think about your wedding night with your husband who uses his tie he wore for the big day to bind your wrists together and then proceeds to absolutely ravish you
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Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.
Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.
Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!
Xoxo, Del
Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.
Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.
Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.
Then he saw what Shen was carrying.
For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.
Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.
Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.
“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”
Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”
Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.
“No,” Jack said.
You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“I know enough,” Jack replied.
“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.
“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”
“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected.
Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”
“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled.
You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.
No.
Because he knew.
Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.
“Thank you,” you said sweetly.
Shen nodded. “Of course.”
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered.
Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”
Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”
Jack nodded once, “It is now.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.
“Jack,” you said gently.
“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”
Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”
“That makes it worse,” Jack replied.
You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”
“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction.
You smiled. “With my work husband.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.
Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”
“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”
“Administrative,” Jack repeated.
“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Very little?”
You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”
Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose.
He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.
You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”
Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”
“He provided the bucket,” you said.
Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”
Jack watched him take a sip.
You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”
Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”
You nodded. “Expected.”
“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.
“But fun artificial?” You asked.
Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”
You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”
Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”
Jack went still again.
Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”
“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”
Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”
You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.
Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”
You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Jack said.
You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”
Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.
When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.
“Try it,” you said.
Jack shook his head, “No.”
“One sip.” You implored.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”
“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”
You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”
Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.
You brightened. “Well?”
Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.
Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”
Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”
You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”
Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped.
He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.
That was all.
You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”
Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”
Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”
“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.
You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”
Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”
You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”
“Or forty,” Shen added.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”
Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”
You nodded. “For practical reasons.”
Jack stared at you.
“Tax benefits,” you said.
“Shared expenses,” Shen added.
“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.
“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.
Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”
You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.
“You’re not single,” Jack said.
You patted his chest. “I know.”
“So the pact is void.” Jack continued.
Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”
Jack pointed at him. “Void.”
“Suspend—”
“Void.” Jack cut him off.
You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”
Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”
Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”
“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.
Jack frowned, “Not better.”
Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.
“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.
Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”
“Allegedly,” Jack said.
Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”
Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”
You gasped. “Ellis.”
Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”
“Because you did,” Jack said.
Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”
Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”
Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”
Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”
Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.
“The what?” Jack asked.
“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”
Jack stared at him.
You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”
“And morale,” Shen added.
Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”
“It’s important,” you said.
“Vital,” Shen agreed.
Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”
Shen blinked. “Yes?”
“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”
Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”
Jack looked at him, “No.”
You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”
Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”
“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.
Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”
Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.
Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”
Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Immediately,” Jack said.
Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”
“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.
You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”
Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”
Jack smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
Shen removed his arm.
You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.
“Smart,” Jack said.
Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”
Jack looked at him. “Good.”
You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.
Jack’s eyes dropped to you.
Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”
Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.
“Marginally,” he said.
You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”
His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”
You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”
Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”
“Yes?” Shen replied.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”
You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.
“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.
Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”
Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.
“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.
You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”
Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”
“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”
Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”
“Don’t,” Jack warned.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Okay?”
Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”
Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”
“I have been very patient,” Jack said.
“You have,” you said solemnly.
He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”
“You did.” You agreed.
“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added.
You nodded, “You did.”
“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.
“Barely,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”
Shen nodded. “Understood.”
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”
You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful.
“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.
Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”
Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”
You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.
Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”
Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would,” Jack replied.
You frowned, “You hate it.”
“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”
Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”
“It is not communal property,” Jack said.
“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.
Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”
Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”
You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”
“But under protest.” You added.
Jack nodded once, “Noted.”
“And I want visitation rights.” You said.
Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”
You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“The coffee,” you said quickly.
Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”
Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”
You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Shen mouthed, I miss you.
You coughed to hide your laugh.
Jack stopped walking. You froze.
He looked down at you. “What did he do?”
You replied quickly. “Nothing.”
Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Yes?”
“Do not make me come back there.”
Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”
Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
Your smile brightened. “You love me.”
“I do,” Jack said.
You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”
Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.
No, he didn’t.
He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.
“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Former work husband,” you corrected.
Jack nodded once, “Better.”
You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”
Jack went very still.
Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.
“Yeah?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.
You grinned. “Better?”
Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.
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I have a question for other Teen Wolf fans, other fandoms are welcome to answer as well but this is with Teen wolf werewolf lore in mind 💕
So we know that things like Scott’s asthma and Erica’s epilepsy are gone when they became werewolves but do you think there’s any disorders that wouldn’t be cured by the bite? 🤔 if so which ones, some examples that I personally think could be an exception are PNES or Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.
This is fully up for debate, I’d love to see what other fans think about this topic ☺️
*Brendon couldn't make it to her first ultrasound having been pulled into emergency surgery.
She laid on bed every thing from the waist down off as the doctor checked everything.
The doctor made a face and she thought oh she was wrong the pregnancy tests were wrong she's not pregnant. Til her doctor held up three fucking fingers.
Triplets. She was gonna fucking kill her husband.
She went to ortho not finding him she knew he was out of surgery cause she bribed the ultrasound tech to look for her. So to the Pitt she went.
There he was yelling at a poor intern about god knows what. She cleared her throat and his head whipped up. A smile crept across his face till he saw her face.
Oh boy he was in trouble he knew that look that was the same look as when he forgot to take the trash out and their cat got into it.
"Hey baby, how was the ultrasound?" He asked almost nervously?
Her nostrils flared as she walked over grabbing him by the ear and dragging him towards the ambulance bay doors.
Fuck.... was all he could think he was fucked what did he do was today their anniversary? No, wasn't her birthday either.
She let go of his ear glaring up at him.
"Triplets Brendon Michael Park fucking triplets." She said through gritted teeth her hands on her hips.
He looked like he went through the 5 stages of grief in 2 seconds.
"Triplets...?" He asked softly moving closer and wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her forehead she didn't move a muscle... for now. "Three baby thats amazing. Three for one deal." He said trying to get her to laugh. Big fucking mistake.
She grabbed him by the balls. He yelled jumping a little.
"You're sleeping on the fucking couch for the foreseeable future."
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Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x (female) wife! deaf! reader.
Summary: There's a multi-vehicle accident, and the ER staff is taken aback when Park “The Shark” refuses to treat one of the patients. They're even more surprised when they discover she's his wife.
Warning: Possible medical inaccuracies. Possible inaccuracies about deafness. Swearing. Brendon Park himself. Age difference, height difference. References to sex, but nothing explicit. Hurt/Comfort
Words: 5586.
Taglist: @my-whole-brain-is-crying @celestephung @leksi-rae @chelle-1515 @minienix @mythologicallyversed @mxtokko @tears-of-acid-and-sluts @susp3ndedindusk @helenaellie @rei-scorpio @ivy-stuffs @dutch3-10 @catharticdesire @sidneysidney123 @fics-from-the-dead @eddiemunsonguitar @thedragonsrose @mynameisbaby9 @simply-lovley44 @dr3obsessed @mayabbot @bbblackmamba @harryswizzle @miichelleswriting @alphafemale-15 @rabbotseatcarrots @b38596012 @lipsunsmokedcigarette @pastlecow @kingtitus @stevieharrington71 @asfaraslifegets @noyaisasimp @loki-trickst3r @miahelen @xoxoloverb @brown-eyes-cello-and-books @seitmai @boricuas-fic-recs
I tried to follow everything you told me to make it as accurate as possible, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Anyway, thank you very much for replying to me @brown-eyes-cello-and-books
The sunlight filtered timidly through the fissures of the heavy blackout curtains, tracing gilded lines across the rumpled blankets. That morning, like so many others before it, the world did not yet fully exist; there was only the pervasive warmth and the steady, grounding presence at your back.
Brendon woke you as he always did. He used no words, favoring the language you both mastered best: touch. It began with soft, lingering kisses along the curve of your neck as his hand descended to squeeze your hips with possessive affection. It was a silent gesture—an unspoken “I’m here, Doll”—as he drew you flush against his naked heat, letting you feel his morning arousal brushing against the small of your back.
It wasn’t a demand for sex, but a tether—a life-affirming reminder of the electric intimacy that, even after two years of marriage, remained vibrantly intact.
You buried your face in the pillow with a languid, muffled sigh, shivering at the sensation of his calloused fingertips against your skin. Brendon was in no rush. He took his time, dragging the tip of his nose along your jawline to inhale your natural scent before it was camouflaged by the citrus perfume you always asked him to buy.
After assuring himself—with one last firm squeeze and a delicate kiss to the nape of your neck—that you wouldn’t drift back to sleep, he finally pulled away. The mattress felt cavernous without his massive frame filling his side of the bed. He stood and moved with an agility that defied his sheer size; even after all this time, and despite accompanying him to the gym, you couldn't fathom how a man of his build could move so gracefully.
He lingered for a moment at the foot of the bed, watching you as he stretched his muscles, before pulling on a pair of briefs that did little to hide his hardness—though he seemed entirely indifferent to it. His blue eyes glinted with that specific blend of adoration and mischief he reserved solely for you and your shared mornings. He gave you a slow, knowing smile, well aware that in this precise moment, the world was "silent" for you.
He knew—not for nothing had he been married to you for years—that wearing your cochlear implants for more than six hours at a time was a sensory nightmare. Usually, you only removed them when the noise became a physical torture of overstimulation. Or, more often, he would remove them himself, having learned to read every micro-expression of discomfort on your face.
He strode from the room, granting you those final minutes of absolute peace. By habit, you knew he was heading straight for the kitchen. Though you couldn't hear it, your mind reconstructed the soundtrack of his actions with crystalline clarity: the electric roar of the grinder pulverizing specialty coffee beans—ridiculously expensive in your opinion, but purchased because he preferred the best—and the delicate clink of ceramic mugs meeting the black marble island.
It was a ritual, a domestic choreography executed with a precision born of devotion. Black, potent coffee for him; a thick, velvety hot chocolate for you. This was his nonverbal syntax, his way of tending to you, of reminding you that you were his—that he chose you above all else, every single day.
You lingered a moment longer amidst the Egyptian cotton—another luxury Brendon insisted upon, and a far cry from the scratchy linens you'd known in the system—feeling his residual warmth fade. You wondered what he was "inventing" for breakfast. Brendon was not a man for simple toast; for him, the kitchen was another theatre of mastery. He was as deft with a chef’s knife as he was with a scalpel in the operating room.
Gradually, the aroma of his cooking began to seep beneath the door. You rose and donned one of his oversized shirts, ignoring the silk robes in your own dressing room. The fabric draped over your bare skin, concealing the handprints, love bites, and bruises Brendon had marked you with the night before.
You moved slowly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and a lingering tenderness from your husband's attentions. Reaching for the hard case on the nightstand, your fingers closed around it with mechanical familiarity. You snapped the processors behind your ears, feeling the faint click of the magnets engaging.
A soft electronic beep signaled the end of your silence. Suddenly, the stillness was replaced by the low hum of the radio and the distant murmur of Brendon’s voice as he mentally retraced the steps of his first scheduled surgery.
You walked barefoot, the chill of the dark hardwood floors biting at your soles. Brendon’s shirt, made of an impossibly soft weave, brushed against your knees as you padded down the hallway. The scent was now unmistakable: fresh coffee, rich chocolate, and the savory salt of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs on seeded toast.
At the kitchen threshold, you paused, leaning against the frame of the French doors. He stood with his back to you, focused on the stove, his broad, muscular shoulders bathed in the clear morning light. Across his shoulder blades, you could see the evidence of your own passion: long, crimson furrows where your nails had dug in, as if he’d been marked by a wolf. They were the silent testimony of the pleasure he had elicited with his hands, his tongue, and his body. Had it been four orgasms? Five?
He didn't need you to speak to know you were there; it was a sixth sense he’d developed over their time together. He turned slowly, spatula in hand, wearing that half-smile he kept only for you.
"Good morning, Doll," he said, his voice reaching your implants with a vibrant, resonant warmth. "I was starting to think I’d have to bring breakfast to you."
His gaze raked over the shirt—recognizing his own garment—and the flare of heat in his eyes at the sight of his marks on your skin almost made you wish for more.
"Good morning, Big Guy," you murmured lazily, stepping forward to curl into his chest.
He welcomed you with a protective arm, hooking it around your waist to haul you flush against him while his other hand remained busy with the pan. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating. As you pressed your face into his bare chest, Brendon let out a low, rumbling laugh—a deep vibration you felt against your cheek before your implants even processed the sound. It was your favorite sound in the world.
"It looks better on you than it does on me, Babydoll," he said, setting the spatula aside to thread his fingers through your sleep-muddled hair, gently tilting your head back to meet his gaze. "I could get used to this view, though I’d run out of clothes in a week."
He looked at you with a predatory intensity, savoring the contrast of his massive shirt against your petite frame. His thumb traced the edge of a bruise on your neck—a mark he had carved there himself. An electric shiver of possession raced down your spine, a reminder that while the outside world was a chaotic mess, here, there was only the two of you.
"Now, breakfast," he said, punctuated by a firm swat to your backside—hard enough to sting and leave yet another mark.
You let out a small gasp, half-startled and half-delighted. The echo of the impact resonated in your implants with startling clarity. Brendon Park never did anything halfway; every caress, however blunt, was a signature—a way of marking his territory and reminding you that you had belonged to him from the moment you said "I do."
"Brendon!" you protested with a mischievous grin, though you made no move to retreat.
He laughed, guiding you toward a stool at the island. He moved with practiced efficiency, plating the eggs and bacon on white porcelain adorned with cherry blossoms—your choice, not his. Left to his own devices, everything he owned would have been black, but he used these because he knew they made you happy.
"Sit, Doll. You need to recharge," he said, setting the steaming plate and matching cup of chocolate before you.
You settled onto the stool, the shirt riding up to reveal the bites on your pale thighs. Watching him move in the morning light—so domestic yet radiating that dangerous, coiled energy—your heart hammered. You couldn't help but marvel at your luck that a man like this was yours alone.
Brendon sat beside you, but not before pressing a chaste, firm kiss to the crown of your head. He didn't eat immediately. Instead, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied you with the same critical, discerning gaze he used on surgical interns. He knew your every habit. He knew that you sometimes drifted away from the physical world, forgetting basic needs like sustenance.
"Eat, Doll. Don't you dare leave half of that," he warned, gesturing to the plate with his chin. "I know you. You’ll drink the chocolate, decide the sugar is enough to last ten hours, and think you’re fine. You know I don't like that."
He reached out and, with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the raw power of the night before, cut a piece of toast and held it to your lips. He waited patiently for you to accept it. It was a command wrapped in devotion. Only when he saw you chew and swallow did he grunt in satisfaction and begin his own meal.
He ensured not a scrap was left on your plate before draining his coffee in one long draught. Once finished, he cleared the space with methodical precision, loading the dishwasher with surgical efficiency.
"I’m going to shower. I won't be long," he announced, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before heading toward the primary ensuite.
You rose to prepare his clothes for the day. You walked barefoot into his dressing room—a space that smelled of sandalwood, cedar, and expensive, spicy cologne. You knew his routine by heart: today was a long day in the theater, which meant hours of standing under relentless lights, maintaining microscopic accuracy as he reconstructed bone and joint.
You sifted through the hangers carefully, mindful of the perfect order he maintained—a sharp contrast to the beautiful chaos of your own closet. You selected a deep navy Egyptian cotton shirt that matched the hue of his eyes and trousers of a soft, elegantly tailored black fabric. You laid them out on the bed, smoothing every phantom wrinkle with your palm.
Just as you finished setting out his socks and silk briefs, the sound of the water cut off. Moments later, Brendon emerged, a towel knotted loosely at his hips. His torso was still beaded with water, and his damp hair dripped onto his broad shoulders. He paused when he saw the clothes waiting for him.
"You're too good to me, Babydoll," he sighed, though the curve of his lips betrayed how much the gesture touched him. "And you know me too well. After a long shift, the last thing I want to do is fight with a wardrobe."
He walked up to you, his damp hands resting on your waist, just above where you both knew the marks of his possession remained etched into your skin.
"Thank you, precious," he continued, his tone softening for a fleeting second. "Now, let me get dressed before I decide that surgeries can wait—and you can't."
"I could cover my eyes, if you're too embarrassed for me to see you naked," you teased affectionately. You shielded your face with your hands, but left purposeful slits between your fingers so as not to miss a single detail of his formidable anatomy.
Brendon shook his head, clearly amused by your mischief, a spark of adoration igniting in his eyes.
"You are incorrigible, Doll—absolutely and truly incorrigible," he murmured. He dropped the towel without a trace of modesty, knowing full well you were devouring every line of his body with your gaze.
You watched him dress with practiced speed. There was something hypnotic about a man of his bulk slipping into the clothes you had curated for him. He pulled on the cotton T-shirt, which clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin; then his briefs, concealing a frame that—even at rest—was considerable; and finally, his trousers, which he drew up over his powerful legs.
Once dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes. The atmosphere shifted subtly; his expression grew somber, his mind already navigating through X-rays and surgical protocols with the clinical efficiency that characterized him at the PTMC. In an instant, he transitioned from the tender, possessive husband to the meticulous, predatory surgeon capable of silencing a room with his mere presence.
He stood and approached you one last time, wrapping one large hand around the nape of your neck to draw you into his space until you shared the same air. You couldn't help but shudder—not from fear, for you would never fear him—but from the sheer electricity his proximity always sparked.
"Take advantage of your day off. Rest. Stay in bed all day if you want," he ordered, his lips brushing yours with every syllable.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself be intoxicated by that balance of tenderness and dominance only Brendon could strike. You felt small beneath his touch, yet immensely secure.
"Understood?" he insisted, pressing his lips against yours in a slow, possessive kiss that forced you to grip his massive forearms just to keep your balance.
"Understood, Big Guy," you murmured against his mouth, your voice barely a breath.
He let out a grunt of satisfaction. With one final, stinging swat to your backside that made you arch your back with a moan, he laughed and pulled away. He strode out of the room, and seconds later, you heard the heavy thud of the front door. Finally alone, you collapsed back onto the unmade bed, enveloped in the fading scent of him.
What you wouldn't give to be back there again.
What a fool you had been.
Silly and careless.
You shouldn't have done it. But he pampered you with such devotion that you hadn't wanted to be left behind. As a token of gratitude, you had decided on a gesture of your own: you would take your old car and bring him a homemade lunch. It was a rarity; you both preferred to keep your marriage private, shielded from the prying eyes of "gossipy colleagues."
The intention had been pure—an act of love for the man who adored you. You had prepared his favorite meal, ignoring the pull of exhaustion, the ache in your muscles, and his direct command to remain in bed.
But fate—or rather, a drunk driver blowing through a stop sign—had other plans.
A flash of red. The harrowing screech of rubber against asphalt. The cacophony of blaring horns. Then, the thunderous explosion of metal yielding to metal—a dull, bone-deep impact that seemed to shift the very axis of the universe.
And then, the nothingness.
That was how you ended up here.
The first sensation to register as you drifted into consciousness within the disoriented haze of the trauma room was the scent: a sterile, sharp medicinal smell that you associated so deeply with your husband. You were surrounded by a frantic blur of doctors and nurses, their mouths moving with urgent speed, but you heard nothing. Where were your implants? Had they been lost in the wreckage? You couldn't think clearly, and the silence was absolute—a rising wall that severed you from the world, leaving you skin-raw and vulnerable.
A stabbing headache made reason impossible. You tried to lift your arms to sign, to tell them you couldn't hear, but a pair of hands pinned you down, obstructing your only means of expression.
Panic flared. You were trapped in a ring of people who wanted to help but couldn't comprehend why you wouldn't—or couldn't—answer.
"It’s useless; she’s too disoriented from the impact," Dr. Al-Hashimi said. You couldn't hear her, of course, but you saw her lips moving too fast to read as you struggled against the restraints.
"Ortho is on their way down," Perlah confirmed, hanging up the red trauma phone.
It was then, in the middle of the struggle, that the agony in your hip finally surged through the adrenaline. For the first time since waking, you thought of Brendon. He would be frantic. Had the paramedics salvaged your bag, or was it still crushed in the footwell of the car? You should have been wearing the medical alert bracelet he’d bought you for exactly this scenario, but you’d forgotten it again. The universe seemed to be mocking your negligence, leaving you helpless and mute at the moment you most needed a voice. A lump of sheer helplessness tightened in your throat.
"We can’t stabilize her if she won't stop fighting," Santos muttered, though Perlah heard her clearly.
It took only minutes for Brendon Park to arrive.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. You couldn't hear the sudden hush that fell over the trauma bay when he entered, but you felt the change in pressure. It was like a shark dispersing a school of silverfish, or the shockwave of a blast leveling an idyllic landscape. Drs. Al-Hashimi and Santos tensed, their shoulders hunching as their gazes darted toward the double doors. Whitaker practically recoiled into a corner, looking like a gazelle in the presence of an apex predator.
"Call Ortho again and tell Dr. Brennan to get down here," he ordered, offering no explanation and looking at no one but you. He moved with predatory focus until he was at eye level with your stretcher.
"What? But you’re already here, Dr. Park," Al-Hashimi interjected, her confusion palpable. "I don’t believe her injuries are severe enough to require two attending surgeons—"
He didn't deign to answer her. He scanned you with a surgical eye, not touching you yet, before realizing that your agitation was born of pure, silent terror. He correctly guessed that the magnets of your implants hadn't survived the G-force of the collision.
"I’m here, Doll. Look at me. Only me," he signed, ensuring his hands were within your line of sight while simultaneously speaking with a loud, commanding clarity. He cared nothing for the stunned expressions of his colleagues.
"Since when do you know ASL?" Whitaker stammered, too shocked to filter his thoughts. Seeing Park—the "Shark"—signing with fluid grace was like seeing a statue start to breathe.
"Since my wife is deaf, genius," Brendon snapped, turning a steel-blue gaze on every medical professional in the bay. "And you’re terrifying her. How is it that not one of you noticed she can’t hear a word you’re saying? Am I surrounded by total incompetents?"
The silence in the trauma room deepened, spreading like a cold front across the faces of the staff. Dr. Al-Hashimi’s mouth hung open as she processed the revelation. Santos looked equally horrified, and Whitaker turned a shade of pale that nearly matched the hospital walls.
No one in the hospital knew that the cold, caustic, and brusque Dr. Park even had a personal life, let alone a wife—and certainly not that his wife was currently bleeding out on an ER gurney.
"Dr. Brennan is coming, but she’s not happy about the summons," Perlah said, returning from the phone.
"As if I give a damn about her mood. The bylaws forbid me from operating on my own wife," Brendon dismissed her. Even without hearing the thunder in his voice, you saw the granite set of his jaw. The staff shrank back as if they were on a sinking vessel surrounded by white sharks. "And I’m certainly not leaving her in the hands of incompetent residents. Brennan is the only one I trust for this, besides myself."
His gaze returned to you, transforming in a heartbeat. The "Shark" vanished, replaced by the man who adored you. He leaned in, invading your space with that familiar, possessive heat, ignoring the half-dozen witnesses who were still reeling from the word wife.
"Look at me, Doll. You’re going to be fine. Dr. Brennan is going to fix your hip, and I’m going to be right there, watching her every move. Don't worry about anything. Do you understand?" He signed slowly, allowing your concussed brain to track his movements.
You nodded, the knot of panic in your chest finally loosening. Seeing him sign in the middle of this sterile chaos was the anchor that kept you from drowning in the quiet. You didn't care that his coworkers were seeing a side of him they didn't believe existed.
"Park is married..." Whitaker whispered, utterly floored by the sight of the brutal surgeon being so tender. "I never thought it was possible."
"Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have a life outside these walls; though I fail to see why that matters right now," Brendon replied, his voice regaining its icy edge. "You should be focused on the patient, not gossiping like schoolboys."
He never took his eyes off you, even as he hurled barbs at the staff. You watched the resident who looked like a character from Ratatouille stumble backward, nearly tripping over a blue-eyed doctor, while Al-Hashimi tried to regain her professional composure.
"The boy from Ratatouille looks like he’s about to faint. Don’t be mean, Bren," you signed weakly, your arms feeling like lead.
A brief, dry laugh shook Brendon’s chest—a vibration you felt against your arm before you saw his lips curl into a genuine, if ironic, smile.
"Then... you were the one who left those marks," Santos blurted out, her eyes traveling over the dark bruises on your neck and chest. The evidence of the previous night was everywhere: shoulders, abdomen, thighs. The most prominent were the unmistakable shadows of large fingers wrapped around your waist. "It looks more like a brutal assault than a consensual act."
Brendon didn't flinch, but his eyes turned lethal. You couldn't hear the accusation, but you could intuit the tension surrounding the marks of his passion. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the hospital sheet up to your chin, veiling every trace of his possession from their judgmental eyes.
"What happens between our sheets is none of your concern, Dr. Santos," he said, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "My wife is here because of a car accident, not because of her sex life."
The rear doors hissed open. Dr. Brennan entered like a Category 5 hurricane in a small frame. She was tiny compared to the other surgeons, but she had carved out her reputation with steel. If Brendon was the Shark, she was the Orca. Her grey eyes swept the room, taking in the cowering Whitaker and the standoff between Brendon and Santos.
"That’s enough, Dr. Park. We’re taking her to the OR," Brennan said. You couldn't hear her, but the authority in her expression was absolute. She moved to the stretcher, physically nudging Santos out of the way.
She didn't waste a second, signaling the orderlies to unlock the wheels. The ceiling began to move—a blurring sequence of white panels and flickering fluorescent lights that made your head spin.
Brendon didn't leave your side. He walked flush against the gurney, his hand crushed tightly in yours, his blue eyes searching your face for any flicker of pain.
You reached the heavy steel doors of the elevator. The wait for the car to descend felt like an eternity in the absolute silence.
"We're almost there, Doll," his lips articulated. There was a softness in his expression that masked the tension in his frame. "Don't worry. I trust Brennan. She’s the best—after me."
The doors slid open, and the stretcher was pushed into the cramped, metallic box, followed by Brennan and two nurses. The space was claustrophobic. Brendon placed his free hand on the back of your neck—the exact same caress from that morning. He knew you hated confined spaces; he knew the trauma of being locked in cupboards as a child in the system.
As the familiar tremor began at the base of your spine, your pupils dilated with terror. The steel walls seemed to shrink, shifting into the dark, damp shadows of your childhood. Your breathing hitched—a silent, jagged gasp that signaled the onset of hyperventilation.
But then, Brendon’s hand squeezed firmly at the nape of your neck. His fingers were more than a caress; they were an anchor to the now, demanding your attention and pulling you back from the precipice of that dark, traumatic abyss. He stepped between you and the closed elevator doors, his massive frame becoming your entire horizon—your beacon in the storm of your own thoughts.
He knew every one of your ghosts; he had spent countless nights cradling you through the tremors of your nightmares. Seeing that glint of primal terror in your eyes made his jaw tighten to the limit, his teeth grinding with a raw, barely contained fury at the world that had hurt you.
"Look at me, Doll. Only me," he signed with one hand, the other maintaining that heavy, grounding warmth against your skin. "You aren't there. You are here with me. These doors won't stay closed for long. No one here will ever hurt you again."
His blue eyes burned with a protective ferocity. He knew how to soothe you better than you knew yourself. He forced you to synchronize with the rhythm of his own breathing, which you could feel against your face as he leaned in close. You inhaled, mimicking him, and the ghost of the cupboard began to dissolve against the reality of his presence.
"We’re almost out, my little doll," he promised, his voice a low rumble. "I’m not letting go. I’m with you until the end. You’ve always been a survivor—a fighter."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. It was a gesture so profoundly intimate that Dr. Brennan and the orderlies averted their eyes in a rare, respectful silence.
When the elevator doors finally slid open onto the surgical floor, the relief was instantaneous. The world seemed to expand, and the sterile, chilled air filled your lungs. The stretcher rattled out of the metal cage—a vibration you felt deep in your bones. Brendon stepped back just enough to allow the orderlies to maneuver you toward Operating Room 5.
"Dr. Brennan is an exceptional surgeon," he said, knowing he had to head to the scrub sinks if he was to join you. "But I will be right there. I’ll be your voice while you sleep. I won't let anyone make a single misstep. I promise you, Doll."
You watched him stand still for a heartbeat, watching as you were wheeled toward the theater, before he turned on his heel. He strode toward the scrub room with the determination of a man who would not let fate, the universe, or any god take away the only thing in the world he truly loved.
The double doors of the OR swung wide. Inside, the lights were a raw, blinding white. They transferred you to the operating table—a transition to a cold, metallic surface that made you shudder as it met the bare skin of your back. Panic thrummed in your chest like a muffled drum, a primal response to the hostile environment, but deep down, you knew you were in the safest hands in the city.
To your left, the anesthesiologist approached, precisely adjusting the IV manifolds. Almost instantly, a glacial chill began to invade your veins, racing up your arm like a frozen river.
Your eyelids grew heavy, weighted with lead. You tried to fight it—one last desperate effort to stay awake, to stay here. With fingers numbed by the onset of the drugs, you managed to lift your hand just a few inches. The movement was clumsy and slow, but you managed to sign a final "I love you" to the imposing figure of your husband, who had just appeared at your side.
That was the last thing you remembered before the world slipped away.
You didn't see his answer.
Only darkness.
A dreamless sleep.
The next time you opened your eyes, it felt as though only minutes had passed. However, the leaden weight of your eyelids, the dry, tacky sensation in your mouth, and the scratchiness in your throat betrayed the truth: it had been hours.
You were bathed in a soft, amber gloom—a merciful reprieve from the violent white glare of the operating room. The first thing you registered was a familiar touch: warm, rough, and grounding. His hand was clamped over yours. You turned your head slowly, battling the residual vertigo of the anesthesia.
There he was.
Brendon hadn’t moved. He was slumped in the armchair pulled flush against your bedside, still clad in his surgical scrubs. His normally immaculate hair was a mess of curls; you could tell he had run his hands through it repeatedly, rubbing away the gel until it looked entirely natural. The shadows beneath his blue eyes were bruised and deep, as if the weight of the last few hours had physically aged him.
The moment he noticed you stir, he bolted upright. His eyes scanned your face with clinical intensity, searching for any flicker of pain or lingering delirium.
"Hello, Doll," he signed, a smile of pure, jagged relief breaking across his lips. "Welcome back. The surgery was a success. Dr. Brennan did an inspired job. You’re going to make a full recovery, little doll."
You tried to speak, but only a fractured, hoarse moan escaped your throat. He anticipated the need, gently guiding a straw to your lips to offer a few precious drops of water. Once you had swallowed, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an object that made your heart skip a beat.
Your cochlear processors.
They were scuffed, and one had a hairline fracture along the protective casing, but they were whole.
"I got them back from the car," you read on his lips, a spark of grim triumph in his gaze. "Well, I sent Ratatouille to fetch them. I refused to leave your side."
He leaned over you with infinite care. You felt the familiar magnetic click against your skull, and suddenly, the world rushed back in. The rhythmic, electronic chirp of the heart monitor, the distant bustle of the hallway, and—above all—the sound you had hungered for since the moment of the crash.
"Can you hear me, Doll?" His voice reached you—low, gravelly, and frayed by an exhaustion born of near-loss.
"Yes, Big Guy. I hear you," you managed to whisper. You were still floating in an anesthetic haze, but the relief of hearing him again was an instantaneous balm.
Brendon let out a long, shuddering sigh, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours. His shoulders, which had been braced like granite since he first saw you on that trauma gurney, finally slumped.
"Don't ever give me a fright like that again," he growled against your lips, punctuated by a tender, lingering kiss. "God... when I walked in and saw you lying there, I thought... I thought I’d lost you. Don’t do it again. I’m begging you."
"I’m so sorry... I only wanted to bring you lunch. To thank you for taking such good care of me." Tears pricked your eyes. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
He silenced your guilt with another kiss—one that sought to overwrite your apologies with his devotion.
"Hush, baby. Don't you dare apologize for loving me. The only thing that matters is that you're alive, that you're going to heal, and that you're coming home with me," he said. He traced the line of your cheek with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. "I only need you. Whole. Safe. Under our roof and between our sheets."
"Brendon," you murmured, your voice sounding small and fragile. You tugged weakly at the V-neck of his scrubs. "Come up here. Please."
He hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the door of the private room. As a senior surgeon, he was flouting every protocol in the hospital handbook, but one look at your pale face and trembling lip ended his resistance. He kicked off his shoes and carefully maneuvered his massive frame into the narrow space on the hospital bed, curling around you with exquisite care to avoid your operated hip.
You tucked your head into the hollow of his chest. Brendon pulled you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where his lips brushed against one of the marks he had left the night before.
"Rest, Doll," he whispered against your skin, the vibration of his voice resonating through your own chest. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I love you too, Big Guy."
You closed your eyes, lulled by the radiating heat of his body and the absolute security of his embrace. The chaos, the sterile hospital, and that terrifying, lonely silence were all behind you. Here, in this small room, held fast by the man they called "The Shark," you were finally home. You were safe.
Imagine being from the DMV area and arguing with rooster about which state has the worst drivers 💀that shit would get HEATED. But guarantee both would agree that Pennsylvania drivers are the absolute worst in the end.
***side note: Virginia drivers are in fact the worst in the tristate. It’s just facts, sorry to anyone there***
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