#dr park

You smiled and nodded as someone administered medication and it was obvious that you wanted to leave even though you were being as polite as possible. 

“I’ll check it out.” Dana patted Robby’s shoulder and moved towards the room you were in. 

Meanwhile, you were sitting and hoping that someone would come with the good news that you were getting transferred. 

“Hey- I’m Dana.” She entered, closing the door behind her and drawing the curtain. “You got a minute to talk?” 

You smiled and sat up a little, then winced in pain. “Sorry- Just really sore. Am I getting the transfer?” 

“Uh- Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder then pulled a stool to sit next to the bedside. “Is there a reason you don’t wanna be here? At this hospital?” 

“Yeah, I usually go to Westboro or Sacred Heart. I was just near here so they brought me here and I wasn’t very lucid to advocate for myself.” You gave a nervous laugh. 

“And there’s no other reason?” She asked, eyeing you carefully. 

“No, ma’am.” You swallowed but she noticed you stiffening up a little.

“Okay… okay. Is there someone we can call or-” She started but you shook your head.

“No! I mean- I- No. I’m fine. I just wanna get out of your hair-” You said immediately. 

“Okay.” She nodded, watching you fidget with your wedding ring. “You married?” She asked softly. 

“I- Yeah-” You smiled, looking at your hand. “Three years now.” 

“He’s a good guy?” She asked.

“He looks mean but he’s-” You pause then sigh deeply. “Are you here to ask if I’m being abused?”

“Dr Robby saw bruises that weren’t related to the crash. We have to do our duediligence.” She explained with a gentle smile. 

“I’m not- It’s not abuse-” You flushed deeply. “We’re just very passionate and he’s stronger and gets very-” You cleared your throat as you shied away from explaining that your husband was an animal in bed. 

“Robby called for an ortho consu-” Park entered and stared at you, saw Dana, then turned and walked away. 

“That was new.” Dana mumbled then looked at you. You laughed nervously, trying to not show anything. “So, I’m gonna ask again, can I call someone for you?” 

“I- My husband is my emergency contact but I don’t wanna bother him.” You said quietly. 

“Honey, you might have a broken arm and a fractured hip. You’re gonna need to call someone.” She said softly, reaching to hold your hand and give it a squeeze. “Maybe a sibling? Or a parent?” 

You shook your head again. “No. They’d all call him immediately so-” You sighed. “I’m fine… Really.” You gave a small smile. 

A few minutes later, Garcia walked in, confused. “Shark refused the consult.” She whispered to Dana and gave you a smile to start your consultation as Robby came back again. 

Broken radius, and fractured ilium with a lot of bruising on your ribcage. 

You nodded through the diagnosis and then the explanation of how you may need surgery for the arm but everything else can be wrapped and heal on its own. And then once again, someone emphasised that you needed to call someone. 

The room was full of interns, student doctors and Robby, explaining your condition when Park walked back in. He was no longer in scrubs but the same jeans and shirt he’d been wearing when he’d left home in the morning. 

Robby raised a brow as he entered. No one had ever seen him on the floor in casuals.

“We good?” He asked slowly. 

“Good. Continue.” Park nodded and pulled a stool to sit next to your bedside, taking your hand in his. 

It took Robby a good thirty seconds to finally realise why you wanted to be transferred to another hospital. You were saving them from the Shark, not trying to run away. 

“Brendon- I was just-” You looked at Robby worriedly.

“I know.” He nodded, eyes still locked on Robby. 

The room that had been buzzing was now very, very silent. One intern was now focused on the IV pump, another found the curtains very fascinating. The student doctors were transfixed on the floor. 

“Okay.” Robby clapped his hands, “Learning moment’s over. How about everyone go so I can have a moment with our patient and… spouse?” He added carefully and Park nodded once. “Right…” 

Once the room was empty and only the three of you remained, Robby turned to you both again. 

“How bad?” Park asked. His voice was unwavering but he was obviously worried with how hard he was holding your hand. 

Robby silently pulled up the Xrays to show him. Park sighed deeply then looked at you. 

“You should’ve called me.” He spoke gently which made Robby’s brows meet his hairline. 

“I didn’t wanna pull you from your shift.” You whispered back.

“My shift?” Park hissed and Robby cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about this later.” He pouted and turned to Robby, shoulders dropping a little. “Garcia will do the surgery since I can’t.”

Robby nodded in agreement, looking over his shoulder, a small crowd was just walking past, constantly sneaking peeks of Shark and you, and whispering. 

“As soon as we’ve got an OR, we’ll move you up.” Robby explained. “And uh-” He paused. “Dana might wanna talk to you-”

“Dana? Why?” Park’s brows furrowed. 

“The bruises-” You whispered to him and he glares at Robby. 

“I am not explaining how I love my wife.” He was appalled at even the notion. 

“Right! Of course! But you know! Hospital policy.” Robby backed away with a smile and exited the room quickly. 

You turned to Park with a smile. “You really have a reputation, huh?” You laughed softly. “They have no idea how gooey you are at home.”

“Stop… I’m a tough guy.” He smiled a little. 

“The doctor before- The woman. She called you Shark. I never thought they seriously called you that.” You giggled some more and he rolled his eyes, leaning to kiss your forehead. 

“I told you I’m a scary guy at work.” He said softly.

“Sure thing, fish boy.” You mused. 

Outside the room, Robby was explaining the situation to Dana, whilst Whitker and Santos were eavesdropping. 

“What… is happening right now?” Mel asked Dennis as she too stared at the scene unfolding in Trauma 2. 

“Shark might actually be human.” Dennis whispered back. 

“Who would’ve thought.” Trinity nodded in surprise. 

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You were utterly submerged in the rhythmic domesticity of folding laundry, your headphones snug and your hips swaying—almost instinctively—to the music that anchored your private world. You had squeezed every drop of productivity from your day off: an exhaustive marathon of errands, heavy shopping bags filled with the absurdly expensive luxuries Brendon favored, and the endless hum of the washing machine.

Yet, there wasn't a flicker of resentment for having "wasted" your freedom on chores. Each time you smoothed a T-shirt or triumphed in matching a pair of socks—a feat far more complex than it seemed, as if they possessed a supernatural urge to vanish—a small, secret smile tugged at your lips. You couldn't stop visualizing your husband’s reaction.

Would he mirror your radiance? Or would he succumb to the phantom of panic since, in his own haunting words, "he’d never been granted a decent paternal example"? That doubt lingered in the back of your mind, but it only served as the fuel for your fire. Everything had to be impeccable. Today wasn't just housework; it was a silent, frantic race to ensure every detail of your home was a sanctuary. The life already blossoming within you deserved nothing less. It hadn't been a calculated pursuit—simply a choice to stop running, to step back and let fate take the lead.

Now that fate had spoken, Brendon deserved to hear the echo in a way he’d never forget. Between cycles of the wash, you had choreographed the moment perfectly. You wanted him to step through that door after a grueling shift at the hospital and find more than just a clean house—you wanted him to find the threshold of his new reality, neatly packaged in a box on the table containing a pair of tiny, shark-printed shoes.

You were so lost in your own thoughts, the music acting as a barricade against the world, that you missed the subtle creak of the front door. You didn't hear the heavy, exhausted sigh as Brendon dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl. You were still lost in the melody, carrying the final stack of clean clothes toward the dressing room, when large, warm hands suddenly cinched around your waist.

The shock was electric. You jumped, the sudden jolt sending a freshly folded cotton shirt tumbling to the floor. You spun quickly within his grasp, headphones still clinging to your ears, to meet your husband’s gaze. The exhaustion of a marathon shift in the operating room was etched into the tension of his shoulders, but his eyes held that soft, guarded light—the look he reserved exclusively for you—that never failed to make your pulse skip.

You slid the headphones down around your neck, discarding them onto the nearest surface without a thought.

"Your first day off in weeks and you spend it on labor, Sunny..."

"I slept in, Bren. Then I had a proper breakfast, got dressed, and conquered the shops," you replied with a tender smile, looping your arms around his neck and grazing the skin at his nape. "I bought those steaks you love. And I finally caught up on the laundry."

"You spoil me, Doll," he rasped. Before you could offer a retort, he closed the distance between you until there wasn't an inch of air to breathe.

His hands migrated from your hips to cradle your face with a fierce, possessive urgency as he kissed you. It was deep and desperate—a kiss born of longing and necessity, but anchored in a profound, quiet love. You felt the rigidity leave his frame as he melted against you, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a slowness that felt almost reverent.

"I’ve missed you every damn second of those sixteen hours," he whispered against your mouth, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. "I needed this. To feel you."

A lump of pure emotion tightened your throat. He had no inkling of the miracle growing in your womb—the tiny spark you had both kindled. You pulled back just enough to hold his gaze, keeping your hands on his chest with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"Well, I’m right here... and I have something for you."

You slipped from his hold and walked to the dining table, where the small box rested on the dark oak. You lifted it with trembling care, as if the contents were made of spun glass, and returned to him. Brendon watched you with mounting intrigue, leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a weary half-smile playing on his lips.

"A gift?" He arched a skeptical brow. "Doll, it’s not an anniversary or a birthday. You don’t need to buy me things."

"Just shut up and open it, Bren," you whispered, thrusting the box toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He gave a soft, amused huff and took the package. His long, steady surgeon's fingers made quick work of the black ribbon, drawing out the suspense. But the moment he lifted the lid, the world went silent. His blue eyes locked onto the miniature shoes—tiny blue sharks, so small they could be swallowed by the palm of his hand.

He froze. He barely blinked, his analytical brain seemingly paralyzed by the image. The weariness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor and a look of profound wonder.

"Doll..." His voice was a fractured whisper, his breath hitching as he delicately lifted one of the booties. "Tell me this isn't just a joke... tell me you didn't just find the design funny."

He looked up, searching your eyes for the permission to believe it.

"It’s not a joke, Bren. I’m nine weeks pregnant," you confirmed, your voice thick with tears. You placed your hands over his, which were still clutching the tiny shoe. "We’re having a baby, Big Guy."

The silence that followed was heavy and sacred. Brendon looked back down at the shoe, and for the first time in your years together, you watched a single, solitary tear track down his cheek.

Without a word, he sank to his knees. He pressed his forehead against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, grounding strength. It was the gesture of a man who had just found a new center of gravity.

"Nine weeks... a baby," he muffled against you, the vibration of his voice humming through your skin. "God, I’m going to be a father. I swear to you, Doll... I swear on my life I’ll be the best for them."

He stood, cupping your face once more to kiss you with a tenderness that nearly broke you.

"I'm buying a portable ultrasound machine," he announced, a flash of his usual professional authority returning as he wiped your tears away. "I don't care what it costs. I want to see this baby and hear that heart whenever we want."

"An ultrasound machine, Bren?" you laughed through your sobs. "That’s insane, it’s not even your specialty."

"I’m an orthopedic surgeon, Doll. I can read an image better than half the residents in that building," he countered with that characteristic touch of arrogance that made you smile. "Besides, I’m not letting our peace of mind depend on a waiting list. If I need to hear that little heart beating at three in the morning just so I can sleep, then I will."

"I married a madman," you joked, leaning into him.

"You married the man who is going to protect you and that baby better than anyone on earth," he corrected fiercely. "Tomorrow, I’m calling Dr. Bishop. She’s the best OB in the city and she owes me for fixing her mother’s hip. You’ll be seen in her private clinic. You’ll just have to tolerate me wanting to listen to the heartbeat every five minutes."

He folded you into his arms, and in that embrace, you felt like the safest person in existence. He fell silent, resting his cheek atop your head as you both stared at the tiny shoe on the table. The "Shark" had finally laid down his armor.

"It’s going to be so small, isn't it?" he asked suddenly, his voice laced with genuine awe. "The bones... they'll be so delicate. God, I’ll have to learn not to squeeze too hard when I hold them."

"You won't hurt them. They'll be in the best hands in the world," you assured him, rubbing his back. "You’re going to be an incredible father, Big Guy. Overprotective, but incredible."

In that moment of raw vulnerability, it was clear: Brendon was already as deeply in love with the baby as he was with you. It didn't matter how formidable he was in the OR or how much he terrified his residents; here, in the quiet of your home, he was simply a man captivated by the new life beginning to pulse within you.

"I'll be whatever you need," he promised, kissing your hair. "Rest now, Doll. I’ll take care of you both."

He wasn't lying.

Nine months later, you were a study in heavy, aching anticipation. Your daughter was a tempest, kicking your ribs with a relentless energy she had clearly inherited from her father. You felt as though you might split at the seams, yet stubbornness—another trait you shared with your husband—drove you from the bed. You wanted to brew one last pot of coffee for Brendon while he showered, preparing for his final shift before paternity leave.

But as your feet hit the floor, it wasn't a contraction that halted you. It was a strange, sudden rush of heat—the unmistakable sensation of liquid soaking through your clothes and pooling onto the hardwood. You froze, staring at the puddle with the eerie, detached composure that only an ER nurse could maintain in a crisis.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Brendon emerged in a shroud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips and his torso still glistening with droplets. He stopped dead when he saw you standing there, staring blankly at the floor. His blue eyes swept the room, processing the scene in a fraction of a second. There was no first-time-father panic; there was only the absolute, chilling calm of a surgeon.

"Bren... I just—" Your voice was a thin whisper.

"I know, Doll. It seems our daughter has a very loose interpretation of due dates," he replied. His voice was so steady it sent a shiver of pure relief down your spine.

There was no frantic rushing. Brendon dropped the towel and dressed with the clinical efficiency of a soldier on a mission. In a heartbeat, you were swept into his arms and carried down to the garage. He settled you into the leather interior of his BMW X6, reclining the seat just enough to keep you secure but comfortable.

"Bren, the upholstery..." you wheezed as a fresh contraction stole your breath.

"I can replace leather, Doll. I can't replace you two. The only thing that matters is getting you to that hospital," he said, cinching the belt over your belly with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

He rounded the hood in three long strides and slid into the driver's seat. With a flick of his wrist, the engine roared to life. The drive was a masterclass in precision. Brendon kept one hand locked on the wheel, carving through the morning fog with surgical accuracy, while his other hand sought yours, squeezing tight every time a contraction forced your back to arch. His eyes flicked between the road and you, monitoring your vitals as if you were his most critical patient.

"She had to pick rush hour," you hissed through gritted teeth. Pittsburgh’s morning traffic was a legendary hellscape; the path to PTMC felt like an impossible gauntlet.

A new contraction, far more violent than the last, forced your eyes shut. You gripped his thigh with a force that would have made any other man falter, but Brendon didn't flinch. He absorbed your pain as if it were his own.

"She’s impatient. Clearly, she didn't get that from me," he joked, his voice a low rumble designed to ground you as he swerved around a delivery truck. "Breathe, Doll. You’re doing perfectly. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known."

"God, I don't think I'm doing this again, Bren..." you gasped, the pressure becoming unbearable. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't you dare apologize. Not for this," he countered instantly, his voice thick with devotion. He kept his left hand fixed on the wheel, dodging a slow-moving sedan, while his right hand remained a steady weight on your leg. "If this impatient little girl is the only one we ever have, she’ll be the luckiest, most loved child in this fucking world. I don't need another miracle to know how incredible you are. I just need you two safe."

You looked at his profile—a sharp, concentrated line of marble. There was no trace of the panic a normal father would feel. He was a surgeon in the middle of the most vital operation of his life, and you were his only priority.

"Bren... she’s crowning," you exhaled, the downward pressure forcing you to arch against the leather.

The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly. The air grew dense, electric. Brendon’s jaw tightened until the muscle looked carved from stone. You were gridlocked just blocks from the hospital. Time had run out.

"Damn it," he growled, though his voice remained low. "Okay, Doll. Listen to me. We aren't waiting for this traffic to move. We both know she isn't going to wait for a parking spot."

He shifted in his seat, placing a firm, steady hand on your stomach.

"Unbuckle the belt. Get your pants off. Now, beautiful. Don't worry about the car, just focus on me."

"We should call Dana... tell her to get the OB team ready..." you managed to stutter, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the fabric.

Brendon didn't take his eyes off you, but he slammed the hands-free button. "Call Dana Evans," he commanded. "Now, Doll. Get rid of the clothes. Forget everything else. Let's bring our daughter home."

The phone rang over the speakers just as you managed to kick the clothes to the floor. Dana’s authoritative voice filled the cabin. "Park? Why are you calling? Is everything okay with Sunshine?"

"Dana!" you shrieked, clutching the ceiling handle so hard the plastic groaned. "I’m in the car and she’s coming! I’m crowning!"

There was a half-second of silence—the time it took for a veteran nurse to shift gears. "Sunshine! Stay calm! Don’t push unless you can’t stop it! Shark! Tell me you aren't driving like a maniac!"

"We’re stuck in traffic, Dana," Brendon interrupted, his voice reaching that terrifying level of calm he only used when a life was on the line. "Clear Trauma 1. I want OB and a Neo-team standing by the bay. We're coming in hot."

He cut the call. The traffic broke, but your daughter had reached the point of no return. The "ring of fire" consumed you, and your nails dug deep into Brendon's knee.

"Don't hold back, Doll. If you have to push, push," he ordered. He covered your hand with his, welcoming the sting of your nails.

The BMW roared as Brendon tore onto the shoulder, burning rubber to bridge the final meters to the PTMC ramp. You felt a final, explosive surge of nature—a force that ripped a scream from your lungs that likely echoed through the entire ward.

"Brendon!" you cried out, your hands reaching down to catch the small, slick body of your daughter as she slid into the world.

He slammed on the brakes in front of the ER doors, the screech of tires bringing security running. The engine was still ticking, hot from the race, but the world went silent when your daughter’s first cry—a high-pitched, indignant, life-filled wail—broke the air.

Brendon unbuckled and lunged toward your seat. His surgeon’s hands, which never wavered, joined yours to hold the warm miracle against your chest. He shed his linen jacket to cover her, shielding her from the morning air. His blue eyes, usually so clinical, were shimmering.

"She’s perfect, Doll. You’re... God, you’re incredible," he whispered, kissing your sweat-soaked brow.

"She already has your look of annoyance," you joked weakly, tears finally spilling over.

The ER doors burst open. Donnie and Jesse sprinted out with a gurney, their faces a mix of terror and awe.

"I see Baby Shark is just as impatient as her mother, eh, Sunshine?" Donnie shouted, rushing to cover you with a blanket as they helped Brendon move you to the gurney.

"Shut up, Donnie!" you barked, a laugh bubbling through your sobs. "I would have made it to the ward if the traffic in this city wasn't absolute shit!"

"Hey, watch the language, Sunshine! There are innocent ears present!" Jesse teased.

As they began to wheel you inside, Donnie—ever the instigator—pulled out his phone. He had been waiting for this moment since the day he found out "Park the Shark" was the father. He hit play and turned the volume to the max.

The low, menacing notes of the Jaws theme began to thrum through the ER hallway.

Tu-tum... tu-tum... tu-tum-tu-tum...

The ward ground to a halt. Robby froze mid-note; Langdon dropped his pen; the nurses exchanged looks of pure shock. Even Dana couldn't hide her grin. The Great White Shark of Orthopedics had entered the building, not to hunt, but to protect his brood.

Brendon walked beside the gurney, his hand resting firmly on the edge. He didn't care about the ruined shirt or his fearsome reputation. He only had eyes for you and the tiny creature on your chest.

"Donnie, you're an idiot," you laughed.

"What? Baby Shark deserves the entrance of the century," he retorted as they swung you into Trauma 1.

The baby, oblivious to the soundtrack, snuggled into your skin. But the joy of the room shifted as Robby stepped forward, his expression darkening.

"You know what's crazy, Sunshine?" Robby said softly as the team began their post-birth checks. "Today is a day of miracles and cruel ironies. Baby Jane Doe came back in thirty minutes ago."

You stiffened. The memory of the little girl from the 4th of July—the one you had held until the system took her away—hit you like a physical blow. You had grieved for her, fearing the system would fail her.

"What? Why?" you asked, your heart sinking.

Robby sighed, glancing at Dana. "Her foster mother 'forgot' she was in the back seat while running errands. She was locked in the car, Sunshine. In the direct sun. A passerby had to break the glass. She's lucky to be alive."

You looked down at your own daughter, so safe and warm, and then up at Brendon. The contrast was agonizing. You had fought through a city to save your child, while Jane Doe had been left to bake in a metal tomb.

The silence in the room was deafening. Brendon stood perfectly still, but the air around him turned cold. That predatory, protective calm settled over him.

"Forgotten?" The word fell from his lips like a death sentence. His gaze turned lethal. "You’re telling me that while I nearly wrecked my car to ensure my family was safe, that woman left a child in a furnace?"

"Exactly that," Dana confirmed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "She’s dehydrated and the heat stroke was severe, but she’s a fighter."

You felt the echo of your own childhood—the cold uncertainty of the foster system—resonate in your chest. You couldn't let it happen again. Not to her.

"Brendon," you whispered, reaching for him.

He looked at you. In his eyes was the man who had just realized his family wasn't yet complete.

"They failed you, Doll," he said, his voice a low, lethal promise only you could hear. "But we are not going to fail her. Not again. I know how hard it was to let her go the first time. Fate is screaming at us to fix this."

The room went still as his meaning sank in.

"You mean...?" Your voice broke.

"We should have done it from the start," he said, kissing your temple. "There will be no more goodbyes, Doll. Baby Jane Doe is staying with us. I don't care who I have to call—she isn't going back."

A few hours later, the frantic pulse of the ER had faded into the profound stillness of a private suite on the maternity floor. The late afternoon sun began its slow descent over Pittsburgh, hemorrhaging gold through the windows and bathing the room in a warm, ethereal glow. You were reclined against a mountain of pillows, your newborn daughter—the little "Baby Shark" who had claimed her place in the world so violently—sleeping soundly in the bassinet beside you.

The door moved on silent hinges. Brendon stepped inside, still wearing the clothes from the birth, though he had scrubbed the day’s grime from his face. The shadow of fury that had darkened his features in the Trauma Box was gone, replaced by a quiet, triumphant serenity. In his arms, he carried a small, bundled weight wrapped in an immaculate white cotton blanket.

"Brendon?" you whispered, shifting carefully.

He didn't speak. He crossed the room with the measured grace of a man who had already won the war. With the delicate precision he reserved solely for you, he leaned down and deposited the bundle into your arms.

"Emergency custody has been granted," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress and draping a protective arm around your shoulders. "The judge is a former colleague, and the Chief of Surgery personally signed the suitability reports. There is no more 'Jane Doe.' The paperwork dictates she remains with us until the adoption is finalized. We’re going to need to give her a name, Doll... something other than what that woman called her."

You looked down at the infant. She was barely three months old, her cheeks still flushed from the terrifying heat she had endured, but as she felt the familiar warmth of your touch, she blinked open those sweet, dark eyes that had haunted your dreams since July. She seemed to recognize you instantly; her lips mimicked a soft, seeking motion before she curled into your chest, tucking herself directly over the beat of your heart.

"Hello again, little one," you sobbed, the tears falling unchecked as you pressed a kiss to her temple. "I promised you back in July... I promised you that someone would love you. And we are going to love you so very much. My sweet Cordelia Ondina."

The baby let out a long, shuddering sigh, as if she had finally found the only place in the world where she was truly safe. The hollow ache that had lived in your chest since she was taken from you weeks ago vanished, healing scars you hadn't even realized were open.

Brendon leaned his forehead against yours, absorbing the sight of the perfect tableau: his wife, his biological daughter, and the little girl fate had refused to let him leave behind. The three women who now held his world in their hands.

"And to think, I said we’d only have one daughter... then fate hands us two," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you stroked Cordelia’s cheek. Your gaze drifted to the bassinet where Baby Shark slept on.

"Fate didn't hand us anything, Doll. It simply pointed the way," he corrected in a low, gravelly rasp, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble. "We took what was ours. And neither of them... they couldn't have asked for a better mother."

"And they couldn't ask for a better guardian, Big Guy," you whispered, brushing your nose against his. "The great Park 'The Shark'—the surgeon everyone fears, who turns out to have the largest heart I’ve ever known."

In the hallowed silence of the suite, there was only the rhythmic, synchronized breathing of the two infants. Though they had arrived by vastly different paths—one born in the leather-scented sanctuary of a luxury car, the other rescued from the cold abandonment of a failing system—they now shared a home, a future, and a name.

Brendon wrapped his arms around all of you, a living shield against the world outside. His blue eyes shone with a raw vulnerability—the kind only you could draw out, and the kind you suspected his daughters would eventually command as well.

"I love you, Doll," he whispered, the words heavy with a devotion that bordered on the sacred. "I love all of you. You are everything I ever wanted... even when I was too arrogant to know I needed it."

He kissed your forehead with a lingering, reverent slowness. Outside those doors, the hospital continued its frantic, chaotic dance, but inside the bubble of the suite, time stood still. You looked from Cordelia, dozing against your heart, to the bassinet where your youngest daughter rested, knowing that your real story—the one of the Shark and his girls—was only just beginning.

“Dr. Javadi!” She calls out, stopping the young doctor in her tracks, eyes wide as she turns toward the nurse’s station. “Find Dr. Park and tell him his wife is here with his lunch.”

“What?” Victoria’s already shaking her head, gesturing vaguely toward the ambulance bay with her hands. “No- I… There’s a trauma coming in and-”

She’s interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Santos, who steps up with her hands on the ends of her stethoscope, mouth still finishing up a yawn as she starts to talk, “Who’s the really sweet woman with a lunchbox talking to the little kids in chairs?” All eyes turn to her, and Trinity scans all of their faces with a slight frown. “What?”

“Ah, Dr. Santos, perfect.” Dana, puts her hands together, pointing them toward Trinity. “That is Dr. Park’s wife, I believe. Can you go tell him she’s here?”

“Me?” Trinity scoffs, shaking her head much in the same way Javadi did. “No, I can’t. I have a case to check on.”

“If you have a case, why were you in chairs?” Javadi asks and Trinity sends her a side glare that has the younger doctor pursing her lips and going silent. 

Dana doesn’t look away, doesn’t lower her brows, doesn’t stop smacking her gum. “Dr. Santos-”

“I don’t want to go find Shark! Send one of the interns.” 

“Find me for what?” Everyone goes still; they’ve spoken of the devil and suddenly he’s appeared. Brendon looks between all of them, eyes sharp but jawline sharper. “Find me for what? I hope you all haven’t managed to screw something up with my femur surgery before I could make it down here.”

It’s Dr. Javadi who ends up breaking the silence, if only because it’s her face his gaze lands on last and it hardens enough to have her practically squealing, “Uh- uh no! Your patient is fine. It’s just, your wife is here.”

They all watch the shift in his expression. It’s not major, not like all of the color drains from his face or his jaw goes slack. It’s just a slight shift in his muscles. “My wife is here?”

“She’s fine.” Dana clarifies, gesturing toward chairs. “Apparently, you forgot your lunch at home and she brought it for you.” 

His expression changes again. Softens in a way that has everyone else looking at each other. His next words add to their surprise, “Thank you.” Dr. Park gives Dana a nod before he turns on his heel to head toward chairs. 

The three of them, Javadi, Dana, and Santos, follow behind him, stepping up by Lupe’s desk to watch through the window as he approaches you. 

You blink up at him so sweetly, and his hand raises to cup your cheek. You smile, so brightly it’s almost blinding, and all of your spectator’s jaws are dropping when Dr. Park smiles back. 

Victoria elbows Trinity gently, getting her attention as her eyes linger on the two of you. “Did you know he was married?” 

Trinity shakes her head, lips pursed. “No.”

Park leans down to give you a kiss as he takes the lunchbox from your hands. It completely changes the way they see him, though the sharp look he shoots the three of them through the window when he pulls back sends them darting back to work. 

People whisper about Park the Shark’s cute wife for the rest of the day, and there’s even rumors that he smiled. 

No one would ever dare say anything in front of him, though. Not unless they had a death wish. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You had been to the hospital many times to spend time with your husband while he was on shift. It became a routine, a quiet way for him to take a moment away from consults and surgeries. A chance to be himself. No pressure. No expectations.

Most of the orthopedic floor staff knew who you were. How could they not, when your husband was considered one of the best? There was barely a break or detached limb he couldn’t fix.

The emergency department was loud when you arrived, the kind of sound that came with bad decisions, fireworks, and a holiday that never quite went right. You should’ve expected it

It was the Fourth of July, after all.

But the chaos down here was different from the one you were used to.

Still, you figured bringing your husband lunch on a busy day was the least you could do. You knew how these shifts often went: long, relentless, and unforgiving.

You stepped through the ED doors, scanning the chaos for him, the paper bag still warm in your hands. There had to be at least one face down here that was familiar that could guide you, but before you could look further, you heard him.

“No, that is not how you handle that!”

Your steps slowed.

Brendan’s voice cut clean through the noise, sharp and harsh, making a few heads turn. Your stomach drops.

You rounded the corner just enough to see him.

Brendan Park stood in front of a first-year resident who looked like he might be two seconds away from crying. One hand braced against the stretcher, the other pointing at the X-ray with a pen. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, jaw set tight, every bit of him radiating that controlled, cutting authority the staff had long since learned to work around.

No one else looked surprised. A few nurses kept charting. Someone walked past as if this were just another day. Everyone knew that was how Park the Shark operated. Only the resident looked like he might fold under the pressure.

“That’s not stable,” Brendan said flatly. “It’s displaced.”

The resident hesitated. “I thought it could—”

“You thought wrong,” he snapped. “Look at it.” He tapped the screen once. “See the angulation? That’s not holding. You send them home like that, they come back worse.”

The resident swallowed, nodding quickly.

Your grip on the bag tightened. That wasn’t the man who made your coffee before you woke up. That wasn't the man who kissed you goodbye this morning.

Brendan didn’t soften.

“Next time, don’t guess,” he said sharply. “If you’re unsure, you call me immediately. Now, bring them upstairs. Prep them for surgery.”

He turned and froze. Clearly not expecting to see you.

“You’re here,” he said, the bite in his voice disappearing almost instantly.

You held up the bag, expression calm but sharp. “Garcia told me you were down here,” you said. “I brought lunch.”

There was a moment of silence, and the staff aroumd seemed to hold their breath.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I was actually looking for my husband… but I found a tool instead.”

The words landed like a scalpel. A couple of nurses froze mid-charting. Someone behind Brendan stopped walking mid-step.

Brendan blinked once. Colour crept up his neck.

“I’m working,” he said, a little too quickly, straightening his posture like he could pull the authority back over himself. “This isn’t—”

You raised an eyebrow, and he stopped. 

“That’s not working,” you said evenly. “That’s you tearing into someone who clearly needed guidance, not public humiliation.”

All eyes were on you now. Someone stifled a laugh behind a chart.

Brendan’s jaw tightened. Park the Shark could have unleashed full fury, but he didn’t. He looked at you, and for a moment, the fight drained out of him.

“I–” he started, quieter now.

You stepped closer, pressing the bag into his chest. “Eat, and maybe remember that was your dumbass at some point.”

His hands came up automatically, taking it. “…Yes, ma’am,” he muttered under his breath.

Your lips twitched.

“Good. I’ll be in the break room,” you said, already stepping back. “Try not to yell at anyone else on your way up.”

And just like that, you turned and walked away.

Silence followed.

Then—

“Was that—” “That was his wife.” “No way.” “Park has a wife??” “She just shut him down.”

Brendan closed his eyes briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “…Not a word,” he muttered.

SecretHusband!Park who you married a couple of years ago after a whirlwind romance. No one in the Pitt even knows you two dated let alone got engaged, and then married. Brendon is very secretive about his private life as are you.

SecretHusband!Park who is quietly protective of you. If he’s down in the ER for a consult he quietly watches you. Making sure no one’s making you uncomfortable. He won’t make a big scene but if someone did make you uncomfortable whether it’s a colleague or patient he will quietly stand by you whilst giving them his signature Shark glare, until they feel uncomfortable and leave you alone.

SecretHusband!Park who doesn’t listen to any of the gossip from your colleagues or his, if anyone notices how he stands near you. How he sort of just hovers. And he certainly doesn’t listen when they say he seems oddly calm and comfortable around you.

SecretHusband!Park who may “accidentally” brush his hand against yours or brush past you.

SecretHusband!Park who will get annoyed if someone questions you at something you clearly know what you’re doing “don’t question her again. She knows what she’s doing.” He’d bark. A hint of a smile on his lips when the person stutters apologising to you. But then he’s quickly back to his signature glare.

SeecretHusband!Park who pulls you into a storage closest for stolen kisses of a chance to remind you how much he loves you.

SecretHusband!Park who pins you against the wall and mutters “missed you” against your lips.

SecretHusband!Park who will make love to you when he finally gets you home.

SecretHusband!Park who cooks for you. And dotes on your every need.

SecretHusband!Park who can’t help but leave hickeys on your neck. When your colleagues notices if he’s around he will just quietly chuckle to himself, until you glare at him when no one’s noticing.

SecretHusband!Park who is surprisingly clingy and will have you sit on his lap as he massages your shoulders, kisses your neck and runs his fingers through your hair.

SecretHusband!Park who loves to fuck you in the shower before and after work.

SecretHusband!Park who hates when colleagues or patients flirt with you. He wants to shout out but instead he just glares at them.

SecretHusband!Park who isn’t surprised when you tell him your colleagues have a running bet on what is happening with the both of you, because they’ve noticed him specifically lurking by you more and more every day.

Your day goes by in a haze. Work was the same as always but you’re distracted.

You’ve been distracted a lot recently.

The last few months have felt heavy. Not only has work been overwhelming but your husband, Brendon, well, that’s been the heaviest part.

Between both of your jobs becoming busier, you both haven’t had much time together.

You both used to have ample time in a week to meet up for lunch, go explore downtown, go out to dinners, have date nights, and everything in between. But lately these things have become dry, especially in the bedroom. 

During your five years of marriage, this has never been a problem. Not to this extent.

You didn’t think much of it until it had stopped completely. Some days you were too tired or other days Brendon was tired too or busy working and not home as much. 

The few times you had been eager to be under him, it never made it past a heavy makeout and some groping. 

You acknowledged it had been a combination of you both not being up to it but then your mind began to wander.

Recently you had been trying to get things back to how they were only to have your advances turned down. Brendon either acted oblivious, was asleep before anything happened or ended up working late.

You thought it had been a mutual disinterest at the time but now?

 You’re not so sure.

Was it you?

Maybe he was bored of you?

He did spend a lot of time at the hospital these last few months. And again you guys hadn't had sex in maybe a month or two?

No, no Brendon wouldn’t do that.

Right?

Maybe you could really initiate it. Buy new lingerie, get your nails and hair done.

That could work.

Hopefully it did.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The next day is your day off and you decide to put your plan into action.

You get your hair refreshed and styled first. Then you go to the nail salon and pick out his favorite color.

Perfect.

Your last stop was a lavish lingerie store in downtown Pittsburgh. The selection was a bit overwhelming but then you find a winning piece.

It accentuated your breasts and made your ass look fantastic. A bonus was that it matched the color of your nails.

He wouldn’t be able to resist.

Once you’re home you fix your hair a bit and apply a light makeup before changing into the lacy material.

—-

About thirty minutes later you hear the front door unlock from your spot on the bed. You adjust your hair and sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your hands.

Heavy footsteps make their way down the hall towards the bedroom.

Brendon steps through the doorway, scrubs in disarray and a slight frown on his face.

“Hey baby” you say gently.

He briefly looks up as he drops his bag by the dresser.

“Hey.”

You’re taken back a bit.

Hey?

Just hey?

You knew things had been a bit rough these last few months but this is the most distant he's ever seemed.

Like he just acknowledged a roommate and not his wife.

You don’t let the dry greeting deter you.

You stand up and walk up to him.

Running your hand up his bicep and the other up on his shoulder.

“Everything okay Bren?”

He huffs a bit sarcastically “Is it ever?”

Ouch.

You bring your hand from his bicep to his face.

“Maybe I could help you relax, hmm?”

You see a ghost of a grin but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.

“That’s nice but not tonight.”

He gently moves your hands off of him and walks around you to the walk-in closet.

You stand in the same spot for a moment. Your heart drops into your stomach and a chill runs down your spine.

What. Just. Happened.

Is this it?

Does he not find you attractive anymore?

Is he….

Is he gonna leave you?

You hold back the tears and make your way to the ensuite bathroom and lock the door.

Gripping the counter and leaning against it, you look into the mirror.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

One tear falls, and then another. 

Then another until you can’t stop them from falling.

You hold both hands over your mouth to quiet the sobs that rack your body.

You back up until you meet the wall and slide down.

Your chest heaves from the sobs and agonizing pain in your heart.

He’s gonna leave me.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon cracks his neck as he walks back out from the closet, scrubs discarded and now changed into fresh pajamas.

He sees your side of the bed empty but then sees the bathroom door closed and hears the shower running.

He lets out a sigh and gets into bed as he waits for you. All he wants is to get some rest and have you cuddled up against him. 

Brendon knew things had been a bit strained lately and he felt a bit guilty for not being as present in your relationship like usual but things were starting to get better at work and he hoped you guys could get back to normal now. 

Today has been rough like the last few months but things would change come his next shift.

He just needed to recuperate from today and then he’d have a good talk with you and apologize. Maybe take you out for dinner and a movie.

He smiles at the thought.

——

It’s been over an hour before Brendon still sees you’re not in bed.

He goes up to the bathroom door and presses his ear against it.

The shower is still on.

Weird.

He can’t hear anything else.

“Sweetheart,” he knocks lightly “you good in there?”

No response.

“Baby?” He grabs the door handle to open it but he finds it locked.

Panic starts to seep into his veins.

“Baby please open the door.”

He’s still met with silence.

Brendon’s heart starts to race as he reaches a hand up on the top of the door frame and grabs the spare key sitting there for emergencies.

Once he has the door open he looks around and then towards the shower.

His blood runs cold.

“Sweetheart!”

He runs to the shower where your naked form is sitting, slumped inside against the wall.

He practically rips the glass door off its hinges as he gets into the shower still fully clothed.

On his knees he grabs you by the shoulders and turns your face towards his.

He’s met with puffy, red rimmed eyes staring back at him.

“Hey, hey what’s wrong baby? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

His fingers press gently but quickly around your head looking for any blood, bumps or injuries.

You slowly shake your head.

“M’fine” you mumble.

He furrows his eyebrows at your quiet words.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that to convince me. C’mon let’s get you out of here. It’s freezing.”

He scoops up your cold body and sits you on the counter by the sink.

He grabs your favorite fluffy towel and wraps it around you, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to help warm you up.

His heart breaks at your sad demeanor.

“Baby,” he lifts your chin up to look at him “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Tears build in your eyes and your chin trembles.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Then the tears fall as you lean your head into his shoulder.

Sobs rack your body and Brendon holds you, tears building in his eyes.

“Leave you?” He asks confused

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Y-You don’t want m-me anymore.” You manage to say between the tears.

“What?” he leans you back and gently holds your face in his hands.

“Why wouldn’t I want my wife?”

“You’ve b-been distant. I th-thought maybe we could just have s-some fun tonight but then you didn’t want me a-and I’m scared you don’t want m-me at all. That you want someone else..”

The words completely shattered Brendon’s heart.

Had he really withdrawn from you that much that you felt he didn’t love you anymore?

That you thought he’d leave you? 

For someone else?

Fuck.

He had to fix this, quick.

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

Your tired eyes meet his.

“First, hear me and hear me clearly. I’m never leaving you. I fucking love you. So damn much.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Second, I’ve not been honest these last few months. Gloria has been making big cuts. Letting go lots of staff, including surgeons and attendings. I heard my name was up on the list of potential ones to go. It got to me and I’ve been hauling ass every fucking day for my job. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared. I’m supposed to support you and give you everything. Give you the world…I couldn’t let you down.”

A tear falls down his cheek and without thinking you reach up and wipe it away.

“Lastly, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I let all of that affect our marriage and make you think I didn’t love you. That I’d leave you. I swore in my vows I’d love you forever and I meant that. Every word.”

You sniffle and take a shaky breath.

“Then why’d you turn me down tonight?”

“I was so upset earlier over everything. I found out I’m for sure not getting let go but I was angry. Angry my name was even brought up for it to begin with. I didn’t want to take that out on you in any form, especially sex. But I think I already did with the lack of it over these last few months. Which again I’m sorry. I just was so overwhelmed with everything and didn’t want to force things and fake it with you. I never want that for us.”

He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry in front of you.

Then he feels you wrap yourself around him.

“Brendon. I love you. You could never let me down. Even if you did lose your job, I wouldn’t think less of you, be disappointed in you or love you any less. I know that stuff can be scary but next time please just talk to me. This is a marriage. I’m here for you as much as you’re here for me. I can’t support you and be there for you if you don’t let me in. If you’re not in the mood for a conversation or sex or anything, just tell me. I’ll always understand. But I really thought you were gonna leave.”

He shakes his head rapidly.

“God no, baby. Never happening.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I’d survive it.”

He grabs your face and kisses you slowly.

“Also I know I didn’t say it earlier but you did look hot as hell. I’m sorry I ruined that for you.”

You chuckle a bit.

“You can make it up to me later Bren. Right now I just want to get in bed and cuddle my husband.”

He smiles brightly at you.

Friends with benefits is only good up to a point. It’s only good when there aren’t feelings involved, when feelings are never involved, but the thing is, is that intimacy like that only holds out against feelings for so long. No one is made of steel—everyone has a heart. 

            Although, maybe not Brendan. 

            “You almost decided on what you’re doing after?” he asks you now, his body half-in a tight black shirt and half-out, his back to you, a sliver of that toned back still showing. 

            “Still debating my options,” you tell him, your hands still pressing the covers to your chest, your body naked underneath them from the filthy yet wonderful acts the two of you have just committed, the evidence still leaking from between your thighs onto his sheets. 

            “But surgery for sure, right?” he replies and you sigh, shrugging even though he can’t see you, that same burning and constricting feeling emerging in your chest. 

            “Yeah, I’m thinking of a paediatric surgery fellowship,” you say as he turns around, those perfect ocean eyes locking onto you, one eyebrow arched as he snorts, shaking his head, his finger-mussed hair so different from the way he normally gels it back. 

            “Why would you want to work with kids?” he asks you, his tone harsh and punishing, the meaning cutting you to the quick, the dismissal. 

            “Because I like them,” you counter and he sighs, shrugging and running a hand through his already mussed hair, the hair you mussed pulling on it as he ate you out just moments ago. 

            “Sounds like hell,” he says and the way you press your lips into a thin line is enough to end the conversation. 

            “Did you apply?” are the first words out of your mother’s mouth as you step out onto the floor of the ED, her blond hair coming loose from the chignon she insists is fine for her hair’s health. 

            “Geez, Ma,” you call out, “you couldn’t even ask me how I’m doing first?” Dana simply narrows her eyes at you, jaw flexing as she bites down on her gum, a particularly hard chew, emphasizing her displeasure at your tone.

            “Did you apply, sugar, or not?” her tone leaves no room for argument as you step deeper into the ED, watching as your friends rush past, a Trauma arriving through the ambulance bay, the noise and hum of the place you’ve been raised in sending a form of calm through you. 

            “I did,” you reply, your sardonic enough to match hers, enough to make her smile at you, the one that only you get, the one of the mother not the nurse. “But I’ve also looked into attending positions open here at PTMC.” You can see your mother’s face fall, just slightly, the way it folds in, in the expression you’ve grown up with, the one you see when she disagrees with your choice, your thoughts but she won’t say anything because you’re growing and to grow means to make your own decisions. 

            “Did anyone say anything to you?” She’s too carefully neutral and that’s when you realize what she’s getting at, what she’s saying—what she’s hinting. 

            “Brendan has nothing to with that, Mom,” you tell her as you reach the nurse’s station, leaning on it on your forearms, right hand straying to fiddle with the bracelet your mom got you when you graduated med school, the one with the handmade charm in the shape of a compass, the back inscribed with however far you go, you are the one who will get you where you need to go. 

            Something she’s told you all your life. 

            “I didn’t say anything, sugar,” she says, but the way her lips curve up just slightly on the edges tell you all you need to know. 

            “Uh-huh,” you reply, rolling your eyes as she lifts her hand, fingers closed around the digital pencil, her hand ruffling your hair like she’s done since you were a kid, small enough to tuck up against her side, curled up in one of the chairs at the station, claiming that the daycare was for kids and you were not a kid. 

            Your daycare was the ED; you grew up on Traumas and broken bones and consults. You grew up on adrenaline and flashing lights. You grew up on codes, knowing the order of them before you knew the alphabet. You grew up with your mother and your Uncle Robby and your Uncle Jack, your sisters ensconced at home with your dad while you snuck behind the pillars to make out with med students. 

            It’s not Brendan that you want to stay for as much as you feel for him, for his sardonic nature and easy cruelty that he never even realizes is cruel. You want to stay for this place, this hospital, your home away from home. It’s the place you had your first kiss—a sloppy make-out with an MS3 that Uncle Jack walked in on and dragged the boy from you, swearing that he’d have the kid’s tongue. It’s where you met your first boyfriend—John Shen, now an attending and your closest friend. 

            It’s where your life began, your mother having gone into labour on the job because she refused to take maternity leave when she should have. It’s where everything started for you and you don’t want to leave, don’t want to travel halfway across the country for a pediatric fellowship, yet at the same time you do.

            You want to leave and grow and change in a place that is your own and not the place where you were molded into the person you are now. 

            You want it and you don’t. 

            And maybe Brendan has a bit more to do with it than you care to admit. Maybe you’d miss him a bit too much. 

            Friends with benefits fucking sucks. 

            “Brendan!” you cry out as your back arches, rising at the same time that he thrusts into you, his hand pressing you down onto the mattress, his hands pulling your hips back until he’s completely sheathed inside, his one hand playing with your clit and folds, stroking and twirling, playing at every sensitive part, his fingers working magic, his knowledge of anatomy making it all the smoother. 

            “Shh, baby,” he whispers as he presses down with his thumb on your clit, a pressure building in your body, the kind that hurts while also heals, the kind that has every part of you burning and writhing underneath him. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.”

            He pulls back, pulls out completely, dragging the head of his cock along your entrance, between your folds to take the place of his thumb, circling it on your clit, the feeling so good that you moan, your hands fisting in the sheets.

            When he called you, telling you he needed release that it was a hard day at work, you expected it to be rough, for him to be angry and needing the harshness and the quick and the rough edges that both of you have—not this. Not him being gentle and sweet and coaxing you through it, praising you. Assuring you that he’s there, that he’s not leaving. 

            The head of his cock is still circling your clit, and he guides it, pressing it just slightly, just enough that the coil snaps and your orgasm rams through you, just as he enters you again, the flutters of your walls, wrapping around his cock as he thrusts in and out, just once before spilling inside of you as your walls clamp down around him and he groans, eyes closing in bliss, his head tipping back.

            “Jesus!” you hiss as he pulls out, guiding you off your stomach, to sit up before him, your body hyper-sensitive, the Greek god of a man before you having coaxed four orgasms out of you, most with his mouth, that tongue of his that bring people to tears from biting words reducing you to whines and mewls, body burning. 

            “That good, huh?” he asks you, with a smirk, guiding you up and to your feet, pulling your body tight against his, his semen and your release dripping down your thighs in a way that tickles and itches at the same time. 

            “Shut up, Park,” you reply, one side of your mouth curving up into a grin as you push him away, one hand connecting with his solid shoulder, already missing his presence against you, the way his body felt when pushed up against yours. 

            “That’s not what you were saying, like, thirty minutes ago,” he counters, his hand twining around your wrist, pulling you back against him, your breasts pressing against his chest. “You were urging me to make noise, if I remember right,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper as he trails his free hand down the side of your face, your skin lighting up under his touch, the shiver running through your body at his tender touch. 

            “A lot can happen in thirty minutes,” you reply, your lips curving in a sardonic smile, one he kisses off, pressing a quick, open-mouthed kiss against you, his teeth drawing your bottom lip between them, nipping playfully. 

            “I know,” he murmurs, pulling back and placing his forehead against yours, pupil-blown eyes gleaming, “wanna find out just how much?”

            And you say yes, but a twinge in your stomach tells you that something isn’t the same. 

            That maybe nothing will be the same again. 

            “Have you ever wanted kids?” you ask Brendan, leaning back against his counter, your body clad in only his t-shirt, hands twirling a spatula between them as he spins from the fridge, a container of milk in his hand as one eyebrow arches, his hair loose, not slickly gelled back like a Gator Tillman wannabe. 

            “No,” he says, the word abrupt and harsh and stinging even though it was just a question, just…a curiosity. “Told you, kids are little demons. Why the hell would I want my own?”

            “You were a kid once, you dick,” you reply and he glances over his shoulder at you while he pours milk into the bowl, the cookie dough not quite resembling dough. Yet. 

            “That’s how I know if I had one, they’d be a terror,” he says and you roll your eyes at him, shaking your head affectionately while he sets the milk back on the counter and waves his hand, gesturing you over, which you follow, tucking up into his side and pressing a kiss to his cheek. A tender gesture you usually avoid. 

            “Good thing you don’t do relationships then,” you tease him, feeling him stiffen against you before he joins in your slight laughter, the sardonic chuckle. 

            “You’re right, sweetheart.”

            The bile burns in the back of your throat as you race for the bathroom, reaching the toilet in just enough time, your eyes watering and noise stinging as you hurl, coughing, into the porcelain basin. Your eyes are streaming, tears falling from your cheeks into the bowl as you cough and burn, the smell of your own stomach acid permeating everything, sinking into your skin and when you’re done, your body empty, you slump back against the bathroom wall, pressing a hand against your stomach, a small fear creeping into your mind as you take into account that this is the fifth morning you’ve been sick. 

            You might just be pregnant. 

            In front of you sit two things, an acceptance letter for the pediatric surgery fellowship and a white a pink stick with two digital pink lines, six more identical tests sitting in your bathroom garbage. 

            It took six to get the meaning to stick, the idea that you were pregnant to resonate as real and not fake, not some cosmic joke. 

            It took calling your mother, crying that you were stupid, that you messed up and ranting to her about how much of a fuck-up you are for that idea that maybe you didn’t fuck up to stick.

            It took hearing your mother’s soft voice, the encouragement, the facts and the options for you to decide that you don’t want to get rid of it. You want to raise a child like you were raised, with endless opportunity and belief and hope and love. 

            And you don’t want to wait and risk losing that chance. 

            In front of you sit two things, both chances given to you to give you the life you’ve always wanted, the only thing holding you back is Brendan, his part in all of this. Because a part of you wants to tell him, but the other part knows that it wouldn’t go well, that you can’t. You can’t because you don’t want to see how his face twists in anger. 

            You can’t handle that. So, your choice is easy—you make the choice that sets you free, that sets Brendan free. 

            Looks like you’re going to California.

            When Brendan found that you had left, his heart had left him completely. It was like the ground beneath him had cracked and everything had fallen away. He thought things were good, he thought that you liked him—for more than just casual sex. 

            He had thought you understood until that one night that you whispered “good thing you don’t do relationships then” and he realized that you still thought it was FWB, not something real like he did. 

            He had thought that you had noticed the way he started making cookies after sex because you’d once mentioned that you always wanted something sweet after. He thought you had noticed the dinner; the coffees he brought to you on your floor for your break. He thought you had noticed the change in the sex, the way he focused more on you, the way he wanted you and you alone and not for stress relief, simply because he wanted to be close to you, as close as he could get. 

            But apparently, he had thought wrong. Because you were gone—completely and totally absent from his life. 

            And you didn’t even say goodbye, just up and left for California, to the pediatric surgery fellowship. 

            Which was great…he just wished you could have said goodbye. 

            And from then on, life was rote and boring and empty for three long years, the most he would hear of you was the proud bragging of Robby and Abbot when he went for ED consults and they couldn’t not rave about you. 

            Dana remained close-lipped no matter how he pried, no matter how he tried to get any updates about you. She wouldn’t talk. 

            “If she hasn’t reached out then she doesn’t want you knowing. Now go back to your job, Dr. Park.”

            He just hoped, with all his heart that you would come back after the fellowship was done. That you would come back when it was over so he could try and tell you how much he fucked up. How sorry he was. How much he loved you. 

            How he would do anything to have you back. 

            Moving back to Pittsburgh wasn’t really a choice—it was just something you had to do. The pediatric surgeon attending position was open, you needed help looking after your two-year old son and your family was there and, if truth be told, you needed to confront your demons. You needed to be in the same place as your family, the same place you ran from to spare yourself the look in Brendan’s eye when he found out that you were pregnant when he never wanted kids at all.

            Moving back to Pittsburgh was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. You missed your family and you missed the seasons and you missed PTMC, your home away from home. You missed Brendan too. More than you cared to admit. 

            “Look at this little one!” Cassie calls out, striding over to the nurse’s desk, her lips curving up in her characteristic grin as she smiles at your son, bending just a little so her eyes are level with his as he stands on the top of the desk, held up by his grandma’s hands. “How old are you, bud?”

            “Just turned two,” you answer, your lips curved up in that perpetual smile that you have now, the smile that you have at everything your son does, everything he manages to do. He’s the light in your life, the star that guides you back because here is this life that needs you. Needs you not just to give him food and shelter, but love and guidance. He needs all of you and you have to stay to give him that. 

            “You’re gonna miss these years when they’re gone,” she says, straightening up and taking an iPad from the holder, smiling again at your little boy, the smile tinging with sadness as she looks up, her eyes meeting yours. “They go by fast.”

            “That they do,” your mother chimes in, turning back to you, her eyebrows knitting together as she looks at you, her eyes gleaming with sadness and love and loss. “It seems like just yesterday that it was you, I was holdin’ on this desk, missy.”

            “Ah, Ma,” you reply, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “You’re gonna make me cry on my first day.”

            “I’m sorry, sugar,” she says, “but I just miss the times before. You’re my little girl and now…you’re not so little anymore. Now…you’re a mother of your own and I…I’m a little emotional about it, that’s all.”

            “Ma,” you whisper, your voice cracking at the same time your name resounds through the ED, through the walls that have been your home for so long, through the walls where your life began and continues. Your voice resounds in a voice that you had hoped you wouldn’t have to hear again. 

            “Bren,” you breathe out, flicking your eyes up, landing on the man who hasn’t changed, who still wears his hair gelled back like a Gator Tillman wannabe, his face still stern and predatory like the shark he’s nicknamed for, his body still built, large and imposing. He’s still the man who took the word scary and made it a public personality. 

            You wonder if he still melts to soft in private. 

            “You’re back,” he says, the whole ED having fallen silent as he walks to you, every step slow and yet too fast, the world frozen and yet speeding by as your heart tightens in your chest, lungs constricting and burning. 

            “Ma,” you whisper, tearing your eyes from Brendan even when you want to know what will happen if you stay. “Ma, I gotta get Reed to the daycare.” Dana lifts your little boy—a solid two-year old with dark brown hair and ocean blue eyes—pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek and passes him to you, settling him on your hip. 

            “It doesn’t hurt to talk, sweetheart,” she whispers in reply, eyebrows arching in the way that only a mother can have before she turns back to her desk, barking out an order at Whitaker who looks like a startled deer at her voice. And you take off to the elevator, bouncing Reed on your hip while he claps his hands, gurgling happily, murmuring some small words like mama and teddy.

            You tap your foot, impatient for the silver doors to open and let you in, let you run from the man who gave the chance to have a child and yet doesn’t know. 

            You hear him call your name again as the doors slide open and you step in around the crowd of people rushing out, pressing the button for the daycare floor and the button to close the doors, the silver halves sliding to one another as your eyes lock with ocean blue ones, glimmering with hope and love. 

            With knowledge. 

            Brendan knew as soon as he saw you, saw your son that you had been pregnant when you left. Because the boy is old enough to be his and those eyes that he saw in that perfect, chubby face are his, exact. Father to son. His grandfather had them and his dad had them, and if the stories are to be believed, every single man in his family—including his son. 

            He knows you, loves you and he knows that you need time. You need to wrap your head around him being here, being present. 

            Being real. 

            You need to figure out how to tell him and he’s patient. He’s patient because he loves you and he wants whatever you are willing to give him. 

            And as the elevator doors slide closed before him, sealing you and his son away, he’s willing to accept that you just might give him nothing after all. 

            “Reed is my son, isn’t he?” you hear Brendan call out, his voice echoing across the parking lot, reverberating through your body, echoing down your spine. 

            “Yes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying all the same through the still night air, broken only by the vague sound of sirens, the night sky polluted by streetlights and skyscrapers and emergency lights, the blue and red flashes strobing across and silhouetting Brendan. 

            He stands not far from you, his backpack over his shoulder, normally pulled back shoulders hunched in, rolled close. 

            You’ve been avoiding him for weeks, arriving early and leaving late, taking your lunches in the daycare or the ED, bringing Reed up on those times to join his grandma and hang out in the place you spent your formative years, molded into a person by adrenaline junkies and jaded, near-suicidal doctors. 

            “Do you want me in his life or no? If it’s no, I’ll never bring this up again,” he says, his steps soundless as he steps closer to you, your heart in your throat, pulsing as you feel the sting of tears in your eyes. 

            “You said you didn’t want kids,” you whisper and his hands reach out and cup your cheeks, Reed’s chubby hands slapping up on his forearm and something in you breaks when you see him take in Reed, his expression melting into one of awe and disbelief, one that says I can’t believe this is real. And then, one warm calloused hand leaves your face to cup Reed’s, his touch reverential and gentle, as if Reed is both the strongest and most breakable thing he’s ever seen. 

            “I said that because I didn’t think I deserved them,” you hear him whisper, the words cracking something open inside of you. The idea that this man, this perfect brutal man didn’t think he deserved a family even when he wanted it, destroys you. 

            Especially because you deprived him of a part of that because you didn’t want to risk telling him and seeing him change. 

            “I didn’t…” you pause, swallowing around the lump in your throat as he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting back the question of can I hold him? and you nod, helping Brendan take his son, watching as his face breaks into a smile as he lifts the boy, laughing just slightly, the sound rich and deep and warm as Reed claps his hands on Brendan’s cheek, gurgling happily. 

            “Thank god, he got your nose, sweetheart,” he says and those are the words that undo you, make you fall apart, the tears that were threatening now falling in earnest down your cheeks, searing the skin as your son giggles, one small hand closing around the point of Brendan’s nose. 

            “He…uh, I guess he thinks so too,” you whisper, your throat thick and voice shaking as your one hand goes to stifle the sob that works its way out of your throat, tearing free as you glance away, glance away from Brendan and the way he rests Reed on his hip, his touch gentle and paternal and perfect. 

            “You okay, Evans?” he asks you and you hear the pause and you know he wanted to say your name but he wasn’t sure if he should, or how he should and you give your head one quick shake before back to him, your arms outstretched for your—his—son.

            “I just need to get home,” you say, your voice still cracking, still broken in a way and breaking more. “It’s way past Reed’s bedtime.”

            “Then let’s get him in his seat,” Bren whispers, his eyes soft and worried as he looks at you, waiting while you open the backdoor, Reed’s back-facing car seat right there. It hurts your heart to see the way Bren carefully lifts Reed into the seat, doing the buckles like he’s been doing them forever, his face soft and open and tender. 

            Like scary has never been a part of his persona at all and he’s only ever been this man before you, this soft and sweet man who tweaks your—his—son on the nose, his lips still in that same awed smile. 

            And your heart breaks even more when Reed says, “dada” the sound a question not a statement, his large ocean eyes tired and innocent yet looking at you beseechingly.

            “Yeah, that’s Dada,” you whisper in reply, watching as Reed’s face brightens and he claps his small, frail hands together, letting out a squeak of excitement. “Bren?”

            “What is it, sweetheart?” he asks you, turning, his face shuttering just slightly, worry and fear seeping in and tainting the image of him always being there with reality—a man afraid of what you will say, of what part in the family you are giving him. What role you will relegate him too. 

            “I didn’t not tell you because…” you pause, coughing, trying to dislodge the block in your throat, the crack in your voice, the tears that stopped some time ago that have now started again. “Because I didn’t want you to know, I…I didn’t t-tell you because…I was…I was scared.” You can feel his hands on your arms, his touch soft and gentle and calming. Just there. 

            “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling you against him, his one hand smoothing down your hair, the other holding you, palm flat in the middle of your back, his chin on your head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were under no obligation to tell me…and…I know I didn’t make it easy to believe that I wouldn’t react in anger or…something else. I know, Evans. I know.”

            “But I—” you break off, a sob tearing its way out of your chest again, muffled by him, by his body, his embrace. “I took those early days with Reed away!” He pulls back just enough that you can see him, see his expression, the way his eyes shine with love and pain and hope. 

            “You took nothing from me, sweetheart,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument, the tone he uses when telling a patient something they can’t ignore. “I am here and will take only what you’re comfortable to give me. If that means I see Reed on week-ends only and I’m not—” here he pauses, swallowing hard and glancing away from you for a second, looking like he’s gathering his composure before continuing, “a part of your life, then I will take that. Whatever you want to give me, Evans because you’re the one driving this boat. You’re in charge—always. I’m just the hopeless idiot in love with you.”

            “You’re not an idiot,” you whisper, a small smile creeping across your tear-stained face, skin drying from the salt tracks. 

            “Then I’m just the one in love with you?” He phrases it like a question, but you know him well enough to know that it’s a statement, that he’s telling you he loves you. 

            “Yeah, I guess so,” you whisper and you watch his arm move, can feel his palm as it presses against your cheek, his thumb moving back and forth across your cheekbone, your skin feeling alive in a way it hasn’t in three years, not since the last time you were with him. “And…I want you in our lives…I just don’t know how, yet.”

            “Take your time, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss against your forehead, one that will linger. “I’m not going anywhere because you don’t have to go it alone anymore.”

            “You need to eat,” calls out Brendan, his voice flat. His work voice, he used to call it, the one he has when at the hospital, when he doesn’t want people to question him, to see him as anything other than Park the Shark. 

            “I’m fine,” you call out, not even lifting your head from the computer where you sit, charting, your watch buzzing against your wrist—texts from your mother, telling you to get your ass down to the ED to have lunch. “I’m heading down to the ED in a couple minutes for my lunch break. I’ll have something to eat with Ma and Reed when I pick him up from the daycare for a bit.”

            “You’ll have something like actual food?” he asks, his body now just in your sight frame, leaning on the table of the nurse’s station where you sit. You have an office; you just don’t like to use it because it makes you inaccessible to patients. 

            “I packed a smoothie,” you tell him, leaning back in your seat, crossing your arms, one eyebrow arching. “Why?”

            “Because, I was wondering, if you wanted to pick up Reed and get lunch with me,” he says, his shark expression faltering, turning to the softer one he has—the one for you, the one for your son. 

            “Yeah,” you say, watching as his expression brightens. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

            “You’re fucking kidding me,” you say, your eyebrows up to your hairline as you look over at Brendan who holds Reed on his hip—Reed whose hair is slicked back just like Brendan’s. “You’ve made our son into a mini you.”

            You look over at Brendan, noticing the way his smile has shifted, brightened and softened, his eyes warm and deep and perfect, reflecting love at you. 

            “What?” you ask him, one hand flying to your face, checking your cheek while you run your tongue over your teeth. “Do I have something on my face?”

            “No, sweetheart,” he says, stepping closer to you, closing the small distance in no time, Reed’s small hands stretching, one landing on Bren’s shoulder and the other clasping around your fingers, “you called him our son.”

            “Because he is, Bren,” you say, stepping closer, your free hand coming to rest on his cheek, his eyes locked on yours, the expression in them so vulnerable that it takes you by surprise for a moment. “He’s our son. And…I was thinking…do you want to give him your last name?” You watch as Bren breaks down for the first time, a strangled noise escaping from his throat as tears slip down his cheeks. Tears you wipe away with one hand, gentle ever so gentle. 

            “Please,” he says when he’s calmed down, when the tears have slowed and he can speak again, his throat no longer strangled. 

            “Reed Flynn Park,” you whisper, delighting in the way that Brendan’s face completely changes with awe and love and hope. “I like the sound of that.”

            “Sweetheart,” Bren calls out and you turn, taking in the sight of him in a plaid overshirt, tight grey tank top underneath and dirt-stained jeans on from the work you two have been doing all day, assembling Reed’s play-structure outside. 

            “What’s wrong? Is Reed okay?” you ask, hands stilling from their task of putting Reed’s toys away, instead helping push you to your feet. 

            “Reed’s fine,” he says, stepping into the room, his eyes steady in a way that you love, have always loved. The Shark steadiness, but the Brendan warmth. “I just have a question.”

            “What is it?” you ask him, tongue darting out to lick your lips, the skin dry from the heat of the summer’s day. It’s been a year of this—of Brendan being present, being a dad, proving that he’s here for Reed, for you. It’s been a year of slowly falling in love. Slowly returning to the man you remember, the man you fell for when you shouldn’t have—yet he fell for you all the same. 

            It’s been a year of waking up in an empty bed, wishing he were there beside you. Wishing the house wasn’t just a home for you and Reed, but you and Reed and Brendan. A family unit. 

            It’s been a year of pining. 

            “You know I love you, right?” he asks and you nod, the movement cautious as your brows knit together. “Well, I loved you even before you left and I’ve fallen even more in love with you this year…this year of raising our son so I was…Well…Will you marry me?” As he speaks, he gets down on one knee in the room of Reed’s playroom, a platinum ring inset with three stones—your birthstone, his and Reed’s. 

            “Yes,” you whisper and then he’s up and sliding the ring on your finger, his hands cupping your face and pulling you to him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your lips, one that tastes of passion and hope and love and second chances. One that tastes of family and promises and permanency. One that has the lingering sweetness of raspberries and the sour notes of lemon. 

            Summertime in a kiss; promises in an embrace. 

            And Brendan never goes back on a promise. 

            “ICK! Mama and Daddy, no kiss!” comes the shriek of your son and you pull back from Brendan just slightly woozy as you turn to your son, one eyebrow arching. 

            “Oh no?” you ask him and he shakes his head, violently, his whole little body following on the movement. “While, then we just have to kiss you instead!”

            And in a move so synchronized, you would have thought it was planned, the two of you bend and press kisses against his chubby cheeks, his giggles echoing through the room as Brendan’s hand finds yours, his fingers tangling with yours as if he can’t fathom letting you go for an instant. 

            And in that moment you can hear him, a year ago, telling you “you don’t have to go it alone anymore.” And you realize that you never will go alone again. 

            Because you have Brendan. 

            You have your family.