The room smells like antiseptic wipes, athletic tape, and that cold rink smell that seems to cling to him no matter where he goes. She stands between his knees with a roll of tape in one hand, her thumb pressing lightly along the front of his shoulder as she checks the angle, and Garrett, who’s been hit by men twice his size without blinking, goes very still.

She glances up. “That hurt?”

His eyes come to her face, mouth already threatening a grin. “No. I’m being brave.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Those can overlap.”

She huffs a laugh and tears off a strip of tape with her teeth because the scissors have vanished again, probably into whatever black hole also consumes pens and dignity in this office. Garrett watches her do it with an expression that’s trying for casual and missing by several miles.

“You know,” she says, smoothing the tape down over his skin, “at some point, people are going to start thinking you’re getting injured on purpose.”

Garrett’s brows lift. “People?”

“Me. I’m people.”

“Pretty serious accusation.”

She laughs softly before she can stop herself, and Garrett’s grin softens into something stupidly pleased, like getting that sound out of her has been the actual rehab goal all along. 

It makes her look back down too fast, fingers pressing the edge of the tape into place with more care than strictly necessary. His skin is warm under her hands, solid and distracting, and she can feel him watching the concentration settle over her face.

“There,” she says, stepping back half an inch. “You’re good.”

Garrett looks at his shoulder, then back at her. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So I’m cleared?”

“For practice? Yes.”

“For dinner?”

Her hands pause around the tape roll. Garrett’s grin wavers just slightly, which is the first interesting thing he’s done all afternoon. 

“With me,” he adds, like she might think he’s asking her to dinner with the entire men’s hockey roster and a bag of ice packs.

She looks at him for a second too long. The office hums around them, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, someone laughing down the hall, a skate blade clattering somewhere in the equipment room. Garrett sits there half-taped and too handsome for anyone’s academic focus, trying to look like this doesn’t matter when the tips of his ears have gone faintly pink.

Her mouth curves before she can make it behave. “Is your shoulder going to survive that?”

His grin comes back, bright and relieved. “Might need supervision.”

“Mm.” She reaches out and presses one last firm piece of tape down, mostly because his face does something lovely when she steps close again. “One date, Graham.”

“One date,” he says, nodding like he’s negotiating a contract he already intends to renew. “Very medical. For continuity of care.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now, warm all the way through her chest. “Pick me up at seven.”

Garrett slides off the table, careful not to brush her and absolutely aware of how close he comes anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop faking injuries.”

He pauses at the door, looking back over his shoulder with that stupid golden-boy grin doing terrible work in the middle of his face. “After dinner?”

She throws the empty tape core at him.

He catches it, because of course he does, laughing as he backs into the hall. “Worth a shot.”

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Brendon Park was notoriously an asshole. everyone who worked at the PTMC knew that first hand. he could make you cry with just a single, unimpressed stare. he knew he was one. It came with the job of being a surgeon.

Surgery required the upmost precision because the human body was a machine. It required perfection and nothing less.

With a high stress job that required him to be perfect in every single aspect that he did, he expected the same thing from his colleagues. Including naive, stupid medical students and residents. He had no patience for incompetence-excuses.

Perfection meant everything to Brendon. It meant that there was no room for mistakes. Mistakes were a luxury reserved for people who weren't good enough. Every single decision made in his OR had to be deliberate.

Every incision had to be exact. He expected-no, he demanded excellence because anything less than that had consequences.

Residents called him ruthless. Others called him an asshole. What they failed to realize was that he simply had standards. Standards that they failed to reach. If they wanted him to coddle them, they should've chosen a different field of medicine. If they wanted encouragement, they should've stayed downstairs and sought out Abbot or Robby.

Because to him, excellence was expected not rewarded.

He had no time for coddling. He had no time for making other's feel better about themselves for their lack of discipline. He wasn't interested in intentions, potential, or excuses. Results and accuracy were all that truly mattered to him. The operating room wasn't a classroom. It certainly wasn't a therapy session. It was a place where the excellent thrived. It was a place where if you hesitated, you were done. It wasn't a place for the ordinary.

Because patients did not care if a resident's feelings were hurt. They did not care if you thought, if you didn't know, if Brendan looked at you like you were nothing.

What they cared about is if they would be able to walk again. They cared about whether their arm would be back to normal. They cared about whether they could play football again—if their career could potentially be over.

If someone couldn't handle criticism (and disdain in Brendan's case), then they had no business being in his OR. The scalpel didn't care about feelings. Anatomy didn't care about feelings. The unconscious patient with an amputated arm certainly did not care about feelings either.

And most importantly, neither did Brendon.

Because if he smelled a single hint of hesitation, then he was out for blood. Hesitation meant uncertainty. It meant that there was gaps in your knowledge that needed to be filled before you even stepped into his OR.

It meant that you didn't study enough, weren't prepared enough, and hadn't practiced enough.

You were simply not enough.

And Brendon did not need someone in his OR, being uncertain. Uncertainty led to mistakes. Mistakes that could have been prevented if you didn't second-guess the knowledge that should have been drilled within you before you entered his OR.

And for that matter, he expected excellency.

Orthopedics was precision. Measurements mattered.

Alignments mattered. Angles mattered. If a screw is placed a few millimeters off, a reduced fraction would not heal properly. It would be permanent. It would mean patients would live with the consequences that was created in his OR after everyone else got to go home like nothing.

He had spent years of studying until the backs of his eyes burned and until his mind felt numb. Years of refining techniques, repetition after repetition, understanding the human physiology-until precision stopped becoming an effort. It became natural to him and expectation.

And everyday, he maintained that standard. He expected the same thing from his residents, his fellows.

In his field, there was no room for guesses or approximations. A crushed femur or patella wasn't fixed with intention. It was fixed with alignments, measurements, and perfect execution. Because millimeters, angles, alignments, and stability mattered the most. Every single screw that's required to stabilize a bone had its own purpose. Its own position. Every reduction of a fracture had to be exact.

Years ago, when he had made a mistake-small, practically insignificant, fixable, and forgettable in everyone's eyes.

But he remembered it clear as day.

He corrected it immediately. His old attending-now retired-had laughed and patted him in the back. It's okay, he had said. Years of teaching unprepared, unconfident residents had made him accustomed to seeing mistakes.

But it wasn't okay. Not to Brendon at least. It didn't make him breathe easier knowing that his old mentor wasn't upset. It ruined his day. And he punished himself internally for making a simple, insignificant mistake.

He never made another one after that.

So yes, while his standards and expectations may be exceedingly high and unattainable in many eyes-Brendon saw no reason to lower them. He believed patients deserved excellence and nothing less. No one should expect that from him either.

He was respected, feared, and avoided. His word was absolute-it was law. Residents learned quickly to steer clear of him, to speak when spoken to, and to keep conversations very brief. He didn't want to have small talk. He wasn't interested in knowing how your day was or how you were doing today.

He preferred to conversations that were purely medical, nothing personal. It had to be the point, precise, and clear. Because if something could be said in five words easily, then it was unjustified for you to speak ten more.

And according to the unlucky ones, asking him if he had any plans on Christmas was apparently enough to land you on his shit list.

His OR wasn't silent because he expected silence. It was only silent because he was silent. The only noise that was constant was the sound of him brutally hammering a screw into the bone and the sound of music playing.

Music that depended entirely on his mood.

On very rare occasions, he did allow you, the anesthesiologist, to choose. Those were rare occasions.

Those were not moments of generosity. They were controlled exceptions and were rare for a reason.

(The day this happened, it took an ounce of willpower for the surgical crew to not openly gape at Brendon. To them, this was an act of generosity. They understood this was Brendon playing nice. A form of an olive branch. He was being nice!)

It wasn't a courtesy, or a gesture of familiarity but because you had earned a level consistency he respected. Because you both had a mutual understanding of precision, perfection. Your decisions were consistent. They were precise. You did not hesitate when it mattered and you didn't speak when it didn't.

You understood what needed to be done and you never faltered in your decision-making.

Everything you did was concise. Your actions were deliberate. Controlled. It did not matter if it challenged the dynamics of his OR. If it was correct, than it stood.

You did not disrupt it without reason.

He recognized the type of person you were because he was exactly like you. While he had his expectations in his department, you had yours within yours. He's seen you with your own students. You weren't as harsh as Brendon but your words carried their own weight. You didn't just correct mistakes, you exposed them. They lingered. They hurt. And your residents remembered them long after the moment had passed.

You upheld your own expectations. You wanted just as much perfection as Brendon because patients deserved excellency. They did not deserve mediocrity. They did not need to hear excuses. Because they did not care what you felt or what you thought. They cared if they would survive a surgery, if the operation succeeded, if they would feel the pain that would come from a scalpel under anesthesia. Because they trusted you with their lives.

Therefore, they deserve nothing but the best. More than the best.

You're sitting in your chair by head of the operating table, next to your anesthesia machine and monitors. You have a cross word puzzle book in your lap, held steady your pink clipboard. Like every other anesthesiologist, you're calm. But not in the way you blend into the background.

It's more deliberate than that. Your presence is quiet, not absent.

You do not position yourself to be noticed unless the situation requires it. You do not fill the silence with unnecessary speech like other anesthesiologists. You stay within your means, crossing out words with your pink highlighter, anchored to head of the table.

He's in the middle of reducing a fracture fragment when Brendon inhales sharply through his nose at the sight of blood filling the surgical field.

Immediately the sound of beeping fills the room. The numbers of the monitor are dropping significantly. You lower your puzzle book down on your chair. Your eyes shift to numbers beside, focused and immediate. You stand up.

Everyone near Brendon stiffens. They recognize it instantly that something was going wrong. You gaze over the surgical curtain and look at Brendon.

"BP's dropping." You state calmly.

He doesn't look at you. His eyes never stray away from his hands and what he's mechanically doing with them.

Without breaking a sweat or focus. Brendon motions to his surgical tech.

"Gauze."

There's a brief hesitation before she places it in his hands. He looks at her briefly, scrutinizing her for daring to even hesitate.

She freezes and quickly mutters a quiet, "Sorry.." He ignores her apology and continues what he's doing.

Again, you're looking at the monitors before looking back him. "Saturation is at 92."

"Noted." He says. He continues what he's doing. He's done this multiple times. He knows what he's doing and he knows what the numbers on the monitors say.

He doesn't panic, he isn't worried. He could tell that the resident next to him is sucking in his breath, sweating profusely. If he wasn't so focused, he'd roll his eyes. Fear would only cripple you in these case. And that meant making mistakes because you can't think.

You're still standing, staring at him expectantly as he works diligently to fix the current issue.

"BP is still trending down. 88 systolic."

"Cause?" Again, his eyes still don't stray away to look at you.

“Likely retraction. Volume is unchanged." You respond.

"Ease retraction."

The resident holding the retractors hesitates for only a second before he complies, loosening his hold. This mere second was enough for him know that hesitation didn't go unnoticed. He knows-just as everyone in the room knows-that this will be corrected later. Outside this room, in a different context, there will be consequences.

The sound of rushed beeping slowly dissipates into a more rhythmic sound. You look at the monitor one last time. Satisfied, you give a small nod at Brendon before grabbing your pink clipboard, then sit back down in the chair.

For a fraction of a second, his gaze wanders and it lands on you. You’re sitting there, pink highlighter in your hand as you cross out another word. You’re composed and unaffected by the tension that follows him.

It's silent again in the room. The only constant is the music. Tension and perhaps anxiety lessens in small increments. Even the resident exhales a small, very quiet sigh of relief and his shoulders lower.

Outside of his service, the silence was never the same.

You weren't always the anesthesiologist that would be assigned to his cases. Sometimes you were pulled in at nights with Walsh. Other times, you would be with Shamsi. Normally it was for a day where you wouldn't be on his case. It was never more than a day.

It often varied. You didn't seem to mind. You liked the variety. Every surgeon was different and the music taste was sometimes interesting.

But people began to notice something. When you weren't assigned to his case, the difference in Brendon was immediate.

Resident's noticed first. They noticed how the atmosphere shifted, how it deteriorated quickly under him if your presence wasn't there to stabilize the rhythm of the room. Small mistakes seemed to be corrected loudly. His silence was heavier, borderline uncomfortable. It was demanded.

Unfortunately for them, you wouldn't be on his cases for a week or maybe longer. You'd been on call for the night shift. It was then that they truly noticed the change in his behavior.

He became worse.

Your absence became the bane of residents' existence.

His OR, despite already having its own expectations, became brutal. It was unforgiving in the way where the most experienced scrub nurse that had been working under Brendon for years began to hesitate. Residents quickly learned that during your absence, things like breathing too loudly or moving too slowly would be enough to be scrutinized.

Sometimes, it would be enough for them to get removed off the case.

Brendon knows something is wrong with him. He understands that his behavior has been borderline aggressive, even for his standards. He finds himself feeling irritated by little things. Residents have been dismissed for insignificant mistakes he normally would have corrected. His routine felt disrupted and he didn't know what it was that was causing it.

At first, he blamed the cases. Then the residents. Then it was the schedule.

Until he caught himself lifting his gaze lift from his surgical field to the head of the operating table. Again.

And again, every single surgery. Only to find a different anesthesiologist sitting there. Not you.

Every time he would enter his OR, his eyes would instinctively search for your pink clipboard that would be balanced on your lap. Instead he was greeted by a book of sudoku.

The irritation would unfold almost immediately.

Brendon Park does not do idle chit chat. That is well known amongst his peers and those that work under him. He does not care about what is polite and what isn't. He doesn't care about how you are doing. He does not care about what your plans for Fourth of July will be.

He cares about getting to the point without beating around the bush. He cares about clarity and things that could be said within five words or less. He wants to know the vitals of patients. Whether the amputation sight was clean. What bones required surgeries.

But he finds himself wanting to speak to you. To indulge in the simplicities of small talk. Of knowing how your day is going. If you had any plans for Fourth of July. His interactions with you outside of the OR become simple.

Questions that are direct, they're straightforward and they wouldn't beat around the bush.

Of where you were. Of who had stolen you from right under his nose for their own needs.

He finds you sitting in the nurses' station in his department on a chair with a tablet in your hands. Next to you is a cup of coffee, to which he identifies is from the break room. Your pink clipboard is also next to you.

"You weren't on my service last week."

You look up upon hearing his deep voice and small smile appears on your face once you realized it was him. It's subtle. Uncomplicated. He thinks that you look beautiful.

The realization is immediate and unwelcomed. It makes him clench his jaw.

You turn your body fully to him and lower your tablet down to give him your full attention. If you're surprised that he started a conversation with you, you don't show it.

Most people did.

You look tired. Not physically tired-though he's sure that you are-but weighed down in a way he doesn't know how to identify. The bags under your eyes are slightly darker than usual. Your shoulders seem to carry a tension that certainly wasn't there a week ago.

He noticed it immediately from just this interaction. It's just noticeable. It's a detail that he's sure other surgeons would be able to notice. Small details, minor deviations, out of the norm. Just a change that other's possibly overlooked.

He hadn't.

A part of him questioned why he paid so much attention to this. He didn't remember the last time he paid this much attention to anyone outside of his OR.

Because that's what made him a good surgeon, he reason. Able to notice minute details like this while other's couldn't. That's all it is. It's so obvious.

"No, I was on call for nights."

"Neurosurgery?" He asks.

You blink in surprise. You didn't think he noticed you.

Rather, you didn't think he even cared enough to notice.

You nod in response, unsure whether to answer him vocally. The rumors of Park The Shark and his issues with small talk didn't go unheard for you.

Brendon studies you for another moment. He wants to ask you things. Things that were uncharacteristic of him.

Subjects that he normally strayed away from because he didn't care to know. But he wants to know. He wants to know so terribly that it's leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth. That makes him want to smack himself in front of a mirror because he isn't like this.

Past romantic interactions like this never left him like this. He feels like his body is malfunctioning and that he needs to somehow perform a factory reset because - this isn't him.

Attraction was simple. It was predictable. It was easy to understand and compartmentalize.

"You look exhausted." There is no sympathy in his tone.

It was a statement of fact. It was an easy observation.

The same way he could easily identify a hairline fracture on an x-ray.

Yet, this doesn't feel like it's meaningless.

Your smile widens into something more. He doesn't know how to describe it. It's genuine, he supposed. It's terrifyingly beautiful. He feels hooked, lost in it.

"I'm exhausted, yes. The night shift does that to you, yknow? Especially having to listen to jazz on repeat for days."

A grin pulls at your lips.

"I think I still prefer your playlist a lot more than other surgeons so far. Dr. Park."

You tilt your head up and look at him. And you really do look at him, your eyes scan his stone-cold face and observe him. You take all of him in. You're not afraid of him. You don't look like you want to run away from this interaction. Your shoulders are relaxed and you lean into your chair more as you really look at him.

You're amused. "I actually feel alive in your OR, Dr. Park."

Brendon stares at you. For a moment, he forgets to answer. The sense, the feeling of malfunctioning is stronger now. It's almost like he is unable to respond.

Which is the most concerning because he always has a response.

Finally, he inhales through his nose.

"That's because my playlists are actually better."

These words left him before he could think. Before he could stop himself from speaking them. It was dry, so matter-of-fact. He realized too late that it was his lame attempt at a joke. At teasing. But the horror is instant.

A brief moment of silence.

Your eyes widen ever so slightly for only a fraction of a second. A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

Brendon doesn't react outwardly. But he registers the way your expression shifts from recognition to amusement.

He had made a joke. You laugh once more much more quietly until you settle down with a soft smile on your lips. You look like you've accepted something that he hasn't.

"Oh, yeah? I'll trust your medical opinion on that then." Brendon exhales through his nose but the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly. A detail that didn't go unnoticed by you.

The interaction didn't take long for it to be shared amongst his department. It only took one nurse and a resident to notice. A shift in tone they weren't supposed to notice. A sound that didn't belong in the halls that Brendon Park walked in. Laughter was shared between nurses, techs, and residents. It was never shared with Dr. Park.

But curious minds that had nothing better to do stayed curious.

They spoke in hallways. In the break rooms. In shared on-call rooms.

"Did you hear that Dr. Park made a joke?"

"What- There's no way!"

"Well, she laughed."

"And he smiled!"

A pause. A beat of disbelief. To them, it was just a rumor A pause. A beat of disbelief. To them, it was just a rumor made by one bored nurse and resident. Because there was no way that the renowned, asshole of an orthopedic surgeon with a major stick up his ass was capable of cracking a joke. Let alone making someone else laugh.

Or even smile.

But the consensus amongst his residents was clear.

"Brendan Park-The Shark-practically smiled."

The news spread quickly like rumors often do in hospitals. He hears about it the same way he hears other rumors. Indirectly. It starts with an R4 hesitating to speak to him. A nurse nearly smiles at him before deciding not to.

Even Abbot and Robby pause when they see him in the corridor of the ED. A joke was forming between them-Brendon can clearly see the way they glance at each other with knowing smirks.

But it never comes out. They focus on the incoming trauma that they called him to look over. He registers the way Ahemed tries to shift his position in front of the betting board. The way Perlah, Santos, and Princess stare at him and whisper to each other in Tagalog. The word "anesthesiologist" doesn't go unnoticed by him either.

He continues moving through the department as he always does-precise and unaffected in appearance. This was out of his control. Things were unraveling and he already disliked it.

He's sure you're aware of it as well.

If the way you looked at him sometimes-amused, calm, and equally unaffected by whatever everyone around you was overanalyzing —is any indication. You meet his gaze too easily in passing corridors. Long enough to mean something between the two of you. But not long enough for others to deem is provocative.

Because you both move on as if it meant nothing. As if it was just two colleagues greeting each other politely.

This, specifically more than anything, was what made people notice.

You smile when he nods at you in greeting. It's brief, practically unnoticeable because of the way your expression smooths over as if your smile was never there to begin with. It was deliberate. It was for him to notice.

But your residents noticed. They quickly pick up on it first. A glance of one of your R2s in his direction then one towards you when you pass by. Some will look at both you for a brief second before looking back down to their charts with a knowing smile.

As of now, you look better than the last interactions you've had. Your shoulders no longer seem to bear that tension you had before. He pauses in his stride as you both come across each other in an empty corridor.

"Dr. Park," you greet him. Your expression is composed-professional-but the small smile that seemed to be reserved only for him flickers in and out before you suppress it.

He nods at you. "Tomorrow. You're on my service."

You let out a soft exhale that resembled a quiet laugh, your smile widens briefly.

"You're getting very predictable, Brendon."

You said his name. It's simple. Casual but lands with more weight than it should. Brendon stops and for a moment, what he feels is akin to a robot malfunctioning—he really looks at you. His head is turned slightly to stare at you. He doesn't speak. He simply takes all of you in.

It's affecting him in a way he doesn't have a logical explanation to. He is well aware that these new found sensations in his body are becoming exceedingly difficult to compartmentalize, which is the problem. Because Brendon Park does not operate without it.

For the first time again, he isn't sure how to respond None of the options in his head feel correct. He could ignore it. He could pretend that he didn't hear the way his name rolls off the top of your tongue perfectly.

You hold his gaze, knowingly.

"Don't use my name like that." He isn't reprimanding you. He isn't upset by the use of his name. It's a more of a constraint for him. A warning of what would happen if you continue doing it.

You tilt your head slightly. You're clearly amused by him again. You don't step back or get intimidated by his response. You should. Everyone else would. You're studying him and it feels like you're stripping him down to his core. Like you know what he truly meant.

Somehow, he feels that's worse.

Brendon sharply inhales through his nose, his eyes still haven't left yours. A beat passes by.

"...Not here."

He doesn't elaborate any further. He doesn't explain what these last two words truly mean. He continues walking to the opposite direction of you. Leaving you left to your own thoughts, amusement rather.

His next surgery is with you. It's on Wednesday.

He knows this because he looked at the OR schedule ahead of time. Once. Then once more. Then again. Until he was positive that no one had changed your name overnight. He knows his behavior is ridiculous. It's unbecoming of a surgeon of his caliber.

Brendon Park does not need to double check a surgery schedule. He looks at them once and memorizes them and moves on. There was no need for him to triple check if your name was there.

You are assigned to his case and that should be the end of it.

But it isn't. Because he finds himself looking forward to seeing you in your chair and your pink clipboard. Seeing you cross out words you found in your crossword with the bright neon pink highlighter you always bring. To see the way you would smile at him-subtle and only meant for him. You are aware of the effect you have on him.

But seeing your name on his cases isn't important as the real reason he's been checking your schedule. For the past few weeks, everyday. And everyday for these past few weeks, you both had different days off. Nothing was aligned and lately, his residents have noticed the mood he's been in because of that.

But today he checked the schedule. Every Sunday, the schedules get updated. And immediately he goes to find your name-hoping to find aligned days off.

You're both walking out of his OR simultaneously down the corridor that led you to the elevator. You're both silent but maintaining the aura of professionalism you both normally keep. He waits to say something until you're both in the elevator.

"You have tomorrow off." He states. "And the day after."

Matter-of-fact as always. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It was accurate. It was direct. He knew your schedule because he memorized it.

You blink at him and you nod, slowly and for the first time-you are confused. This dance between the two of you has been predictable, in a way. You have learned the language that comes with understanding Brendon Park.

The nuances and the significance of his words, his attention.

You're not understanding him. His jaw clenches and he exhales slowly.

"You've been working a lot of hours." Brendon says. "Too many, actually."

And immediately, the fact was wrapped with concern.

No, it was care. His wording was precise. It was deliberate like it always was with Brendon. You finally understand and you look at him with more than amusement, you smile. This time it's wide and it wasn't subtle. It was loud.

You're beautiful, he thinks.

"You know, normal people would just ask me to get dinner, Brendon."

Brendon pauses and he stares at you. His gaze is heavy and his fingers twitch. He's sure of himself this time. For the first time, he knows exactly what he wants to say.

There is no hesitation. No uncertainty that would cloud his judgement and years of knowing. For the first time in a long time of knowing you, the answer comes easily.

"Would you say yes?"

You grin widens instantaneously. Finally, no more subtle glances in the OR. No more interpreting intent and words like they contained double meanings. No more pretending that what this is was purely professional.

Especially when the lines of professionalism have slowly blurred for the both of you.

You bring your palm forward and you squeeze his bicep.

You're bold but it doesn't matter anymore. Not when he already has the words he wants to say. The feelings he wants to express.

"What do you think?" You ask teasingly.

"You've been checking my schedule for weeks, haven't you?"

Brendon closes his eyes and exhales loudly. Then for the first time since you've known him, he looks at you with almost fondness mixed with exasperation.

"My schedule hasn't lined up with yours."

You stare at him with awe. Then you burst into loud laughter because he didn't even deny the fact. His response was an admission. That he was obsessively checking when your days off would align. To prepare for this.

"That's really your defense?"

"It's a factual statement." He responds.

"Yes-" You pause. "but you've been checking."

He holds your gaze and he clenches his jaw, inhales sharply at your statement.

"Yes."

His admission landed harder than anything you've heard.

It was real and it was profoundly like Brendon to not beat around the bush. To cut to the chase. To not make excuses. He was precise with his words.

The grin on your face couldn't get any bigger. This was the real you. The side that not many got to see. Just as this side of him was the side that no one but you got to see. It was reserved for you, jusy like the side you only showed him was reserved for him.

"Dinner." Brendon says.

You raise a brow at him. "Dinner?"

"And coffee." Brendon nods. "Tomorrow."

“Oh, and coffee? You really want to see me twice in a day, huh?” You grin. "So you're finally asking me out?"

Immediately, Brendon sighs and brings his hand to his face. "Apparently, yes."

You beam at him and you give his bicep one more squeeze as the elevator doors open to your floor. You wave at him as you exit the elevator.

"It's a date then!"

Warmth settles in the pit of his stomach as he stares at your face before the doors close. He presses his back against the wall and he looks down at the floor. It's quiet and it is just him. Slowly, a smile makes its way to his face and lets out breath that resembles a soft laugh.

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 more deadpanned. 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.

Hannah needed Justin Kohl to finally notice her.

Garrett Graham needed to pass Philosophy or risk Coach ending his life before midterms.

So they made a bargain after class when he knew she did well on the assignment Garrett had leaned back, unfazed by the fact that he had gotten her name wrong “fake dating. We make people think we’re together. Justin notices. You win.” Garrett pointed at Hannah who furrowed her eyebrows.

She cocked her head “and what do you get?” She knew that it was a two way street so she didn’t know what he was meant to get from it.

Garrett motioned to his paper “an A,” he spoke in a duh tone as Hannah had stared at him for a long moment.

Then, against all better judgment, she’d agreed.

Neither of them realised what they were actually agreeing to.

Sure they knew it was going to be real to the world. 

With everyone’s eyes on them as the fifth line page as they were the newest and hottest topic. 

What Garrett didn’t expect was that he would actually want to be in a relationship with someone after this. 

What made it complicated was that it wasn’t Hannah, that he learnt to care for. 

It was you. 

The girl that was Hannah and Allie’s roommate. 

Hannah’s best friend.

The person she trusted with everything.

And the first time Garrett saw you, he completely forgot how to act like a functioning human being.

It was supposed to be a quick visit.

He’d knocked on the door expecting Hannah with her bag ready to go and study.

Instead, you opened it.

Your hair was messy and you were in one of your old band hoodies. 

Garrett stopped breathing for a second.

Just one.

But it was enough “hi there,” your fingers wrapped around the door as you cocked your head.

And he’d replied, far too late “hi,” his cheeks reddened and he swore he was in some cruel play teaching him about feelings. 

You smiled and he somehow felt lighter “Han, your boy is here!” You called out to her door where she burst out of her room. 

Hannah noticed immediately how Garrett was rattled. 

Of course she did.

Because Garrett Graham was many things, but subtle was not one of them.

Hannah giggled over her book“you know you were staring at her,” she said later that night.

Garrett scoffed as he shook his head “I was looking at the girl that opened the door.” He argued as he looked at his water bottle.

The girl grinned as she shook her head “you are,” she shot back, enjoying how she clearly she was pushing Garrett’s buttons. 

The hockey player rolled his eyes “I met her once.” He pointed out as he didn’t even know your name.

Hannah just smiled into her drink “all I’m gonna say is that love at first sight is a real thing.” He didn’t answer as he flipped to a different page in the notebook that he held. 

Which was answer enough.

What made it worse in the way that felt almost unbearable was that Garrett never acted on it.

He couldn’t.

Because the fake relationship was still going.

Because everyone thought he was Hannah’s boyfriend.

Because you were Hannah’s best friend, and he wasn’t about to turn your world into a mess.

So he stayed careful.

Polite.

Friendly.

He helped you carry things when your arms were full.

He remembered your coffee order once and then never forgot it.

He asked questions about you that he pretended were casual.

And every time, you told yourself the same thing: that he was dating Hannah and that you had to drown yourself in male attention until you could fully accept in your heart that he was off limits.

End of story.

Except it never felt like the end of anything.

What you didn’t know, and what you couldn’t know was that you weren’t totally invisible in the way that you intended to be.

You thought Garrett belonged to someone else.

You intended to take how you felt about hockey captain to your grave before anyone found out about it.

So every time your heart tripped over itself when he smiled at you, you shoved it down.

Every time he leaned in too close, you stepped back.

Every time he looked like he wanted to say something more, you convinced yourself you were imagining it.

Because you couldn’t do that to Hannah, and you sure as hell assumed that her boyfriend was smart enough not to cross that kind of boundary with you. 

So you made yourself small in all the places it mattered.

The breaking point, for you, came in October.

Garrett asked you to get coffee.

Just you.

Not Hannah.

Not a group.

Just you.

It was meant to be something so simple that you shouldn’t have been phased.

And for half a second, something bright and impossible flared in your chest.

Then reality snapped it in half, “oh,” you said carefully.

His expression shifted immediately “oh?” It felt like a slap to his face as he clenched his fist.

You cocked your head “why?” Your eyebrows furrowed as you felt like you were dancing on a tightrope.

Garrett actually let out a soft laugh “because I want to spend time with you.” He shrugged as he let his words hang in the air.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt “it’s probably best I don’t,” you added quickly, forcing your voice steady.

Garrett looked like he’d been physically hit “right,” he said quietly as he licked his lips “okay.”

And then he walked away with his hands shoved into his hoodie.

And you stood there hating yourself for the rest of the day without really knowing why.

That night, he showed up at Hannah’s dorm looking like something had gone wrong in his chest “she said no,” he muttered he knew you were out on a date because Hannah had told him earlier that week that you were planning on going out with some guy from a class of yours. 

So the dorm was technically a safe, you free space.

Hannah didn’t even look up “no to what?” Hell, part of her didn’t even know who he was talking about.

“Coffee.”

Now she looked up as a grin formed on her face when everything clicked into place “you asked her out?” She pushed onto her knees as she clasped her hands together.

“I asked her for coffee.”

Garrett’s correction came with a scoff from Hannah “that’s asking her out.” She pointed out in a duh tone.

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

Hannah studied him for a long moment “oh my god!” She clasped her hands over her mouth as she gasped.

“What?”

Garrett’s eyes went wide as he watched the girl “you like her,” the announcement came as Hannah pointed at him. 

“I don’t.”

She laughed as he shook his head “you do,” it was clear to her now that you were the reason why Garrett was getting soft; she had nothing to do with it.

It made him finally snap “I can’t.” The captain’s tone was harsh as he tugged his fingers through his hair. 

In that moment Hannah was ready to go marching down the quad to find you and announce that the boy who liked you was in fact very single “Garrett-” or at least force Garrett to accept that he clearly did like you.

Garrett shook his head as he got up “I can’t,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Because you were on a date with another guy.

Because the fake relationship still existed.

And the media frenzy that would follow from him for going for two best friends was bound to be uncomfortable.

Because he wasn’t supposed to want anyone.

And because, worst of all, he didn’t think you wanted him back.

The weeks that followed were a slow unravelling.

You noticed him pulling back.

Less teasing.

Less lingering.

Less of whatever you’d been imagining before you convinced yourself it was never real.

And it hurt more than it should have.

You told yourself it was relief.

That it was better this way.

That you were just being dramatic.

But it felt like a loss.

Everything broke on an ordinary afternoon in November.

You came home from a morning lecture when Hannah asked to talk.

Her tone made your stomach churn “sit down,” she said gently when you dropped your bag.

That alone made your heart drop.

You started walking towards the bench as she exhaled.

And then she said it.

“We never dated.”

You blinked “what?” You dropped onto the bench next to her as your ears rang.

Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears “Garrett and I. It was fake.” You swore in that moment that the world stopped.

Like a record got scratched when the needle pushed off of it.

For a second, your brain simply refused to process the words “fake,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

You cracked your knuckles as you ducked in your teeth “how long?” You ran your fingers along your arm.

She felt like she was setting off a live wire“the whole time,” her expression was blank as if she was waiting for you to respond first.

It felt like something inside your chest cracked open all at once “the whole time?” you whispered as you frowned when she nodded.

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose “so I’ve just been avoiding him for months for no reason?” You almost laughed as you couldn’t believe this.

Your body felt like it was drowning and your head was barely able to stay above water. 

Hannah argued back “it wasn’t for no reason because you didn’t know.” she said quickly as she shook her head.

“But I did,” your voice broke “I thought I was being respectful. I thought I was being a good friend. I thought-” your throat tightened, suddenly everything collided at once.

Every moment you’d stepped back.

Every time you’d stopped yourself from wanting.

Every time you’d felt guilty for even thinking about him.

Every moment you swore you were the worst friend alive for letting Garrett take up too much space in your brain.

And none of it had been necessary.

None of it had been real.

Your breath hitched, “oh my god,” you said again, but this time it didn’t sound like disbelief.

It sounded like overwhelm.

Hannah stood up, alarmed, “hey-” she reached for your hand 

You shook your head as you raised your hand to stop her “I need a minute.” Your brain felt like it had been going a mile a minute and you were desperate to slow it down.

But there wasn’t a minute.

Because there was never a minute when you wanted time to be on your side.

Because the door opened.

And Garrett walked in.

The moment he saw your face, everything in him stopped “what happened?” he asked immediately seeing how your expression was teary-eyed.

You looked at him like you didn’t know where to put all the emotion in your body “Hannah told me.” You blurted it out as you sniffled still wishing that the ground had swallowed you whole.

His expression changed instantly.

Tension. Realisation.

Then guilt “what did she tell you?” Garrett had come up with a whole speech to tell you how he felt, and this really wasn’t it.

Hell he had literally made John Logan ask you out so that Garrett could come and see you in a place that wasn’t the library or the dorm.

Your voice shook when you answered “that you two weren’t real.” He exhaled slowly, careful to not be the one to break the silence.

Behind him, Hannah quietly grabbed her jacket “I’m going to- I got nothing I’ll leave you two to this,” she said, already backing away so fast that neither one of you could argue.

He scoffed as he shook his head “traitor,” Garrett muttered, not looking away from you.

The door closed.

And the room felt too small “you thought we were together,” he said softly as he placed his bag on the floor.

You laughed once, but it came out broken “everyone thought that.” You shook your head as you brought your knees to your chest.

“That’s not an answer.”

You sighed as you looked out of the window “it was real to me,” you said, quieter now “and that was the problem.”

Something in his expression shifted “I didn’t know,” he said as he took a space on the bench next to you.

“I know.”

Garrett reached for your leg “I didn’t mean for you to-” he cut himself off as you shifted your legs away to block his hands.

Your hand wiped your cheer fearing that it was still damp from your previous tears “I know,” you repeated, sharper this time, then immediately softer. 

“I know. That’s not what I’m upset about,”

Garrett cocked his head “then what is it?” Your breath shook as your body felt numb. 

You pinched your fingers together in an attempt to steady yourself “everything I stopped myself from feeling,” you admitted feeling like an idiot. 

You didn’t want to admit the truth but when he looked at you, it was as if you’d lost your filter“because I thought I was respecting something that didn’t even exist.” The words landed between you like something fragile breaking.

Garrett went still.

Then, carefully, “you stopped yourself?” It made you roll your eyes.

You let out a shaky breath “don’t make me say it again.”A beat and then his voice dropped.

“Did you like me?”

Your eyes burned because the slight change in tense had you thinking that you were the biggest idiot of all “yes.” You nodded, your voice came out barely above a whisper.

Something in him broke open at that.

Because he had been so careful.

So patient.

So convinced he was the only one falling.

Like you were the person his mom promised him was out there since he was a kid “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he said, almost letting out a laugh 

Your breath hitched as you felt sick his laugh was quiet, almost disbelieving, “since the first day I met you.” He carried on when you didn’t speak. 

That made your chest ache harder “I thought you were with Hannah,” you said with a sigh as you finally looked at him.

“I wasn’t.”

You nodded as you licked your lips “I know that now,”he turned his body to fully face you, slower this time, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

Garrett hated how much he felt the need to care in this moment, hell he hated how you made him feel so many emotions he didn’t think he was capable of experiencing “I was trying not to mess anything up,” Garrett brushed his fingers through his hair. 

“That’s why I didn’t- I never intended on crossing any lines.” 

It should have comforted you that you both had the same moral compass in this “you already did,” you whispered your brain shouldn’t have felt this annoyed still. 

Like there was hurt in your heart that your mouth was having to figure out how to mask in real time. 

His gaze flickered to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly “I think I did.”

The air between you felt charged now. Fragile or maybe real.

“Can I-” he started, then stopped.

You nodded before he finished the question.

That was all it took.

Garrett closed the distance carefully, like he still didn’t fully trust it.

Like you might disappear if he moved too fast.

His hand lifted to your cheek, warm and steady.

And when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or uncertain.

It was like something that had been held back for too long finally giving in.

Soft at first.

Then deeper.

Like relief.

Like relief you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

You just breathed the same air.

And for the first time all semester, nothing about it hurt.

You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark. 

Every single time. 

And yet—

“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.” 

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again. 

And you hate that he’s right. 

Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy? 

One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head. 

“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?” 

Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.” 

Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting. 

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?” 

That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect. 

“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.” 

The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away. 

He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack. 

But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now. 

“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.” 

A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts. 

“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind. 

—

There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself. 

Fuck. 

“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him. 

You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face. 

“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.” 

“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar. 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.” 

You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.” 

He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.” 

A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you. 

Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over. 

You can’t imagine having your birthday without him. 

The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?” 

Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.” 

No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend. 

Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous. 

You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool. 

Mark frowns, “Wait, what?” 

You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.” 

Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap. 

“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply. 

Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see. 

Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread, 

y/n: are you home? 

—

It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control. 

Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils. 

But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits. 

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container. 

“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking. 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.” 

Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.” 

He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.” 

A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…

You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating. 

How fucking embarrasing. 

“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth. 

“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair. 

You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs. 

This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you. 

Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. 

You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.” 

His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.” 

Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face. 

“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.” 

You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened. 

“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—” 

“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.” 

“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.” 

You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out. 

“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.” 

You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—

“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist. 

Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?” 

Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.” 

He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.” 

Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.” 

The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now. 

Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.

“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—

“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” 

“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.” 

It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.

Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.” 

He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

—

You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up. 

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus. 

He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it. 

He smiles, “Morning sunshine.” 

Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.” 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?” 

Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.” 

A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark. 

Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love. 

“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up. 

You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.” 

It wasn’t on purpose.

When he was young, he was so deadset on becoming a surgeon that everything else became an afterthought. He maintained relationships here and there (he wasn’t a saint) but by the time he was an attending none of his girlfriends managed to keep up with his relentless schedule, demanding workload, and emotionally reserved nature.

Truly, he doesn't blame them. He wasn't exactly carving out the time for them either --- too focused on being the best and too single-minded in his career to put any relationship as a priority.

Long story short – good surgeon, bad boyfriend.

And then he woke up and he was 40 years old with a very pissed off mother.

When he reluctantly asked his friends about it, the warnings were immediate and repetitive.

Dating in the modern century is different now. The women are different. Difficult.

Too demanding. Too clingy. Too much.

By the time Yolanda sidelined him quietly with a proposition, he was already dreading the worst and preparing himself to disappoint his mother for the first time in his life.

You were a welcome (gorgeous) surprise.

Yolanda’s friend of a friend of a friend that she set him up with. Something about a ‘sweetie-pie that could just soften you up, big guy’.

What she failed to mention was the noticeable difference in years between the two of you.

He was never one to go for someone young just to compensate for a void in his life or make himself feel better about getting older. Even though he saw the appeal, it was never a requirement. If you had asked him before the date, he would’ve thought dating someone younger was more trouble than it was worth.

But watching you beam as he waits for you by the door of the café he had reserved a table for today’s date, holding a fresh pink bouquet of flowers just because Yolanda mentioned that it was your favorite, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too confident with that assumption.

“Flowers on the first date? You’re winning me over already.”

He couldn’t help but frown in confusion, remembering a coworker's quip about not coming on too strong. Already feeling an unfamiliar feeling of minuscule panic creeping up his throat. “Is it too much?”

Your eyes widened, head shaking, “No! No, they're beautiful. It’s just – men don’t really – it’s less of a thing now.”

He hums, deciding that that was stupid. Especially when he saw just how beautiful the flowers looked when you held them --- like they belonged in your arms. He opens the door for you. “That’s a shame.”

You laugh, head back and so carefree. It warms something in his belly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The two of you continued a casual conversation as you lined up for your orders, an official introduction of sorts. Thankfully, it wasn’t as awkward as he dreaded, your cheerful disposition perfectly counteracted his restrained one.

He couldn’t help but notice you intimately checking out the pastries bar but not ordering any when you got to the counter. Thankfully, he was quick enough to take note of those that caught your eyes for longer than half a second, ordering it along with his drink and swiping his card for both of your orders.

As he pulled back a chair, he noticed the few seconds of shock on your face before you sat. A small touch on his bicep and a bashful ‘thank you’ had him concluding that this was also no longer ‘a thing’ in this generation.

If he were honest, he'd admit he was dreading this. It's been a while since his last proper date. He wasn't sure if he could muster up enough topics to keep the conversation going or accidentally say something rude or stupid that would turn this date into a humiliation ritual.

But you were pleasant company and a surprisingly great conversationalist. Picking up where he was prone to awkward silences. You carried the conversation with an ease that he admired. To his surprise, the conversation shifted from one topic to another, and by the end of the night, you somehow even managed to get him actually interested in the New York sports team you were dedicated to. A sport he had never given a thought to his entire life.

“You live in Pittsburgh.”

“So?” you giggle at his obvious accusation.

“Now, that’s just treason.”

That got an adorably loud laugh out of you that embarrassingly puffs out his chest – he knew he wasn’t exactly the funny type so to have you genuinely throwing your head back at his banter felt good.

Three drinks, 6 pastries, and too much caffeine later, he realized it had already turned dark outside and your friend (probably Yolanda wanting all the details) was already texting you incessantly about dinner.

“So, how much do I owe you?”

He looks down at you in confusion as he helps you put your jacket on.

“For what?”

A respectful palm gently leads you by the curve of your back and into his car, which was parked just a few feet from the café.

“Lunch.”

He shuts the door, still confused even as he pulls out of the curb.

“I asked you out, it’s on me.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask me out. We were set up.”

He rolls his eyes at that, huffing out a laugh. Cheeky brat.

“I’m the man. I pay for dinner.”

“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Brendon.”

“Well, I am 15 years your senior, baby." It doesn’t escape him how you press your legs together at that statement. Interesting. “I get to be old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

You turn your body fully toward him, blessing him with a shy, sweet smile.

“Old-fashioned enough to not to kiss on the first date?”

He takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas.

“Old-fashioned enough to ask first."

‘Busy morning and tied up in surgery this afternoon. I’ve got about 30 minutes for a call at 11:30 if you're free?’

‘Sounds perfect. Can’t wait <3”

“👍”

“What’s this?”

You flip the thick piece of paper back and forth as if the words were written in hieroglyphics.

He watches you register what he had just done.

“Tickets. For the Knicks game this weekend.”

You stare at him as if he just popped out a second head so he sighs and continues. “You said you loved them on our first date.”

“Brendon.”

“It’s the Eastern Conference Finals.”

“Brendon.”

“What?”

“It’s in New York.”

He cocks his head at another pair of tickets sitting on his coffee table.

“Those are our plane tickets.”

“You bought plane tickets?!”

“Can’t exactly walk there, sweetheart.”

“You bought Knicks tickets, plane tickets, and planned an entire trip without telling me?”

“Well, such is the nature of a surprise.”

You actually let out a snort of laughter before jumping into his lap on the couch pressing kisses and ‘thank you’s’ on whatever skin you could reach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You haven’t even heard of the restaurant reservation yet.”

Or the fact that he somehow tracked down a friend of a friend of a friend who is somehow dating someone working game day operations just to make sure the kiss cam landed on the two of you during half-time.

And they said he wasn’t a romantic.

It took Park 3 months in your relationship to realize … you have never truly slept over his place.

When you mentioned on your second date that you were a virgin and that you planned to wait until marriage, he was – for the sake of honesty – taken aback.

Not that there was anything wrong with it and you had bashfully admitted that you were willing to do some 'other stuff' as long as you didn’t go 'all the way'. Something about a vow with the women in your family that the only man who should be able to touch you is the one who is willing to commit.

It makes sense, in theory. But they never took into consideration that the man who plans to worship the ground you walk on is a stressed-out orthopedic surgeon in a trauma center whose only source of relaxation is in between your thighs.

So, yeah. He was a bit taken aback. And frustrated.

But he respected it.

(He was too far gone for you to let this minor complication stand in his way.)

Sucked it up like a man, met your parents, swore to them that this relationship would end in marriage once you were ready, and now added meditation to his workout routine so he wouldn’t pop a boner every time you lounged around his place in just his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

He asks from the en-suite bathroom’s door, finally ready for bed after a long day of bullshit in the hospital only to find his girlfriend quietly trying to book a taxi from his bed.

“Oh! I figured you’d be too tired to drive me back home so I was just going to book a car.”

He frowns in confusion. Quickly walking to where you were lounging in his bed to grab your phone and cancel it.

“Wha – hey!”

“I think we’re past asking permission to stay over.”

You open your mouth to protest before hesitating, choosing instead to crawl to the edge of the bed so you can sit by where he was standing. The fresh smell of his soap, body wash, and clean skin lights your skin on fire.

“I don’t have my skincare stuff in here,” you weakly protested.

He hummed, hands petting the back of your head.“Let’s go buy it tomorrow after brunch. It’s my day off.”

You beamed, gasping in glee. “Really?”

"Really." He can’t help but chuckle at your delight – so pleased with a couple hundred dollars of products. Seems he wasn’t doing quite a good enough job spoiling you, he plans to change that starting tomorrow. “Anything else I should know before our first official sleepover?”

You rubbed your cheeks into his hands like a cat before shyly nodding.

“I know you’re having a hard time with the … abstinence thing,” you pout your lips up at him, your chin digging firmly on his navel which definitely didn’t help.

He clears his throat, taking a beat to look up at the ceiling and collect himself before letting his hands cup your cheeks, “I’m a grown man, babydoll. I can handle sleeping next to my woman without pouncing on her.”

“I trust you, Bren,” you insist earnestly. “But it doesn’t mean I want to frustrate you any more than I already do.”

“Hey, where is this coming from? I’ll behave,” he pokes the tip of your nose to lighten your mood but you only bit your bottom lip in even more hesitation. “Or is there another reason?”

He wouldn’t want to push you if you were truly uncomfortable.

“The thing is,” you groan, cupping the hands holding your face. “I can only sleep naked.”

If he had to go back to the bathroom for five minutes to listen to the calming meditation exercise his therapist recommended to him, it would be something the two of you agreed to take to the grave.

“Alright, my eyes are closed, babydoll.”

He prepared as best as he could.

Lights are off, sleep mask on.

Now he just needs to not think about his girlfriend sleeping naked beside him for the entire night. His adorable, sweet, angel of a woman who is not wearing a stitch of clothing on her bo –

“Thanks for doing this, baby.”

He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels you press a kiss to his cheeks.

He grips the comforter so tight he swears his nails ripped through it. “Warn a man next time.”

Your giggle disappears under the duvet. He makes it a point to put a pillow between the two of you – for your sake and mostly his.

It’ll be fine. Everything will be –

-- fucked! He is so fucking fucked.

The nudity wasn’t the challenge – difficult, yes but manageable with the proper monk-like focus. What you have failed to disclose was that you slept like a possessed octopus. Something he himself only found out when he felt your entire body weight on top of him at 2:47 in the morning.

Once he felt the swell of your chest on his ribs his entire body instinctively flinched so quickly, he almost developed a cramp.

“S-Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to see if he could jog you out of your sleep gently to save him from the suffering of having to push you back.

To his horror, you just whined, grabbing even more tightly to his biceps as you dragged your body up the length of his so you could push your face in the juncture of his neck.

The contrast of the warmth of your skin on his, the small puffs of air a siren’s call on his ear, and the plump of your lips grazing his neck as you sleepily mumble mindless nothings was torture to his already frazzled sense of self-control.

He grips his bedsheet tightly, knowing his willpower would snap if his hands ever got ahold of you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“’luv yu’, Bren.”

He sucks in a breath. What the – did you just say – “Babydoll?”

“So nice to me,” you whimper the words on his neck. “Love you so much.”

That felt like a jagged knife of guilt to his heart.

The shame and responsibility you felt for what he could only believe other lovers saw as a drawback or a burden. It must’ve been a heavy weight to carry for his sweet girl.

He swears you won’t have to carry it anymore as long as he is here.

He holds his breath for 10 seconds and lets it out for 5. He thinks about surgical risks, antibiotics, anesthesia regulation, and proper post-op instruction. Thinks about Gloria on his neck, the pressure to live up to their expectation as the upcoming Chief of Surgery. He thinks about Robinavitch’s jealousy even though the both of them knew the pressure Brendon was in would eventually fling the ER attending from the roof he so often escaped to.

Anything and everything to keep his mind clear and disciplined as he refuses to be another weak man who resents your boundaries.

With a deep breath he finally gathers you in his arms, curling around you until his body threatens to swallow you whole.

Saying instead the words that always seemed to get stuck between his heart and his tongue whenever you looked at him. Reminding himself to repeat it tomorrow before you could say it first.

He’s an old-fashioned man, after all.

“I love you, babydoll.”

'Going to the gym but i'm gonna be busy all day. Text me '911' if it's an emergency and my assistant will track me down.'

'Go it. I'm planning to cook you steak for dinner tonight, can I use your kitchen?'

'DON'T SEND ME MONEY. It's my treat.'

'I know your fingers are hovering Brendon Park. Don't!'

'Fine'

'Fine <3'

'Check your jewelry box. I slipped a spare key to my place there.'

'Okay <3'

'Wait what.'

“Hi, babyyyy,” you jump into his arms as he drops his work bag unceremoniously on the floor.

Your text that said you were going to spend your day off going to the grocery store and preparing him a steak dinner genuinely was the only thing that pushed him through a long day of surgeries and consultations.

He lets you rope him into a kiss, sitting the two of you down on his couch as you continue to map out his face with your mouth.

“Missed you so much,” you mutter in between kisses. He smiles at your earnest confession. “Say you missed me too.”

You press a finger on his chest, and he glances down at it as if unconvinced. You squawk in offense and try to get off his lap but not before getting caught in his arms and flipped into the couch.

“You’re all I ever thought about all day, sweetheart.”

You hum, running your hand on his hair. “That’s a dangerous habit, doctor.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”

With one last deep kiss he lets you out of his arms and back into the kitchen. He prepares to stand up and set the table but you pressed a hand into his chest with an explicit instruction to go shower and relax.

“It’ll be ready when you’re out.”

By the time he was done, you were already getting the wine out of the chiller. “Oh, by the way, some important-looking envelope from your bank arrived.”

You point a finger at the side table by the door. He opens it, his eyes moving carefully with each line.

“Babydoll?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you give me your landlord’s bank details?”

A pause, he turns back to see you staring at him in bewilderment.

“Uh, what for?”

He drops the letter on the coffee table before walking towards you. “I need it to set up an auto-pay in my account.”

You blink up at him as he casually presses a kiss on your lips before sitting at his seat beside yours.

“Are you … moving?” You ask even though you had to admit how incredulous it was. Why would he switch his immaculate penthouse to your subpar building? Is he buying the building then?

“No, for your apartment, honey,” he continues patiently, taking your hand.

Your eyes widened, finally getting what he is implying. “What?! Why – you don’t have to do that! I-I know I complain a lot but I’m fine really!”

He presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I know, sweetie. But I’m planning on moving you with me by the end of the year, and I want that transition to be as smooth as possible for you.”

Your mouth opens and closes in shock as he drops two bombs on you at once.

“Are … are you asking me to move in with you?”

He slices a piece of his steak before feeding it to you.

“By the end of the year,” he reiterates casually. “At least that’s the deadline I gave my realtor.”

You audibly swallow the barely chewed steak, pushing it down with large gulps of wine.

“I … I don’t want to make it seem like I-I’m a gold digger or something.”

His face hardens at that. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious. People talk.”

“Let them talk,” the reprimand was there but it was gentle. “I know why you’re here.”

That softens you.

“Because I’m funny and a good lay.”

You almost snorted your wine into your nose and he finally smiles hearing you laugh. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’.

“Brendon –”

“Hey,” he takes your hand, pulling you closer and letting the chair screech in protest. “You’re allowed to like the things I do for you. I work hard, I make good money. And I’d rather spend it making you happy than letting it sit there in the bank.”

He holds your hesitant eyes, only letting a victorious smile appear on his face when you let out a resigned sigh.

You stand up and he automatically pushes his chair back so you can sit in his lap.

“Okay. Thank you. I love you and I will move in with you by the end of the year even though you technically didn't ask.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers on your lips. “Also, that was your new credit card in the envelope.”

"—you take stuff too personally sometimes, you know? Like sometimes you just need to let it go."

It hasn't left you all day. A stupid comment made during lunch by one of your friends, tossed your way without a second thought, hardly pausing before they asked you to pass the napkins to them.

The knotted and messy feeling stays low in your stomach, even once the conversation shifted to something less directed towards you.

It normally doesn't bother you.

You know that you can be a cry baby. You've always felt deeply about things. But you've also accepted that being sensitive is just who you are.

It's not wrong. It's not right. It just... is.

You're the friend that gets called when sympathy is needed. The person who always sniffles through movies. The first person to plan everyone's birthday.

Taking things personally became your superpower, in a way. You stopped thinking about it negatively.

And now—

You're lingering in the space between the living room and the kitchen. The Netflix logo is paused on the television screen—a documentary that you had waited specifically to have Brendon watch with you.

Brendon, laid back against the couch with one arm slung across the back. His opposite hand is scrolling the iPad, reading an article off of the gargantuan screen as he waits for you to return.

He asked you about lunch earlier, and if you had a good time catching up with your friend. And you did enjoy your time with your friend—but you hadn't told Brendon about how their comment made you feel.

You finally walk back to the couch, hands holding a large bowl of freshly-popped popcorn in front of you. You hesitate to the side, not sitting down. "Brendon?"

Brendon. Not Bren, or any other form of a name that you've given him during the length of your relationship.

He looks up from where he's reading, clearly interested in the change of your tone. "Yes?"

It's stupid, you think, what you're about to ask him. But you've always known him to be honest, even to a fault. When he first asked you out on a date, there was no confusing how he felt about you. When he asks you to let him handle things, he makes it known that it's because he cares about you.

Your fingers fidget against the bowl, thinking about how you're really about to ask for validation from him, before you make yourself stop. Just rip the bandaid off. "Do you think I'm sensitive?"

His brows furrow. He looks like he doesn't understand your question. "What?"

"You know. Do you think I take things too personally?"

Brendon squints, like you're a puzzle he's trying to figure out. "Yes?"

Even though it's a question, not a statement, you still feel your heart drop a bit. Of course he would think you're too sensitive, especially compared to him.

"Oh." You look down at the popcorn bowl. The buttery kernels stare back.

"Hey." Brendon places his iPad on the side table, straightening his posture. "What's wrong?"

If you were deflated and bothered before asking your question, it was doubled now. "Nothing. It's just, Mo mentioned it during lunch—that I need to let things go, and I'm too sensitive, and—"

"—ask me if it bothers me."

Now it was your turn to hesitate, to look at Brendon and decide if he was setting up a joke.

This isn't the way Brendon jokes, you know. Never at your expense.

"Does it?" You ask. "Bother you?"

"No." His mouth twitches, a barely-there hint of a smile. He pats the space on his lap, now that it's free from the iPad, and extends a palm towards you. "Come here."

There's something, always, to be said about the simpleness in Brendon's commands; never quite harsh, never demanding, but enough to make you listen. To know that, yes, here is where I should go, because I trust him. Here is where I should be, because I want to be.

You step forward, pausing next to his knee. Brendon looks up at you, waiting for you to move. You wish you could take a snapshot of all the rare moments when you stand over him, where his blue eyes stayed steady on you as if he were stuck in your orbit.

You relent. Leaving the popcorn bucket on the coffee table, you lift a knee so that it braces against the couch. Then the other, until your palms are against his shoulders and you let your weight sink until you're straddling his lap. Brendon's hands settle against your hips, firmly holding to help you keep your balance.

He takes his time before he speaks again. You don't ask him to rush. His thumbs draw soft circles against the skin that peeks out from your shirt, and you let him.

"I spent three hours today placing pins in the femur of a fourteen year old patient," he says. "And their pre-op, the parents kept telling me about how their kid is a great gymnast. That all they wanna do is compete again and go to the Olympics one day."

Oh.

It feels silly then, your problem.

"Will she?" You ask, brows furrowing as you imagine the scene in the hospital room. Even without the specifics, you could imagine a young girl, and her parents, and how the atmosphere must've felt.

"It was a good surgery," Brendon answers. The smile on his face is different from when he first called you over—no longer amused, just hanging on. "But I don't know. With rehab, maybe."

Letting out a small breath, you feel your heart squeeze at the thought of a teenager needing rehab to dream about having a dream again.

Brendon reaches up, brushing his fingers against your brow. His touch lingers for a beat, then his hands are against your hips again. "Then a trauma came in. An MVC. And I spent the rest of my shift consulting on surgeries that wouldn't even be needed if everyone could just wear their seatbelt."

After a moment, Brendon gives your hips a small squeeze. Your hands move from his shoulder, down to his forearms. You hold the muscle, and he looks at you like he's been transported back to his living room from the OR.

"My point is, I look forward to coming home and being nice to my girlfriend," he says. "And I like that she takes things personally, and looks like she cares about my patients that she doesn't even know, and—what else did Mo say?"

You try to hide your face beneath your hands. Brendon catches your wrists, muttering a uh-uh.

“She said I'm too sensitive.”

"And that she's too sensitive," Brendon repeats. He lowers your hands until they're between you. "Because after doing all of that all day, why on Earth would I want you to be harder?"

Your eyes feel watery. Your face, warm. "But—"

"No."

Embarrassed, you laugh. Brendon thumbs underneath your eye, brushing away the gathered moisture.

Your shoulders loosen, and Brendon doesn't stop you this time when you tuck your face against the side of his neck.

The knot in your stomach finally feels like it's untying.

"Thank you," you tell him, words muffling against his skin.

"Mm." It's a small, practical response—just enough to let you know that he's heard you.

When you pull away, it's not rushed. Brendon tilts his head to see you in the proximity, unflinching.

She’s laughing too much to notice the guy hovering near the edge of their circle, one of Dean’s friends from some class he’s definitely never attended, trying to time his approach like a nature documentary predator with worse hair.

Garrett’s jaw ticks. Dean follows his gaze, then very deliberately looks back into his cup. Logan, for once in his life, says nothing. Tucker takes one slow sip of beer and stares at the wall.

“Don’t,” Garrett says.

“I didn’t say anything,” Dean says, deeply innocent.

The guy makes it three steps before Garrett lifts his chin. “Nope.”

The guy pauses. “What?”

Garrett smiles at him. It’s not one of his better smiles. It has teeth in it, technically, but none of the warmth. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

The guy looks past him, confused, like maybe there’s been a misunderstanding and the enormous hockey player in front of him is not, in fact, speaking directly into his future. “I was just gonna–”

“Yeah, I bet,” Garrett says. “Cute. Fuck off.”

Dean makes a soft, strangled sound into his drink. Logan turns away, shoulders shaking. Tucker mutters, “You’re going to get us sued one day,” but he says it with the exhausted affection of someone who has accepted that this is simply part of the household ecosystem now, like beer pong, lost hoodies, and Garrett acting normal about a girl he has never once acted normal about in his entire life.

Across the room, she keeps talking. Completely unaware.

That’s the worst part. She’s over there yapping away about something, probably class or lip gloss or how she hates when coffee shops don’t have almond milk, while Garrett stands by the island losing years off his life every time the light catches the little metal bars pressing against the fabric of her top. Enough that every man in the room with eyes and a death wish seems to keep discovering religion in her direction.

By the third guy, Garrett doesn’t even bother smiling. “No.”

“Bro, I just know her from–”

“No, you don’t.”

The guy blinks. “I do, actually.”

Garrett tips his head. “Then you know she’s not interested.”

“She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to.”

Dean scratches his jaw, voice careful. “That’s maybe insane.”

Garrett doesn’t look at him. “Captain’s intuition.”

“You’re captain of hockey,” Tucker says.

“Still counts.”

By the time she finally peels away from her friends and comes toward him, Garrett’s redirected four men, intimidated one freshman into walking backward into a lamp, and taken exactly two sips of his beer. She drifts into his space like she owns it, which is irritating mostly because she does, shoulder brushing his arm as she looks up at him with a pout already forming.

“Garrett.”

He glances down, still annoyed at the entire male population. “What?”

“My feet hurt.”

He frowns at her, eyes dropping to the little pink heels she insisted were comfortable when he picked her up, despite all available evidence and the fact that she had winced before even making it down the dorm stairs. “The fuck do you want me to do about it?”

She glares at him.

He holds the glare for maybe half a second before sighing through his nose. “Go get my UGG boots. They’re in my room.”

Her head tilts, slow and expectant, mouth softening around the shape of a smile she’s trying very hard not to give him. “Aren’t you going to come with me?”

Garrett looks at the ceiling like maybe there’s a version of himself up there with boundaries. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, come on.”

He sets his beer down and puts a hand at the small of her back before he thinks better of it, steering her through the room while she waves goodbye to her friends over her shoulder, entirely pleased with herself. His palm is warm against the bare strip of skin above her jeans. It’s familiar. It’s normal. It’s going to put him in an early grave.

Halfway up the stairs, he mutters, “While we’re in there, let’s get you a hoodie or some shit.”

She laughs, bright and immediate, glancing back at him. “Oh, in your dreams, Graham.”

Garrett looks at the tiny pink top again, then at the hallway ahead, then very seriously considers throwing himself out the nearest window.

“Yeah,” he says, rough enough that she looks back at him twice. “Something like that.”

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