Mulder and Krycek are ex-boyfriends

He watchs you adjust the padding on the barbell.

He thinks you’re just going to grab a couple of small five pound plates.

But then you bypass the smaller iron altogether, wrap your fingers around a heavy forty five pound plate, and slide it onto the sleeve of the barbell.

Then, you walk around to the other side and do the exact same thing.

You make this action three times.

He blinks, his eyes dart from the barbell over to you, then back to the barbell. He starts mentally tallying up the math.

Forty-five, ninety, one-thirty-five…

"Doll," Jack blurts out, a mix of disbelief and medical panic in his voice. "Are you sure you can lift that? How much weight is that? Is your spine okay?"

You can't help but giggle at the look on his face as you finish securing the barbell. "Yeah, baby, I'm sure. This is just my standard leg day routine."

"Your standard routine?" Jack repeats, shaking his head with a slow chuckle. He steps in a little closer, shifting his weight and planting his biological foot firmly to keep his balance steady on the rubber matting.

"Seriously, doll, your L4 and L5 vertebrae aren't crying out for mercy right now?"

"They're perfectly happy, I promise," you assure him, sliding your legs under the padded bar and setting your upper back firmly against the bench. "Just watch."

Jack crosses his arms "Alright, but if I have to wheel you into my own ER at seven o'clock tonight because you threw your back out, I am never letting you live it down."

Despite the teasing, his eyes are focused.

He watches as you take a deep breath, brace your core, and drive your hips upward. The bar rises smoothly, locking out perfectly at the top.

"Jesus," Jack mutters under his breath, the protective worry instantly evaporating into pure awe. "Where do you hide this strength, you little human?"

You push through eight clean repetitions, the burning in your muscles matching the focus in your mind. On the final rep, you hold it at the peak before letting the bar find the floor with a heavy thud.

You lean back against the bench, breathing heavily.

"I mean, I knew you were strong, but that?" Jack chuckles and gently squeezes your knee. "You just casually lock out a weight that would make half the interns at the hospital cry."

Before you can even catch your breath to tease him, his hand cups the side of your face. His thumb presses, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. There’s a sudden dark intensity in his eyes, a primal reaction to seeing exactly what you're capable of.

He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that catches you completely off guard.

It’s a sharp contrast to his usual gentle affection; it's heavy, breathless, and intensely demanding, marking his territory right there in the middle of the gym. Your hands instinctively grip his biceps, feeling the hard flex of his arms.

When he finally pulls back just an inch, his thumb strokes roughly across your lower lip. His hot breath against your skin, his eyes fixed possessively on yours.

"Mine," he whispers, his voice sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

and when another hour passed she just couldn’t focus anymore. her book long forgotten.

because every time a nurse appeared through the doors, her head lifted hopefully before sinking again.

the fever hadn't broken and if anything… it felt worse.

her body ached. her throat burned from the constant coughing, and the room was too bright and too loud.

twice she'd considered walking up to the desk and asking how much longer it would be.

twice she'd lost her nerve.

everyone else looked like they needed help more than she did anyway.

so she waited… and waited… and waited.

by the time someone finally called her name, she nearly missed it.

"miss?"

her head snapped up.

a nurse smiled.

"we've got a room for you."

relief hit her so hard she almost cried.

the exam room wasn't much quieter than the waiting room. voices carried through the hallway. monitors beeped somewhere nearby, and stretchers rolled past every few minutes.

she sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, trying not to feel overwhelmed.

was she sitting weird?

what should she say when the doctor arrives?

she sighed, closing her eyes to calm her nerves before the door opened.

a young nurse stepped inside.

"hey, i'm mateo." he offered a friendly smile while pulling up her chart and read her name aloud.

his brows furrowed, recognizing her name but he pushed it to the side as she coughed into her elbow.

“sorry.” she sniffled.

some of her tension started to ease though, because mateo was easy to talk to. he was kind and he was nice to look at.

"so..” he gave her a smile. “what brings you in tonight?"

she explained her symptoms softly.

the fever that just won’t break.

the cough.

the exhaustion.

and the fact that she had barely eaten all day— her stomach would churn and turn whenever she tried to take a bite of anything.

mateo's expression became more serious as he listened.

"how long has the fever been running?"

"um.. about three days, i’d say.”

his head lifted from the notes he took. "hmm, three days?"

she nodded, coughing in the process making her gasp for air.

“sorry.”

"have you seen anyone before tonight?" he wanted to know.

"uh no."

mateo stared. "you waited three days?"

she looked down immediately, clutching her hands tighter together.

“i thought it'd go away." she let out a nervous chuckle.

a cough following suit. she apologized again, mateo smiled, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

but before he could say anything else, movement outside the room caught his eye.

someone was passing by.

dark scrubs.

broad shoulders.

a coffee in one hand and a chart in the other.

jack abbot. his attending.

mateo looked up.

jack looked in and halted.

for a second, neither man moved.

mateo frowned in confusion.

"what?" he said to jack.

jack didn't answer.

his eyes were fixed entirely on the patient sitting on the bed. a knowing and surprised look plastered onto his tired features.

she was deathly pale.

flushed with the fever.

and suddenly mateo understood.

"oh."

the single word carried far more meaning than it should have.

because mateo knew.

he pulled it out of jack one night, after he came in for a shift with one of those schoolboy smiles— and jack never did that.

jack abbot wasn't dating her.

but mateo kept telling jack that he could if he grew some balls.

jack stepped into the room, opening the door slowly.

"what are you doing here?" his question wasn't harsh.

it was concerned.. deeply concerned.

she blinked up at him.

clearly startled to see him.

"oh! uh.. hi."

mateo physically had to stop himself from smiling.

“he’s my neighbor.” she said to explain.

mateo nodded. he already knew but he’d never tell her that.

jack crossed his arms.

"you're sick."

she looked down at her hands.

"yeah?"

"how’s the fever?"

she hesitated and gaped at mateo.

mateo answered for her.

"well, she’s had it for three days."

jack's jaw tightened.

"three days?"

she shrank visibly beneath the attention.

"i thought it would get better!”

neither of the men in front of her looked impressed.

jack rubbed a hand over his face.

for a moment he looked less like a trauma attending and more like a man trying very hard not to be worried about someone.

yet unfortunately for him, he was failing miserably.

like, really badly.

"have you eaten?"

a pause between her and mateo. jack winced.

"n-no.” she finally let out.

jack closed his eyes.

mateo immediately looked away towards the ceiling, fiddling his thumbs awkwardly because now he was witnessing something deeply personal.

when jack opened his eyes again, he looked directly at him.

"did we order labs?"

"already done."

"fluids?"

"i was about to hang them before you came in." he pointed.

jack nodded at that.

then he looked back at her.

his expression softened immediately.

"so you're gonna sit here," he said calmly, walking towards her bed.

he stoped so close that he felt her knees against his thigh and spoke again, “and you're gonna let us take care of you. and your going to stop apologizing for coughing."

her cheeks turned pink despite the fever.

because she had been apologizing.

constantly.

and of course jack had noticed.

his voice lowered.

"you understand?"

she gave him small nod.

"good."

“Seriously, how did you tame the shark?” Santos asked, as she sat down for the third time in an hour, once again attempting to catch up on her charts, “And can you get him to stop glaring at me every time he comes down for a consult.”

You laugh, “I don’t know what you mean, Trin. Park isn’t that bad, he is quite nice when you get to know him.”

“He hasn’t spoken to me in a month!”

Spinning around in your chair, you try and look serious, “Did you deserve it?”

“I mean… yeah, but still!” 

You spin back around to your own charting, “It can’t be that bad, have you tried just being nice to him first?” “No. That only works for you, because you’re so.. Sunshiney.”

“Sunshiney?” you laugh as you stand up, hearing Robby calling you from South 15. “Anyway, if you focus more on your work rather than on Park, then maybe you wouldn’t be so behind on charting.”

Santos waves her hand at you as you walk away, “Yeah, yeah, whatever”

Still laughing, you barely notice the gurney coming your way, or the fact that the paramedic moving it doesn't notice you either. Not until it comes crashing into you at full force. Subsequently, as you crumpled down to the floor, the string of expletives you let out were definitely not becoming for a doctor.

“Oh you motherfu-”

The paramedic, only then looking up from their phone, “Oh shit, are you okay?” They said as they reached down to help you help. For once, you were actually grateful for someone new to be in your space, as they hooked their arms around you and tried to hoist you back up.

Unfortunately, that meant all the weight went back onto your ankle, which you realised was sitting at a very unnatural angle. Despite it not breaking the skin, (which you are very thankful for) You could see how the bone was sitting wrong, and the quickly forming purple bruising is just a cherry on top.

“Do I look-” You start, before collecting yourself, “No I am not, look can you get me back into that chair there.”

You had been pointing to the chair you had just occupied before Santos had appeared in front of you, quickly changing your weight to be leaning on her instead of the paramedic (who had taken to just standing around with their mouth gaping. Seriously, how is this the person who is called out in emergencies?)

Finally, with someone competent, you are moved to a free bed in North 4. And before you know it you had at least three doctors and one med student all around you. It was strange, being on this side of the ER.

“What happened here?” Robby asked, pulling on his gloves as he swarmed the room, "Weren't you meant to be helping me in South 15?”

You pointed at your very bruised and crooked ankle which was being poked by Whitaker “I was until Dopey crashed their gurney into me and turned my ankle into a third grader’s art project.”

“Dopey?”

“Paramedic” You pointed to the other side of the glass, where he was still playing on his phone. “Can you just give me some tylenol so I can get back to work.”

“Nope. This needs an Ortho consult, Santos, call Park down here. Tell him it’s urgent" Robby smiled, trying to be friendly. As he turned back to you, you realised the smile was all from pure happiness. “You know, you’re not as nice as you usually are today.”

“Try having your ankle rearranged by a moving pile of metal, Robinavitch.”

“Bite me.”

Just as Robby turned to reply with even more snark, the curtain was drawn back quickly, revealing a frantic looking Dr. Park. “What happened? What did you do?”

“Why’d you assume it's me?” You say, trying to deflect some of the attention on you away. Being the centre of attention has never been your strong suit.

Brendon just pointed at your ankle as he moved around the bed to assess it. After what seemed like forever (read two minutes), he finally lowered your ankle softly down onto the bed. “Bruised, badly. But you’ll live. Now are you going to tell me what happened baby?”

You could feel the ER freeze up outside of your room at Brendon's name. You had spent years trying to hide your relationship from your coworkers, and up until now you had been doing a pretty good job. Although Brendon never seemed to be a fan in playing along.

“I fought a gurney, and lost.”

“That was clever.”

“Thank you,” you tried to smile at him, but god did your ankle hurt. Almost as if he had read your mind, he passed Whitaker an order for Morphine for you. “Stay with me?”

Brendon shifted you slightly, so he could climb into the bed and pull you into him. “Of course I will, and when the med student comes back with your prescription, I’ll take you home.”

“You know, this is all they’ll talk about for like a month solid.”

“Let them know that you're my wife. It’ll stop the interns from flirting with you.” He said in a suspiciously loud tone. Waiting a moment, he then pressed a kiss into your hair, trying to block your view of Ahmed dejectedly getting out the winnings from the betting pool. “And it’ll stop that stupid betting pool.”

“You could’ve asked them to stop, you know, they’re pretty scared of you.”

“I could have.. Although then I couldn't have placed the bet of us being married.” With that, he gave you one more kiss before standing. “I’m going to collect my winnings, I'll be back baby. Don’t move.”

Sighing, you throw your head back onto the pillow, trying to muster up the energy to be mad at him. But you couldn't because you knew what type of man he was when you married him. Well that, and the fact you know you would manage to get at least half of those winnings off Brendon before the end of the day.

masterlist

@fluentmoviequoter

not friends but also not friendly. according to you. but to those who witnessed the interactions you had with the orthopedic surgeon, thought it to be anything but that. because park the shark didn't just take time like that to entertain just anybody.

he didn't like it. it annoyed him to no end. at first. 

but you had become a familiar face for him to see each time he came to the ed. 

“I was working. something you should be doing.” park uttered drily. 

“I am working, but now you’re here and I can’t help if I’m attracted to that charming personality of yours.” it couldn’t have been said with a more deadpanned face. the look on your face almost equivalent to the one he wore daily. you swayed on foot. 

“I strive to be delightful.” he said flatly, looking away.

the side of your mouth lifts faintly, a ghost of a grin. a tired one.

he takes his gloves off, orders falling from his lips that are repetitive. expected. already knowing his expectations. so you drown him out. it begins to sound muffled in your ears. almost like when you’re under water. only resurfacing and grasping the last of his words.

“—prep for OR.”

you nod, automatically. assuming he’s referring to the amputee. but when your eyes catch his, you see he’s already looking at you. undivided attention. eyes practically pinning you to the floor. awaiting.

oh absolutely not.

your head is already shaking, beginning to understand why.

“it’s past my shift, park.” you grit.

“like I said, prep for OR.” he repeats, something he never does, and leaves. no room for arguments. you turn and watch him sail out. Your head swiveling, trying to find anyone in the same proximity as you that he might’ve been referring to. even if it was said directly to your face. you see robby, whose lips are pursed obnoxiously, shoulders shaking as he rips his own gloves off.

albeit being in the same boat you are with the amount of exhaustion, he finds it all too amusing. your eyes find his; pleading for him to do something.

he laughs harder.

“kid, you’re an attending now.”

“and you’re the chief, michael.” you make a face. trying to grasp any excuse to get him to get you out of this. his head went side to side. “technically I’m just robby right now since day shift ended a few hours ago.”

“and technically, you’re still here.” you argue. desperate. arms crossed as you look to your fellow attending.

he offers you a half shrug. “so is Abbot.”

“Abbot isn’t chief.” you were getting annoyed. more than you already were.

he gives a tired smile.

“this is what happens when you’re friendly with shark.” patting your shoulder in faux sympathy and walks out.

“we’re not friendly— oh for fucks sake.” dismissing yourself and your words as you wave it off and head upstairs.

you were awake now.

—

whatever you were feeling before surgery was nothing like what you’re feeling now.

you. were. tired.

exhausted.

eyelids heavy. eyes stinging. legs stuttering as you walked. barely even a person right now. only wanting to get to the elevator as soon as possible even if it was just a step compared to how much further you have left to get to bed.

your body leaned against the railing in there. head falling to the side as you close your eyes. briefly you told yourself. just for a little while. your body barely even responding to the doors sliding open again. someone stepping in.

“bedtime?”

if you weren’t so damn tired, you would’ve said something. told him off even. give him your famous bite me that you say all too often every time he’s in the ed. ironic given his nickname.

but you didn’t. rather than your usual jabs, you give him a faint snort. an exhausted look and a small smile to offer as you open one eye. you turn to him.

“it is past my bedtime.” you confirm with a breathy laugh.

its probably the first time park has seen you like this. no doctor front. no guard up. no you using humor as a mechanism. just you.

“not too bad up there.” he says it low. not even looking at you. referring to the surgery you just got out of. the one you pleaded at robby about. you open your eyes fully.

“I’m gonna need that in writing.” you joke. letting out another breathless laugh. park gives you a side glance.

“gotta have something to back me up when I tell everyone that park the shark was nice to me.” you shrug after explanation.

“I’m always nice to you.” he argues, poorly. drily. the words uttered as if it was obvious. the look you gave him said otherwise. “is it like a free trial period then?“

his expression changes. the movement almost missed if you hadn’t been watching him. the slight asymmetric pull to the corner of his mouth.

you broke him you think

you’re a little more awake now. too aware as you step out of the elevator.

“you off tomorrow?” he asks as he holds the elevator door. blue eyes stare back you.

“you mean today?” you correct with a lilt. head rolling to the side as you wear a satisfied grin. it was already past midnight. early morning.

the surgery had taken longer than expectated. something you couldn't refuse to jab brendon about in the OR— commenting on the many times he’s performed this type of surgery in only a few hours but can’t seem to do it now. you were sure everyone in the there held a breath. aside from the sound of the machines and your breathing, it was quiet. and instead of being met a look of a man whose skill was just insulted, they saw something else entirely. because while the staff downstairs were well aware of you and brendons interactions, upstairs had yet to see that side of him.

you liked giving the man a hard time. annoying if you must say.

you work in the same place, it’s a hospital for gods sake, you know things can happen out of nowhere, it was obviously you joking. not that anyone could tell. probably not the best time to do so either but you and park have bickered and bantered— if could call it that— in far more worse cases.

he looks unimpressed by your response.

“I am off though.” you answer, sparing him from your ways. his eyes steady, linger, before nodding.

he takes a small inhale. and then exhales through his nose. “get some sleep. I’ll call you.” park orders. tells. backs up into the elevator again and then realizes he’s not on shift so he fixes his words.

“is it okay if I call you?”

it takes a minute for your mind to catch up. lack of sleep getting the best of you in the moment. because where was he going with this?

you slowly nod.

“get some sleep then.” he offers, and leans up against the railing.

“you too, brendon.”

his eyes unwaver from yours at the use of his name falling from your lips. and just before you see him disappear behind the closed doors.

The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.

“What the fuck?”

The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.

“Um…hi?”

He does not smile back.

In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.

“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”

His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.

“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”

“It has an Ethernet port?”

He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet. 

“You work for CMU?”

“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”

He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue. 

“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.  

He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-

“What’s your dissertation title?”

“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”

“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”

“I’m s-”

He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.

“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”

He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating. 

“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”

This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:

“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.

On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does. 

“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks. 

You blink twice.

“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter. 

“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.

He nods once, as if in approval.

“Good.”

Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.

The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.

Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again. 

“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”

You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin. 

“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.

“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.

“Nope.”

He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.

“So why’d you come in the closet?”

“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”

“I do not talk to myself.”

“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”

You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.

“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.

“Park.”

The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning. 

Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace. 

A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”

“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.

Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.

You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.

“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.

Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.

“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up. 

“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”

You scowl.

“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”

He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:

“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”

You hiss of indignation. 

“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”

That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation. 

As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.

“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”

A pause.

“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”

Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh. 

“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.

He shrugs.

“Yes.”

He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.

“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”

He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away. 

“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”

“What, breathe on anything?”

Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.

If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing. 

“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”

You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.

“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.

Time feels suspended for a second.

He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.

Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.

“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”

That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it. 

“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.

You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.

Just as you’re finishing putting the remainder of your things in the cardboard box you’d brought over to your ex boyfriend’s house – though it still doesn’t feel quite real to call him that yet – you hear the garage door opening and closing beneath your feet. Shit. You hastily toss the last pair of panties you found into the box and start to head down the steps, hoping you can slip out the front door before he makes it inside.

No such luck.

Park’s pushing inside, still in his gym clothes from going after his shift, before you even make it to the bottom of the steps. He intercepts you right away. “Woah, baby, what the hell are you doing?”

You screw up your courage and reply, “I’m taking my shit and I’m going home and I’m not putting up with your bullshit anymore.”

“You’re serious?” He follows you as you shove toward the front door. “When we had that fight the other night, I thought that-”

“Was there something ambiguous about ‘if you choose work over me one more time, I’m leaving you’? Because I felt like I was being pretty clear. Rehearsed the whole thing with my therapist and everything.”

Staying barely a step behind you, he pushes, “I saw you parked down the street; at least let me carry that to the car for you. You’ll throw your back out trying to lift it like that.”

“Brendon,” you huff as you balance the heavy box in your arms, barely able to see over it while trying to resists his magnetism, “I don’t need your help.”

But he jogs around in front of you and eases it out of your hands anyway, lifting it like it’s nothing in those stupid beautiful bulky arms of his. “Come back inside and talk.”

“What’s left for us to talk about?”

Brendon shifts the weight of your things under one arm, showing off his bulging biceps that still have bite marks from you a couple nights ago. With his other hand, he reaches out and cups your face. “Baby, you don’t have to do this.”

You turn to him with shiny eyes and whimper, “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t, Bren. I really, really don’t want to. But I can’t keep going like we’ve been going.”

He repeats urgently. “Come inside with me.”

Damn him for being so perfect for you that you have no choice but to listen. Arms crossed over your chest, you follow him back through the threshold and into the living room. Park sets your box down gingerly. For a second, he gazes at the contents like it’s full of precious heirlooms and not your discarded clothes and hair ties.

Refusing to meet his eyes, you ask, “What is it, Shark?”

“Don’t call me that at home,” he murmurs back, no bite at all to the reprimand, taking your hand and bringing you close. “Don’t treat me like some stranger.”

“If you didn’t want to be treated like a stranger, then you should’ve tried spending more than one night a week with me. Maybe then-”

Brendon forces you to make eye contact, lifting your chin with his thumb and forefinger like he does before he slides his thick cock into your throat. You have to blink back the muscle memory that threatens to weaken your knees. Without pretense or prologue, he tells you bluntly, “I told Gloria this morning that I need to cut my hours back. Forty a week, maximum ten overtime. Permanently.”

That hangs in the air until your lips part open in soft surprise. The tears that have been burgeoning crest over your waterline, one movie-pretty drop falling down your cheek. Unable to muster more than a whisper, you ask, disbelieving, “You did? Really?”

“I start my new schedule two weeks from now,” he confirms, holding your face between both heads now. His eye contact is urgent; you’re always struck by just how baby blue they are when he’s working hard to be with you. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes tight. You know this is borderline impossible for him. Being vulnerable. Changing for someone else. Still, he pleads softly, “Can you just give me two more weeks? Two more weeks and we’ll eat dinner together every fucking night, okay? I’d start it tomorrow if the hospital let me, but-”

You quiet him by standing on your toes and kissing him gently. You feel all the tension in his body release at once. “All I’ve ever wanted is more of you, Bren.”

“You have all of me from now on,” he promises as his strong arms tighten around you. “I love my job. I’m fucking good at it and it’s important. But you?” He shakes his head and swallows hard. “You’re the reason I go to work at all. What’s the point of making money like that with nobody to spend it all on?”

With a glittery laugh, you tease, “You do have a tendency to spoil me.”

“Can’t blame a man for being willing to do anything to show a girl how much she means,” he replies, kissing each of your fingers in quick succession. “Gotta make sure you always feel beautiful and sexy and loved. Never gonna fuck up that last one again.”

Nibbling your lower lip bashfully, you glance up at him and ask, “Soooo…can we have make-up sex now? You’re all sweaty and pumped from the gym and I kinda just wanna eat you alive.”

Brendon cracks a smile. Without a word, he hoists you up into a bridal carry, the motion effortless right after coming home from benching 450. He hauls you up the stairs and to his bedroom, where he sets you down and kisses you hard. While your legs turn to jelly beneath you, his hands tear down the buttons of your shirt, not caring when a couple of the fastenings pop off and scatter to the ground. You pull in a breath, about to chew him out for it, but he growls in between kissing down your neck, “You know I’m gonna take you out tomorrow to every fucking store you want. Get a new shirt. Get a thousand new shirts.”

You giggle, any worry about the discarded garment dissolving as his mouth travels all over your neckand chest and shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

“God, that’s what I like to hear.” Brendon undoes your jeans quickly, the motions practiced and familiar, and roughly tugs them down your legs to help you shimmy out of them. At the same time, he strips off his tank, doing that sexy thing where he pulls it over his head by its back. He tosses it into the hamper, does the dorkiest fist pump when he makes the basket, and turns all his attention to you once more. “Yeah, I’m definitely not giving up my babygirl for some job, not even one I spent fifteen years working toward.” He turns you around toward the mirror, grip forceful with adoration, and runs his hands over your bare stomach. As his fingers dig into the curves of your stomach and hips, he groans, “C’mon, just look at you. I’d be a fucking idiot to do anything that loses you.”

Meeting his eyes in the mirror, you raise an eyebrow and challenge, “You are a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, I know,” he laughs, the sound warm and rumbling. You watch his hands travel upward, toward your bra cups, frowning at the thick fabric separating him from what he wants. Then he bends down slightly and undoes your bra clasp – with his teeth. Shark indeed. With his erection pressing hard against the fold of your ass, he cups your tits reverently and purrs, “There she is. Perfect little thing, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly little, Sharkie,” you tease as he greedily grabs the fullness of your ass, your love handles, your tits. Everything he can reach and then some.

He bites your ear – almost hard enough to hurt – and croons, “Exactly how I like my woman.”

Spanking your ass hard, Brendon pushes you toward the bed and tosses you onto your back. His California king mattress springs to catch you, perfectly fluffy just how you like. He let you pick out his mattress because he cared so much more about your comfort than his own. His fingers hook beneath your panties and he tugs them down before roughly pushing your knees apart.

At the sight of your slick cunt, Brendon jokingly falls to hs knees and crosses himself. “Thank you, lord, for this meal I’m about to eat. May it nourish my body when she cums all over my mouth. Amen.”

“Your mother would have a heart attack,” you laugh as Park drops to his knees at the end of the bed. He loops his arms under your knees and yanks you easily to the end of the bed so his face is even with your clit.

Brendon’s breath ghosts up your soaked folds, making you squirm with need. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” Two of his fingers slide up your slit, gathering your wetness and slowly, so slowly pushing inside of you. Even though you’re used to him – everything about Brendon Park is thick, including his fingers – the stretch still makes you groan. “That’s right, baby. Just let me take care of you.” As he begins to curl the fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, he explains diligently, “Now, I owe you one big goddamn apology. So you’re gonna cum three times and then I’m taking you to dinner wherever you want. Got it?”

Not that there’s ever any point in arguing with him, you breathe, “I think I can do that.”

“You want in on the action, sunshine?”

Trinity’s voice pulls you from the haze of the chart you haven’t really been paying attention to for the last ten minutes.

You blink a few times – the end-of-shift blurries are definitely getting you – and ask graciously, “Hm?”

Trinity presents you with a crumpled sheet of notebook paper with a list of names and numbers, a common sight at the Pitt. “Rumor has it that that hot scary ortho doctor-”

“Doctor Park,” Dennis says. “Park the Shark.”

“Right. Doctor Park. Whatever.” Trinity waves him off and explains, “The nurses are saying he’s been taking more consults down here because he’s trying to fuck one of us.”

You swallow hard at the idea, trying to pretend it doesn’t break your heart a teensy bit to think that one of your new coworkers has caught the eye of the one man who actually makes you swoon when he walks through the door. You worked under Dr. Park for a few months and it’s taken about 90% of your brain power to conceal your humongous crush on him. “One of who, exactly?”

Samira rolls her eyes at your apparent naivety and clarifies, “Someone who works in the Pitt, obviously. Smart money’s on Baran.”

“Dr. Al-Hashimi?” You pinch your eyebrows together and try to picture it. “Why her?”

“Y’know, she’s kind of intense the way he is,” Samira offers. “Doesn’t take shit. Knows when to tell people to shut the fuck up.”

Trinity shakes her head like she’s really and truly disappointed. “It’s gotta be Walsh. Nobody else is as mean as him except for her.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want someone mean,” you suggest meekly. It’s a sad, pathetic expression of hope. “Maybe he needs someone who would balance him out.”

“Nope, that’s a man who needs a woman who he can get in screaming matches with.” Trinity shakes her head. “You’re too nice for this bet.”

You cross your arms over your chest and huff, “That’s not true. Den, who’d you put money on?”

Dennis shrugs and says, “Abbot.”

Samira spits half her Gatorade and snorts out a laugh. “Why does that actually make sense?”

“It’s probably Al-Hashimi,” Dennis reasons, “but the market was already oversaturated on her, so I wanted to diversify my portfolio.”

Trinity claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s your $25 to kill.” Then she levels a look at you and presses, “You know him the best since you spent so much time on ortho. Could be easy money. Last chance.”

“I’ll pass.” You grimace and blink hard a few times to clear your thoughts and the tears that you definitely aren’t going to shed over something so lame in front of your colleagues. Desperate to get away from the whole topic, you mutter weakly, “I have to check on my patient in twelve before shift change.”

But, because you have the luck of a cursed child in a haunted house movie, the man himself is standing right by twelve, where you don’t have a patient but had planned to have a quick cry. God, he looks handsome today. His arms bulge out of his scrubs and he has a clean shave that highlights his square jaw and-

“Hey, kid, been a minute.”

You clutch your chart to your chest like a shield. “Hi, Dr. Park. Is there something I- we- Um. Sorry. Are you looking for someone?”

“Yeah, actually,” he confirms, eyes darting around, settling anywhere but your face like he can’t even stand the sight of you. “Dr. Al-Hashimi paged me down for a consult.”

“Right. Dr. Al-Hashimi.” You think about the betting pool and do your best to manage something other than crestfallen as you suggest, “She’s great. Smart. Pretty.”

“Ah, sure, I guess,” he replies with an absent shrug. Then he finally meets your eyes and says simply, “You know you can call me Brendon now, right? Not your boss anymore.”

Your heart stammers and you force it to stop, replying, “I’m still a resident and you’re still an attending.”

“But not your attending.” He cracks a quarter of a smile, which is a lot for him, and adds, “That’s an important distinction.”

“Why would that matter to-”

Baran’s voice pulls his attention away from you. “Dr. Park, there you are. You’ve gotta see the state of this femur.”

Dr. Al-Hashimi nods him over and you watch him walk away with yearning in your eyes.

Shift change can’t come soon enough. Thank god you’re on your bus home before you have to watch him interact with Baran. You really can see the two of them together. She’s so beautiful and accomplished and you’re just…you.

Your phone buzzes as the bus squeals up to your stop.

Of course it’s Park. Why would it be anyone else? The hospital humiliation ritual of the day couldn’t possibly finish just because you’re home now.

>> Wish we talked before you left.

>> Miss you on ortho.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard the entire walk from the bus stop to your apartment building, debating what to say or if you should respond at all. Ultimately you decide against it; you have the whole weekend off and spending 48 hours eating your feelings and crying to romcoms will fix whatever’s wrong with you. Pining is not your style.

After ordering takeout and slipping into ratty old pajamas, you begin the process of merging with your bed for the weekend, putting on When Harry Met Sally to remind yourself that sometimes it takes people a decade to realize who they’re supposed to end up with. You can make it a decade. You’re young. You’re definitely not withering away toward being barren and alone like your mother makes it sound.

The doorbell rings and you rifle around the kitchen for cash to tip the delivery guy. Opening it up with a sigh, an apology is already halfway out of your mouth when you see Brendon park. It takes you fifteen seconds to clean your jaw up from the flor.

Park’s arms are crossed tightly over his broad chest as he says in lieu of greeting, “This is completely and totally inappropriate and unacceptable.”

“What are you…?” Your head tilts to the side in a way so cute it makes Brendon want to crush you to death. “You’re at my apartment.”

He nods once. “Glad your eyes still work.”

You study his perpetually unreadable expression. “Who buzzed you in?”

After a brief pause, he admits, “I waited until someone came home and told them I lost my key.”

“That’s probably illegal.”

“Probably.”

“How did you find my address?”

“I walked you home once,” he says softly. Reminiscing. “Early in your residency.”

That night is burned in your memory, but you figured he forgot. You’re not exactly memorable as far as his life goes, you’re sure. The buses were out of service because of a strike and Park said he didn’t want you walking alone at night even though it was barely seven. He was silent most of the walk, but occasionally he’d murmur little life-changing things. You did great setting that jaw fracture. You really brighten up the OR. I’m glad you’re on my rotation.

It meant a lot to you because, well, Park the Shark isn’t nice. Except every once in a while and except to you.

You bite your lower lip to suppress a girlish smile. “You remembered where I live from that?”

“I remember everything.” When it comes to you.

Another silence. He doesn’t seem to get that it’s on him to explain himself, which is the most Park thing he could possibly do. He’s so sure of his presence in every space he occupies. You wring your hands. “Okay, so, um, why are you at my apartment?”

He swallows, startling a bit like the question came out of nowhere. Still, he explains quickly, “The small nervous doctor asked me if I was interested in Dr. Al-Hashimi. The one with the sad eyes and the hunch.”

“Oh.” Your throat tightens at the idea of that conversation. “Um, Whitaker?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Shifting his immense weight from foot to foot, Park goes on, “I asked why in god’s name he would think it’s okay to ask me that, obviously, because what the fuck? I guess Robinavitch doesn’t teach boundaries down in daycare. So he tells me that there’s a ‘betting pool’-” big sarcastic finger quotes “-about who in the emergency department I have a crush on because I’ve been taking more consults personally lately instead of sending someone else down.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Betting is a big thing in the ED for some reason. I think it makes them feel better. They asked me to put money in.”

“I know. The snarky one told me you wouldn’t. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.” You stare down at your puppy slippers, suddenly very aware of the fact that cool air in the hall has made your nipples hard and you’re in boyshorts which are basically panties so, frankly, you might as well be naked. You always feel naked in front of him. You awkwardly maneuver your arms to cover your chest and try, “So…you came here to talk to me about it?”

“Right.” Park reaches into his back pocket, removes a wad of cash in all different bills, and thrusts it toward you. “The point is, it’s you. I collected the winnings on your behalf.”

The floor unzips beneath you as you tentatively take the money from his hand simply because you can tell he’s not going to put it away. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been taking more consults to the Pitt because I miss you. I’ve never missed a student before when they left my rotation. But without you next to me, I feel…wrong” He gestures like ‘I don’t even know.’ “I’m not good at talking about my feelings. You know that. But if ‘a crush’ is what it means when you want someone by your side all the time and hate when they aren’t there, then that’s what I feel for you.”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“That’s okay. Me neither.”

After a moment, you step back into your apartment and open the door wider. “Do you want to come inside?”

“Definitely.”