of your husband; with or without the cape. 

Sure, he had his frustrations whilst tugging at the suit in previous circumstances and you had just assumed muscular thighs were to blame. When you’re around your significant other more or less all the time, the changes can sometimes go amiss. Now? Now you could see why Ma had to retrieve the additional scraps of Clark’s Kryptonian blanket from his baby days. 

You blink at the sight of it. His Daily Planet getup of a baggy suit was the probable cause for his suddenly well-rounded backside slipping under the radar. 

(Even seeing him naked, you don’t recall it ever being that big.) 

“What are you squatting?” you ask openly, brows in a pinch. 

Clark takes a breath for patience. He loves you, to the core, but your mouth knew no bounds when you became fixated on one singular thing. 

He chooses to bypass your question by diverting his attention to Ma and asking her about the alterations and if there were any further fittings he was required to do before the pair of you return to Metropolis after a short weekend stay at the Kent Farm. 

Ma adjusts the red cape on her son’s shoulders, “Some more fabric on the backside, baby. That won’t take more than a night for your Ma.” she lilts with innocence.

You, on the other hand—from where Clark can see you in the reflection of the floor length mirror—press your lips together to conceal the bubble of amusement from Ma’s honesty. 

When Clark throws you a petulant look, mortified by your behaviour, you gesture that you’ve zipped your lips from any further prodding whilst Ma’s ears were in the room. 

“I’ll go get the boots.” Ma says in her sweet midwestern twang. She pats Clark’s chest in passing before she passes you where she lovingly pats your cheek as she trudges out of the room. 

It goes quiet. In a foreboding, mischievous type of way. Clark clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other whilst inspecting the talented craftsmanship of his Ma; where as you slowly turn your head, unable to land your attention anywhere but your husband’s curvaceous behind. 

Clark spots you from the mirror, trying his upmost hardest to contain the small quirk at the corner of his lips.

He couldn’t always push down the desire to appreciate when you showered him in praise in your own roundabout way. Even if it had his cheeks turn bright pink with embarrassment. 

Deep down, Clark thoroughly enjoyed the added attention. (He wouldn’t admit it at this present moment thought.) 

A glint of silver catches his eye on the floor where his Ma had accidentally dropped a pin from her pin cushion. He bends at the waist to pluck it from the wooden floorboard before an unlikely stabbing in someone’s foot happens. 

As soon as he’s bent, you stretch from the stool and slot two fingers between his vulnerable cheeks; making Clark shoot upright with a yelp. 

He grabs your wrist, “What the hey, honey. Cut it out.” He sounds a little irritated this time, so you back down with no visible shame on your features when you fully sit back onto the up-cycled stool. 

“Can’t a woman dote on her husband?” 

“You’re not doting. You’re harassing.” Clark grumbles with the pin rolled between his fingers. 

Your voice is laced with playfulness, “Your lobster is so juicy, baby.” 

Clark folds instantaneously. Your humour tangled with a poor show of flirtatious skills made for quite the hammer that could crack Clark’s—sometimes—moody exterior. His chuckle is low, head shaking at your words as he tries to conjure up a new conversation to steer your chatterbox-self into. 

He lets you roll with one more punch by encouraging it with, “You really think it looks big in the suit?” 

Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.

So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.

"Mama!"

She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.

"Daddy!"

Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.

"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"

"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."

You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.

"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.

Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."

Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.

"And I get to come with you."

The silence that followed was tiny.

Barely a second.

But it was enough.

Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.

You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.

Lucy noticed immediately.

Her smile wavered.

"...What's wrong?"

You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.

"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."

She frowned in confusion.

"But I can still come, right?"

Jack let out the smallest sigh.

"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."

Her forehead wrinkled.

"Why?"

You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.

"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."

"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.

"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."

Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."

Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.

"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."

Your chest tightened.

"I know you would."

"I could sit in the corner and color."

Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You probably could."

"I wouldn't touch anything."

"We know, sweetheart."

"I wouldn't even talk."

Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."

For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.

"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"

The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Her eyes filled almost instantly.

"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."

Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.

"I know."

"I wanna see where you guys work."

"I know."

"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."

Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."

"I could help."

Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.

"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."

Lucy blinked. "...Really?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."

"I would not."

"You absolutely would."

She crossed her arms.

"No."

"No?"

She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.

"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"

Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.

"There it is."

You couldn't help laughing too.

"Our little charge nurse."

Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.

The moment was warm.

Light.

Comfortable.

Until it wasn't.

Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.

"...But I still don't get to come."

Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.

"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."

The room fell silent.

You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.

Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"How about this?"

She peeked up hopefully.

"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."

Jack immediately caught on.

"We'll show you the cafeteria."

"My locker."

"The ambulance bay."

"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."

"The empty waiting room."

"My office."

Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.

"...Can I push a wheelchair?"

Jack looked over at you.

You shrugged.

"If nobody's using it, sure."

She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.

"...Okay."

It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.

It wasn't even close.

But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.

You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.

Children had an incredible ability to move on.

Or so you thought.

Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.

She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.

She hadn't.

To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.

That simply didn't seem fair.

By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.

By Thursday she had improved it.

By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.

Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.

"Grandma..."

Your mother looked up immediately.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.

"I don't feel good."

The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.

"Oh, sweetheart."

She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.

"What's wrong?"

"My tummy hurts."

"Oh no."

Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.

"It hurts a lot."

Your mother frowned with concern.

"Can you show me where?"

Lucy froze.

That...

She hadn't prepared for.

She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.

Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.

"...Everywhere."

Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

"Everywhere?"

Another solemn nod.

"Mhm."

She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Do you feel like you have to?"

Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.

"...Maybe."

"Do you have a fever?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm..."

Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.

No fever.

That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.

Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.

She needed to make it more believable.

So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.

Your mother's face softened immediately.

"Oh, you poor thing."

Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.

After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.

"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."

Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.

"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."

Lucy's heart sank.

"...But my tummy really, really hurts."

"I know it does."

"We should go."

Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.

But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.

She didn't want to overreact.

She also didn't want to ignore something important.

Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.

Your mother sighed softly as she stood.

"Alright."

Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.

Really?

It worked?

Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.

Almost.

She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.

"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"

Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.

"...Okay."

As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.

Her plan had worked.

In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.

She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.

The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.

Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.

His own last name.

At first his brain didn't process it.

He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.

Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.

Accompanied by: Lucy.

The world seemed to narrow into a single point.

His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

No, no, no.

His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.

Car accident on the way to school.

She'd fallen from the playground.

An allergic reaction.

A seizure.

Appendicitis.

A ruptured appendix.

Internal bleeding.

She'd stopped breathing.

His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.

He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.

"Jack?"

Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.

"You okay?"

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.

Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.

Your last name.

Pediatric triage.

Lucy.

Everything inside you went cold.

"No..."

The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.

Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.

You didn't bother picking it up.

Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.

Not my baby.

Please not my baby.

You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.

The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.

Now you understood it from the inside.

Jack reached pediatric triage first.

He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.

Then he stopped.

Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.

The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Jack didn't answer immediately.

He couldn't.

His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.

Skin color okay.

Breathing normal.

Alert.

Talking.

No blood.

No bruising.

No obvious deformities.

No signs of respiratory distress.

No altered mental status.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.

He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.

"Jack?"

Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.

"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."

You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.

"Lucy!"

Your daughter beamed.

"Hi, Mama!"

You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.

"What happened?"

Your mother looked apologetic.

"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."

"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.

"Honey?"

Lucy nodded solemnly.

"It hurt."

"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.

She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.

"...Here."

"How bad?"

She held up eight fingers.

"On a scale of ten..."

"...Eight."

"When did it start?"

"This morning."

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Feel sick?"

She hesitated.

"...Maybe."

Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.

Neither of you relaxed.

Because children lied about vegetables.

They didn't usually lie about pain.

And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.

You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.

"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"

She nodded.

You gently palpated one quadrant.

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

You moved to another.

"How about here?"

"No."

Lower right.

"No."

Lower left.

"No."

Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.

Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.

You noticed it too.

Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.

"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"

Silence settled over the four of you.

Jack closed his eyes.

Very.

Very slowly.

Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.

"...Lucy?"

Your daughter's grin only widened.

"It worked."

Jack opened one eye.

"...What worked?"

"My tummy."

Neither you nor Jack said a word.

"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."

For several long seconds, nobody moved.

Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.

Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.

He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.

"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"

Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.

"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."

Your mother's mouth fell open.

"Oh my goodness..."

Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.

"I wanted to see where you work."

Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.

"You scared ten years off my life."

Her smile faltered.

"...I did?"

Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.

"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."

You nodded quietly beside him.

"I thought my little girl was hurt."

Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.

"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."

Of course she hadn't.

She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.

She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.

"I'm sorry."

Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.

Lucy climbed into them immediately.

He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.

"I'm not mad."

She looked up uncertainly.

"...You're not?"

He shook his head.

"I'm relieved."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"So unbelievably relieved."

He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.

"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."

She nodded immediately.

"Okay."

"I need a real promise."

"I promise."

You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

You squeezed her little fingers.

"I know."

"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."

Your heart ached.

"We know, sweetheart."

"They all got to go."

You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.

Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.

Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.

You smiled back.

"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."

Jack nodded solemnly.

"I agree."

He looked back at Lucy.

"So I'm officially discharging you."

Her eyes widened.

"You are?"

"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."

She giggled.

"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."

Lucy's mouth fell open.

"Really?"

"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."

"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.

Jack nodded.

"But that's it."

"No treatment rooms."

"No sick patients," you said gently.

"And you stay with one of us the entire time."

Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.

"I promise!"

"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."

"What?"

"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."

She nodded.

"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."

The smile slipped from her face.

"...Okay."

"I mean it, bug."

"I know."

She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.

Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.

"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."

You laughed.

"No."

"Our stubbornness."

Lucy looked up immediately.

"I heard that."

"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."

"I did not fake being stubborn."

"You absolutely did."

That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.

As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.

But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.

He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.

Finally, you heard the elevator ding as Carmen followed you inside.

As the doors closed, you began, “Tonight was nice, right? Meeting new people and—” your thought was cut short when he pushed you against the wall, hands finding the curve of your ass as he pushed his tongue past your lips.

You couldn’t help but moan against his mouth, feeling him trail kisses down your neck, hearing him mutter, “Looked so fuckin’ good tonight, baby.” You almost didn’t realize when it stopped at your floor.

He pulled you down the hallway, fumbling for his keys before finally opening the door. Your heels and his shoes were left in a trail as you made your way to the bedroom.

His jacket was shrugged off your shoulders before you planted your hands flat against his chest. “Carmy, what’s gotten into you? Not that I’m mad.”

“You, you’ve gotten into me,” the slightly inebriated chef answered. Furrowing your brow, he continued, “All those guys were practically eye-fucking you.”

“Carm, I didn’t even look back at them,” you breathed, feeling his hands find the zipper of your gown, his lips ghosting over your pulse.

“I know,” he whispered between kisses as your gown pooled on the ground, leaving you in a pair of tiny black panties. Skillfully, your fingers worked the rest of his buttons open, watching him tense at the feeling of your hands on his belt.

As his pants dropped to the floor with a clink of his belt, he wasted no time. His hands found your thighs, gripping them firmly as he lifted you effortlessly. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, his breath warm against your skin.

With a soft thud, Carmy laid you flush against your pillows, crawling up your body. Strong arms caged you in, supporting his weight above you. His deep blue eyes burned into you as you looked at him, equally as lustful. The chain that usually sat beautifully on his collarbone now grazed the column of your throat.

“You drive me so fuckin’ crazy, you don’ even know,” he said, still never breaking eye contact.

“Show me,” was all it took for Carmy to push the thin lace to the side, pushing his full length inside of you.

The whimper that escaped your lips was nothing compared to the groan Carmy let out. He began pounding into you, cursing under his breath, “So fucking wet, jus’ f’me, baby.”

Your moans filled the air, the only thing coming out of your mouth was whimpers of “Carmy.” Nudging him deeper inside of you, your heels dug into his back.

With every thrust of his hips, his chain dangled at your chin, your nails leaving red scratches down his back, your shiny diamond ring making a few cuts of its own.

Impulsively, as his chain brushed your lips, you caught it between your teeth, Carmen’s pace slowing down. His cock twitched at the sight of his chain between your lips.

“Fuck, y’re killing me,” he huffed, dipping his head down. Letting the chain fall between you two, he connected your lips, letting the drink you had earlier mix in your tongues.

He could tell by the way you tightened around him that you were close, groaning, “Come around my cock, baby.”

Your hand found his chain once again, curling around it to pull him back on your lips. This kiss was messy, like you were teenagers again. Your skin was on fire as white-hot waves ripped through you.

Carmen’s movements became sloppy as he spilled into you.

Finally catching your breath after a few minutes, Carmy pulled you close to him, pressing a light kiss to your temple. Your fingers traced over his chest in random patterns, your ring catching the dim Chicago moonlight. Not resisting the urge to admire it further, you lifted your left hand; this didn’t go unnoticed by Carmy.

“Still like it?” he joked, thumb rubbing circles on your side.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I hate it so much. I’m only in it for The Bear’s fortune, duh.”

He let out a low chuckle, pulling you closer. “Yeah, sure. Gotta warn you, though. The Bear’s fortune is just me, a bunch of knives, and a mountain of debt.”

“Perfect,” you teased, leaning up to kiss him gently. “I guess I could settle with just you, Carm.”

The house was worse than outside.

This was the specific cruelty of a British heatwave — the houses, built for insulation, built to keep warmth in, became perfect traps for it.

The walls absorbed the heat. The ceilings held the heat. The air inside was thick and still and several degrees warmer than the air in the garden, which was itself several degrees warmer than any air a reasonable person should be expected to inhabit.

You had taken three cold showers so far.

The first at seven in the morning. The second at half past eleven. The third at two in the afternoon, standing under water so cold it took your breath, but by the time you'd dried off you were already warm again. Your body producing heat that the house simply stored, helpfully, indefinitely.

At half past three you had gone and sat in your car.

You were not proud of this.

You had sat in the driver's seat of your car in the driveway with the engine on and the air conditioning at full as your head tipped back against the headrest.

You had stayed there for forty-five minutes, which was simultaneously the most wasteful and the most necessary thing you had done all week.

The cold air had hit your face and your arms and you had felt, for the first time since the previous morning, like a person rather than a slowly melting thing.

Then the guilt about the engine and the petrol had gotten to you, and you'd turned it off.

You’d gone back inside, and the house had received you like a warm, enthusiastic relative who didn't understand personal space.

You missed the air conditioning at work with a physical, specific ache.

The office; your shitty office.

Your carpet-cleaner-scented, recycled-air, fluorescent-lit office that you had never once felt grateful for had proper climate control.

The kind that kept the temperature at a steady, glorious, life-sustaining twenty-one degrees regardless of what the atmosphere was doing outside. You had sat at your desk on Friday and felt the cool air on your arms and thought: I could stay here. I could sleep under my desk. Nobody would know.

It was Saturday now. The office was closed.

You had done what you could.

Every window in the house was open. Not that it helped, the outside air arriving with all its own heat and adding it to the existing supply.

You had frozen water bottles and placed them in front of the fans.

You had three fans; the big tower one from the bedroom, the desk fan from the spare room, and the small ancient oscillating one from the kitchen cupboard that Simon had looked at once and said needed replacing and then not replaced it.

All of them were arranged in a semicircle around the sofa, all of them on their highest setting, all of them doing their absolute best and making almost no discernible difference.

You had taken off everything except a thin t-shirt and your underwear, because dignity was a winter luxury and it was now thirty-nine degrees.

You had laid down on the sofa.

At some point, despite the heat and the fans and the general ambient misery, sleep had found you anyway.

You were asleep when Simon came home.

He smelled the heat before he opened the door.

The specific warmth of a house that had been sun-facing all day.

The smell of warm cotton and the faint electrical hum of multiple fans working harder than they were designed to. He opened the front door and it was, demonstrably, warmer inside than it had been on the pavement.

The base had air conditioning. He'd been comfortable all day, which he now registered as a kind of guilt.

The sound of the fans reached him before he'd cleared the hallway — the tower unit's low roar, the desk fan's higher whirr, the ancient kitchen oscillator doing its arthritic best — and he followed the sound to the living room doorway and stopped.

You were asleep on the sofa.

The three fans were arranged around you in a formation that he recognised, immediately, as something you had put genuine tactical thought into.

Angles considered, coverage maximised, the frozen water bottles sweating in front of each one. Your approach to problems, applied to the problem of existing in now forty degree heat.

You were in a thin t-shirt and underwear.

He could see your hard nipples through the sweat soaked t-shirt. Your legs were bare. You'd pushed the square sofa pillows to the floor at some point, presumably because fabric was an enemy today, and you were lying directly on the cool surface of the sofa cushion cover with one arm over your face and the other hanging off the edge, your fingers barely touching the floor.

There was sweat beaded at your hairline.

Simon stood in the doorway for a moment.

He was a man who had operated in desert environments. He had been in places where the heat was a physical force, a thing you moved through rather than existed in, where the air itself seemed hostile. He had acclimatised to those temperatures with the methodical efficiency he brought to everything operationally necessary.

This was different. This was you, in your living room, in your thin t-shirt, flushed and damp-haired and entirely, completely unaware of him in the doorway.

He set his bag down quietly.

He went to the kitchen. Filling a glass with cold water, the coldest the tap would give, which was not very cold, but colder than the air. He put ice in it from the freezer, the last of it, the tray almost empty. He looked at the freezer and thought about what else was in there, what could help, what you would need when you woke up.

He came back to the living room doorway.

You hadn't moved. The ancient oscillating fan turned toward you and then away and then back, doing its inadequate best. The tower unit pushed air across your legs. A small tendril of hair was stuck to your cheek, held there by the sweat.

He crossed the room, crouching beside the sofa and he looked at you the way he looked at you when you didn't know he was looking. Like you hung the moon in the sky. Like you were the best thing to ever exist.

He reached out and moved the tendril of wet hair from your cheek. Gently.

You stirred.

Your arm came off your face. Your eyes opened, slowly, the way they did when sleep had been deep rather than light. You blinked and the first thing you saw was Simon Riley crouched beside your sofa in the fan-stirred heat of your living room, holding a glass of iced water and looking at you with that expression. The one he kept for you.

"Hi," you said. Your voice was thick with sleep.

"Hi, sunshine."

He held out the water. You sat up slowly, your body registering the heat again immediately, the brief mercy of sleep evaporating and took it. The glass was cold against your palms. You pressed it to your cheek before you drank it.

"How long have you been home?" you asked.

"Few minutes."

"It's horrible," you said, with great feeling. Not at him. At the general situation. At England and its thermal inadequacy and its forty degrees and its houses that were essentially slow cookers. "I sat in the car for forty-five minutes this afternoon."

"The air con," he said with quick understanding.

"Don't judge me."

"I'm not judging you. Could never judge you love," he said. He was doing the almost-smile. You were too warm and too newly awake to be properly affected by it, but the potential was noted.

"The shower doesn't even work anymore," you said. "I mean it works but by the time I'm dry I'm already…” you sigh, “it's pointless. It's completely pointless. The house is hotter than outside. I checked. I stood in the garden and then I came back inside and the garden was cooler. Our house is generating its own heat. We're basically a radiator."

"I'll look at getting a unit," he said. Meaning an air conditioning unit. Meaning he had already, somewhere in the last thirty seconds, decided this was a problem to be solved and had begun solving it.

"It'll be winter by the time it arrives," you said. Which was probably true. British logistics and British weather and the specific comedy of their intersection.

"Probably," he agreed eyes tracking you and your movements. Something you’d had to get used to when you moved in.

You drank the water. The ice clinked against the glass. Outside, through the open window, the light was going golden in the particular way of a summer evening that would have been beautiful if you had any capacity left for beautiful.

Simon was still crouched beside the sofa.

You were in a thin t-shirt and underwear and you had been asleep and you had sweat at your hairline and your cheek still held the cold print of the water glass and your hair was doing something you were fairly certain wasn't its best work.

He was looking at you like you were the best thing he'd seen all day.

Which, given that base had air conditioning and he'd been comfortable, probably said something.

"Simon," you raised a brow.

"Yeah." He replied tilting his head to the right slightly.

"It's too hot," you said.

"I know," he nodded.

"Whatever you're thinking," you spoke carefully, "it's too hot."

The almost-smile became the real one. The rare one. The one that you had spent years of your life engineering because it was so completely, unreasonably good.

"Cold shower," he then said.

You looked at him. "What?"

"Cold shower," he said again. He stood unfolding from the crouch with the ease of a man whose body did whatever he asked it to and he held out his hand. "Come on."

"I've had three," you sighed. "They don't work. By the time you dry off—"

"You won't need to dry off."

You looked at his hand. You looked at his face. The real smile still there, and turning into a smirk. Certain and warm and very, very aware of exactly what it was doing to you even in forty degree heat.

"Simon Riley," you scoffed.

"Sunshine," his eyes tracked yours and damn it you gave in.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up from the sofa in the way he did everything; without effort, without ceremony, your weight nothing to him. As soon as you stood the heat hit you immediately, the brief mercy of the fans falling away as you moved out of their range.

“I’m sweaty,” you said. A statement of fact. A mild protest.

“I know,” he nodded.

“And disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting.” He frowned.

“Simon, I’ve been lying on that sofa since two o’clock—”

“Sunshine.” He looked at you. That look. “Come on.”

He kept your hand and he moved and you followed, through the living room and into the hall where the air was slightly cooler, marginally, just enough to notice, and up the stairs where it was warmer again because heat rose and your house was committed to the bit.

The bathroom was stifling. The small window was open and doing nothing.

The mirror above the sink had a faint fog to it that wasn’t steam, just the heat, the ambient, inescapable heat.

You caught your reflection briefly and confirmed that you looked exactly as you’d suspected: rumpled and hair doing several things at once.

Simon reached past you and turned the shower on. Cold. The pipes took a moment and then the water came through.

He looked at you.

“Still too hot?” he asked.

“Still too hot,” you confirmed.

He reached for the hem of your t-shirt and you let him pull it over your head. It pealed away from you like a second skin.

Simon repeated his actions with your underwear, getting down on his knees, still in his uniform, pulling the damp cotton down your legs and chucking them in the washing basket.

You squealed hands pushing against his buzzed head, since he was called to his last mission he had to cut it again, as he pushed his nose right against your crotch.

“Simon! That’s gross!” You whined. He slid his hands up your ass and squeezed to keep you in place as he breathed you in.

Something you’d learned about Simon, living with him for the past year, is that he is a dirty man. He loves your slick, and sweat and spit. Loves anything that comes from you. Loves your natural musk, as he so calls it.

But right now, you’d been sweating for the last six hours since your last shower at 2pm. You knew your musk was definitely stronger than usual.

Simon didn’t reply to you, he simply moved forward and licked a strip up your slit and over your clit.

“Si get off! That’s dirty!” You pushed at his head, he moved away before looking up at you with a grin.

“Taste so fucking good Sunshine.” He squeezed your ass one last time then stood grabbing your jaw and placing a kiss across your lips, “Get in the shower love.” He ordered before unbuttoning his lieutenant jacket.

You moved on autopilot the way you always did with Simon and stepped into the walk in shower. The cold water hitting your overheated skin in the best way. You closed your eyes and let your head tilt forward against the cool tiled wall.

Simon had told you he’d had to get special guys in to make this walk in shower bigger than standard size so he could be in it comfortably with you.

The water against your back felt like heaven after being in the hot heat of hell all day.

You said a little prayer in your head that tomorrow would be cooler, unrealistically that it would rain or snow. That there would be a blizzard. As long as this humid heat went away.

Simon’s large hands slid around your body, over your waist and hips, down your thighs and back up to your arms until a shiver ran down your body.

“My poor baby,” he cooed in your ear, “stuck in this heat all day. Should’ve come to my office. Could have had lunch together in my air conditioned office-“

“Fuck you.” You scoffed.

Simon’s fingers curled in your hair and pulled your head back against his chest, too tall for your head to touch his shoulder. “Then I would’ve bent you over my desk and made you cum on my cock.” He sucked your earlobe into his mouth.

“Si!” You gasp, his fingers moving over your clit now in slow circles.

“Would’ve looked so pretty with your cheek pressed against my cold metal desk. Pretty slut for me. Fuck I love this pussy Sunshine.” He groaned into your ear, kissing up your neck. “Was kept from me too long.”

Your eyes fluttered close, the way his fingers moved around your clit and the cold water trickling down your body had you moaning. Your hand pressing flat against the tiles in front of you.

“Please Si, want you.” You try to turn round but he keeps you in place hooking his arm around your waist.

“Want you to cum like this first Sunshine.” His chest rumbles as he speaks.

“Fuck.” You gasp, your chest jutting out as your back arched, hips rolling and jerking.

“Yeah that’s it. Ride my fingers lovie.” He pressed firmer against your clit, from tight circles to rubbing side to side quicker just the way he’d watched you do to yourself last week when he came home from base to find you touching yourself. He acted accordingly by wrapping his hand round his cock and telling you to keep going until you both finished.

“Pretty girl fucking herself on my hand.” He groaned, his cock pressing against your lower back. “Love you so damn much Sunshine, always look so pretty when you cum. Can’t believe I was deprived of it for so long.”

“Simon!” Your hand grips onto his arm, the one between your legs. Your stomach tightens and then it’s gone. You don’t even have time to mourn the loss because he’s turning you, picking you up and his cock slides home with one roll of his hips.

“Oh Si! Fuck,” you moan head falling back onto the tiles, your eyes rolling back with it.

At this angle he is hitting that rough spot inside you straight away and he knows it. Simon is fucking you on his cock, moving you up and down like you’re nothing. Like you weigh nothing. You’re a feather to him.

His so big, like a mammoth, he surrounds you. His scent is in your nose, his hands are on your body, his tongue is on your neck, cock is in your cunt and it’s all too much with the previous build up too.

You cum hard, white flashing in your eyes, the edges of your vision going blurry.

He fucks you through it, thrusting until he’s wrung out every last wave of pleasure, then and only then does he pull out turning you around pushing back in, fucking you from behind. Your tits pressed against the cold tiles. The cool water washing down your back and going right between where your bodies meet.

“Fuck Sunshine not gonna last long.” Simon groaned bringing his fingers back to your clit and rubbing vigorously, “cum for me again, one more time lovie.”

“Can’t! Oh fuck Simon I-“ you moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Yes you can. You can do it, fuck so tight around me,” he groaned his hips snapping faster, “you can do it Sunshine, just one more for me.” His grip on your hips tightening as he sped up making you clench around him, your stomach tightening. “Yes! That’s it Sunshine, go on love cum for me!” He moaned stilling as his orgasm hit, cum spilling inside you just as yours hit too.

Your mouth dropped open, pleasure washing over you. You panted, eyes closing while his fingers pulled the last few tremors from you.

“Cooler now?” He laughed pulling out and placing a kiss to your hair.

“Not even close.” You grinned.

—

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands rest heavy on his knees, fingers perfectly still. His eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed entirely on the curtains. He’s sinking, trapped in a gray fog where past regrets and future dread blur together into absolute nothingness.

Outside the open bedroom door, small sneakers squeak against the hallway tile.

Your five year old daughter stops in her tracks. She carries a stuffed dog by its ear, her eyes peeking into the bedroom. She watches her dad for a long moment.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't even seem to breathe.

She’s seen this look before.

She turns on her heel and runs back to the kitchen, where you’re leaning against the counter. She tugs sharply on the hem of your shirt, her brow furrowed.

"Mama," she whispers urgently, pointing a finger back down the hall. "Dada is doing it again."

Your heart aches slightly, but you don't let it show. You know exactly what she means.

You set down your mug, offering her a reassuring smile. "Is he? Well, let's go, sweet girl."

You scoop her up into your arms, settling her against your hip. She wraps her arms around your neck, burying her face for a second before looking toward the bedroom.

When you enter the bedroom, Andrew hasn't moved an inch. He looks entirely detached from his own body, a ghost sitting in a room he built.

You position her on Andrew's right, and you sit down quietly on the other side. The bed shifts, but he doesn't react.

"Hey," you say softly. "Look who found you."

Andrew doesn't turn, but a microscopic twitch in his jaw tells you he’s trying to fight his way back through the fog.

"Okay, careful, on three, babygirl," you whisper, leaning close to Andrew's side. She mimics you perfectly, leaning her small frame against his right side, her face inches from his cheek.

"One... two... three."

Simultaneously, you press a kiss to his left cheek while your daughter plants a loud and sloppy kiss on his right.

The physical contact snaps through him.

Andrew blinks rapidly, the dull film clearing from his eyes as a sharp breath hitches in his chest. His gaze lands on his babygirl's hopeful smile, and then at you.

The tension in his shoulders visibly melts away.

"There you are," you murmur, reaching up to gently cup the back of his neck, your thumb smoothing over his hairline.

Andrew swallows hard, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm firmly against his skin as if to convince himself you're actually there. He reaches out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around his daughter's waist and pulling her tightly into his chest. He buries his face in her curls, breathing her in, baby shampoo and sunshine, before looking back at you, his eyes clear and entirely present.

"I'm here," he rasps, feeling grounded.

Andrew shifts the toddler so she’s sitting right on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around her.

She looks up at him. "You were gone, Dada."

"I was," Andrew murmurs, his voice softening. He gently tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "But you brought me back."

She beams, entirely proud of her mission. She reaches up, her small hands grabbing both sides of his face, squishing his cheeks together. "Mama said we have to kiss the monsters away."

A smile breaks across Andrew’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Did she?" he asks, glancing up at you with softness.

"Mmhmm!" She nods solemnly, releasing his face to pat his nose. "Are they gone?"

Andrew catches her tiny hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss right into her palm. "Every single one. Thank you, bug."

She giggles, the sound bright and musical, and immediately squirms until she can bury her face in his neck, hugging him tightly.