#junebugseries

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, beam collapse at construction site,” paramedic says fast. “Pinned approximately six minutes before extrication. No head strike witnessed, no LOC. Fentanyl one hundred en route, pressure trending down. Last BP eighty-six systolic. Distal pulse weak with Doppler, absent by palpation. Pain out of proportion, worsening swelling.”

“Great,” Robby says flatly. “My favorite words before seven-thirty in the morning.” The patient is groaning now, half delirious. “My leg—my leg—” “We know,” Robby says, surprisingly steady as he leans into the chaos. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. We’re taking care of you. Deep breath for me.” Trinity is at the head of the bed. “Airway intact. He’s talking. Sat’s ninety-six on nonrebreather.”

“Me thinks that’s the only thing behaving,” McKay mutters, spiking fluids as she and Mateo work opposite sides of the stretcher. Dennis slides ultrasound gel across the patient’s abdomen with shaking fingers that calm the second the probe hits skin. Jesse threads a second large-bore IV while McKay hangs blood.

“Nice,” Robby says without looking, which somehow means more. FAST exam is negative. Chest x-ray is clean enough. Pelvis stable. The leg is not. The boot comes the rest of the way off and everybody in the room winces a little. The calf is hard. Too hard. The skin over the anterior lower leg looks stretched to bursting, and when Robby asks Dennis to gently palpate, the patient nearly comes off the bed screaming.

“Pain with passive stretch?” Robby asks. Dennis reaches for the toes carefully, extending them just enough. The patient howls. “Yeah,” Dennis says. “Yeah,” Robby echoes. “Page surgery again. And ortho again. Tell them this isn’t a courtesy invite.” Mohan is already on it. “Trauma surgery and orthopedics paged overhead and direct.”

Garcia gets there first, striding into the bay like she owns every trauma that ever bled in western Pennsylvania. “What do you have?” she asks, already pulling gloves on. “Crush injury, probable tib-fib, increasing concern for compartment syndrome,” Robby says. “Pressure soft but responding to blood. No obvious chest or abdominal disaster, which frankly feels rude because I like consistency.”

Garcia leans over the leg, expression sharpening. “When was extrication?” “About fifteen minutes from now to too long ago,” Robby says. She snorts once. “Fair. Has ortho seen him?” “Not yet.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll call them myself. Park answers me faster than the paging operator.”

Trinity arches a brow. “That’s because you scare men for sport.” “It’s not sport if they deserve it.” Dennis is hanging on every word, every motion, every tiny clinical decision. Then Garcia says, “June Bug better answer. She owes me coffee.”

Dennis barely notices the nickname then because Robby is asking him for another pulse check and the room is surging again. The patient’s pressure improves with blood. X-ray confirms a displaced tibial shaft fracture, fibular fracture too, ugly and unstable. There’s no open wound, but the swelling keeps climbing and the calf is turning boardlike beneath the skin. Robby’s jaw sets. “This leg needs decompression before it decides for us.”

And then you walk in.

Dennis looks up because Garcia says, “There you are,” in a tone she doesn’t use for almost anyone, and for half a second all the noise in the room seems to narrow around the sight of you stepping into Trauma One in dark blue OR scrubs, hair pulled back, orthopedic pager clipped at your waist, trauma shears in one pocket, penlight in another.

You’re short enough that Park always jokes he can lose you behind a C-arm, but you move through the room with such clipped, unbothered confidence that everyone makes space without thinking. You take one look at the x-ray, one look at the patient’s leg, and your entire face changes from sleepy annoyance to razor focus.

“Mechanism?” “Steel beam crush at worksite,” Garcia says. “Time pinned?” “Approximately six minutes, maybe a little more.” You touch the calf, then the foot, then glance at the monitor. “Any palpable dorsal pedal or posterior tibial?” “Doppler only on arrival +2, weaker now,” Dennis says before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to him for the first time. Brown. Sharp. Assessing. “Passive stretch?” “Exquisite pain,” he says. “Great. Love that for us.” Garcia huffs a laugh. Robby’s mouth twitches.

You don’t waste a second after that. You examine the compartments yourself, then straighten. “This is compartment syndrome until proven otherwise. He needs emergent fasciotomies. We can temporize with reduction and splinting if you want while we move, but he needs the OR.”

Garcia nods immediately. “Agreed.” Trinity points at Dennis. “Huckleberry, hear that? This is what confidence sounds like when it actually knows what it’s doing.”

Dennis flushes. Robby smirks. “He’s trying, Santos”

You glance at Trinity. “He’s fine. Better than some off-service interns I’ve had try to tell me a cold foot is probably anxiety.” That gets an actual laugh from the room. Then your phone rings. You look at it and roll your eyes. “Park.” Garcia grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You answer anyway. “We have a surgical emergency, Brenden.” The voice on the other end is clipped and unimpressed. “Then why are you chatting with me instead of booking the room?” “Because Garcia made me call you like you’re useful.” Robby actually barks out a laugh. Dana, from the doorway, just mutters, “Jesus.”

You listen, then say, “Yes, obvious compartment syndrome. Yes, I know. Yes, I already told them. No, I’m not measuring compartment pressures on a leg that’s screaming the answer at us. See you upstairs.” You hang up. “Park the Shark approves of surgery.” “Shocking,” Trinity says.

The leg gets gently reduced under sedation, splinted, wrapped. You and Garcia coordinate transport upstairs with the ease of people who have done this together too many times to need full sentences. Before the patient leaves, you reach down, squeeze his shoulder, and say, “We’re taking you now so we can save your leg. Stay with us.”

It’s the first soft thing Dennis hears from you. It sticks.

By nine in the morning the trauma is gone to the OR, the blood is mopped, and the ER is already pretending none of it happened because two chest pains, one septic grandma, and a drunk guy who swears the stop sign attacked him.

Dennis is putting in orders at the station when Frank Langdon strolls in from a room with that polished senior-resident energy he wears even when he looks half dead.

He stops cold. You’re leaning against the desk beside Dana, finishing a note, and when you look up your entire face changes. “Frankie,” you say. It is not dignified. It is absolutely sibling. Frank groans. “Don’t call me that in public.” You grin. “What, too late to protect your brand?”

Dana hides a smile behind her coffee cup. Dennis glances between you and Frank because the shift has already been insane and apparently now the pretty ortho resident is on first-name, mocking-nickname terms with Frank Langdon.

Frank steps close enough to bump your shoulder with his. It’s small and automatic and weirdly fond. “How bad was it?” You shrug. “Bad enough. Fasciotomies, and ex-fix likely if the soft tissue looks as ugly as I think it is , should fix it.”

Frank tips your chin for half a second, checking for something only a sibling would. “You eat yet?” You swat his hand away. “Did you?” Dana finally cuts in, dry as dust. “I love this very creepy, very codependent little ritual, but one of you needs to move because I need the printer.” You and Frank move in perfect unison, still bickering. Dennis watches the whole thing in silence.

Then Jesse leans over from the other computer and murmurs, “So… are we all seeing that?” “Seeing what?” Dennis asks, too fast. Jesse gives him a look. “Langdon’s mystery girlfriend.” Dennis blinks. “What?” Mateo snorts into his chart.

Across the desk, Perlah and Princess trade one scandalized glance and slip into Tagalog so quickly Dennis only catches Frank’s name and the word for dating because that rumor apparently needs no translation. Dana does not look up from her tracking board. “You children need hobbies.”

Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.

The day keeps moving. At ten-thirty you’re back for an elderly fall with a periprosthetic femur fracture. You arrive with the portable films already pulled up on your tablet, Park having apparently texted you three separate insults instead of hello. You stand shoulder to shoulder with Garcia and explain why the fracture pattern matters, why traction would be temporary, why the patient’s anticoagulation makes operative planning a little messier.

Dennis hovers nearby pretending to review labs. He has never in his life been so aware of how loud silence can be. He notices everything instead. The way you tuck a loose strand of hair back with the back of your wrist because your gloves are dirty. The way you explain complicated anatomy to the family without sounding condescending. The way you say “sir, I know it hurts” and actually mean it.

At eleven-fifteen Victoria corners him by the med room.

“She’s hot,” Victoria says, because Victoria has never met a social filter she couldn’t bulldoze. Dennis nearly drops a flush. “Vic—” “No, I’m serious. Like terrifyingly competent hot. Which is worse. You can’t even do a little personality devaluation to protect yourself because she’s also nice.”

“She is not nice,” Trinity says, appearing out of nowhere with a chart in hand. “She told Park to choke on his own ego once.” Victoria gasps. “So she’s perfect.” Dennis mutters, “Can you two not—” Trinity’s grin turns sharp. “Oh, Huckleberry, you have a crush.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” Victoria leans in. “On Frank Langdon’s alleged secret girlfriend.” Dennis closes his eyes. “Please stop saying that.”

By noon, the rumor is alive enough that Mel accidentally asks McKay if HR knows, and McKay says, “About what?” and Mel says, very sincerely and slightly jealous, “About fraternization with dramatic eye contact.” McKay stares at her for a long beat. “Mel, honey, that could describe half this department.

You come down again around one for a teenager with a displaced distal radius fracture and an elbow concern after a skateboard wipeout. Not technically an ortho trauma disaster, but Park is scrubbed into the crush case upstairs, and you’re the resident he trusts not to screw up his service while he’s occupied.

That alone tells the ER a lot.

Brenden Park himself finally appears at two-thirty, still in OR cap, mask hanging around his neck, expression exactly like a man offended by oxygen. He walks in with you while you’re both discussing the leg crush patient.

“Lateral compartment was worse than imaging suggested,” you’re saying. Park nods once. “Muscle still viable. Barely.” Garcia joins you near the board. “Vascular happy?”“Happy is a strong word,” Park says. “Not immediately despairing.” Robby appears from behind a curtain. “That’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from you in six months.” Park ignores him and looks at you instead. “You’re with me for the acetabular fracture if it comes in.”

You tip your head. “Obviously.” His gaze flicks to Dennis, then back to you. “See? Favorite resident.” “You say that to all the women who tolerate you.” “I say that to all the residents who know anatomy.” Garcia laughs. Trinity nearly chokes on stale coffee. Even Robby looks entertained. Dennis, unfortunately, is now standing close enough to see you smile at Park in a way that’s easy, familiar, unimpressed. Not flirtatious. Just trusted.

Which somehow makes him like you more.

The afternoon slams the department.

A septic nursing-home transfer. A toddler with a coin lodged somewhere creative. A psych hold throwing urinals. Shen texts the group chat at three-forty-five that he’s “bringing Dunkin and emotional support,” even though night shift isn’t in for hours. Dana threatens to confiscate his phone when he arrives later.

Around four, you end up beside Dennis for the first time without a dozen people buffering you.

A middle-aged woman has a spiral humerus fracture after a horse throws her into a fence. Robby wants to know if she needs urgent operative management or if she can be immobilized and seen in clinic after pain control and neurovascular reassessment. You’re reviewing her films by the workstation when you glance over and catch Dennis staring at the x-ray instead of speaking.

You save him. “What do you think?” you ask. He startles. “Me?” “No, the ghost behind you.” His mouth twitches despite himself. “Midshaft humerus, spiral pattern. No obvious open wound. Radial nerve exam matters.”

“Good.” He swallows. “If pulses are intact and there’s no vascular injury or compartment concern, probably coaptation splint, pain control, follow-up?” You nod once. “Exactly. You can still have nerve injury without bone sticking through skin. Don’t let dramatic x-rays trick you into forgetting the exam.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and the nervousness he’s been drowning in all day gets shoved aside by the fact that you are talking to him like you expect him to keep up.

“I’m Dennis,” he says, because apparently his brain is twelve years old. You smile, quick and lopsided. “I know. Huckleberry.” His eyes widen. “You know that too?” “I know lots of things. Garcia talks. So does Santos. Mostly against everyone’s will.” Across the station, Trinity calls out without looking up, “I heard that.”

You lean a hip against the counter. “So, Dennis from Broken Bow. You always freeze up around consultants, or am I special?” He goes red so fast you almost feel bad. “Sorry,” he says, then winces. “I mean—not sorry, just— I’m not usually—” “That nervous?”

He gives a helpless little nod. You soften just enough to rescue him again. “You don’t have to be nervous. Half the time we’re making it up based on swelling and vibes.” He laughs then, unexpected and warm. “Pretty sure that’s not evidence-based medicine,” he says.“No, but it is orthopedics.”

That breaks the ice.

You spend the next five minutes talking through the humerus fracture, splinting, radial nerve checks, operative indications, when to worry, when not to overcall things just because they look ugly. Dennis is smart, quieter than most of the ER crew, but once he realizes you’re not going to bite his head off, he starts asking genuinely good questions.

You answer every one. Frank walks up at the tail end of it carrying a chart and stops dead at seeing you and Dennis leaning over the same films. Dennis straightens so fast he nearly knocks into a wall. Frank’s eyes flick from Dennis to you and narrow just enough to be sibling, not senior resident. “June Bug.” You don’t even turn. “Frankie.”

Dennis almost chokes. Frank sighs. “I need room eight signed out before Mohan murders me.” You finally look over. “Then maybe stop interrupting my educational outreach.” Frank stares. “Educational—” “You heard me.”

There’s a beat where Dennis expects annoyance. Instead Frank’s face does something strange. It softens. Totally, instantly, like all the edges got sanded down the second you looked at him.

“Fine,” he says. “But eat something.” You point your pen at him. “You too.” Frank leaves. Dennis watches him go, then looks back at you. “You two… really close, huh?” You snort. “Unfortunately.” That is all you say, and because Dennis is Dennis, he doesn’t pry.

By shift end, of course, the rumor has mutated.

Not only are you apparently dating Frank Langdon, but according to Jesse’s whispered update from triage, the relationship is “serious enough that Dana knows,” which is somehow both absurd and, from the staff’s point of view, compelling.

Dana hears that one and says, “I’m going to start sedating employees.”

Perlah and Princess look delighted.

At six, Brenden comes down with you again for one last consult—an ankle fracture-dislocation reduced in the field but unstable as hell, skin tenting, obvious operative case. Park is all brisk efficiency, firing questions at Dennis and Victoria like he’s testing whether they deserve to be allowed near bones.

Victoria, to her credit, fires back the classification correctly. Park pauses. “Disturbing.” “She’s a child prodigy,” you say. “She’s also twenty and says things like ‘it’s giving ischemia,’” Park replies. From the next bay, Shen arrives for nights carrying an iced coffee and says, “Honestly? She’s right.”

“Shen,” Robby says wearily, “you haven’t even clocked in and I’m already tired of you.”

Abbot shows up not long after, all night-shift ease and old-soldier steadiness, getting report while you and Park review post-reduction films. He glances between you and Frank across the station where Frank is leaning over your shoulder reading a note. “So are we all just pretending that’s normal?”

Dennis looks up too fast. Abbot catches it instantly and grins like a bastard.

Then Garcia breezes by, hears just enough, and finally says, “Oh my God, you idiots think she’s dating Frank?” Silence. Beautiful, catastrophic silence. Frank looks up from your shoulder. “What?” You blink. “What?” Garcia points between you two. “That. Everyone thinks that.”

There is one stunned second where the entire desk seems to stop breathing. Then you laugh so hard you have to grab the counter. Frank makes an offended noise. “That is disgusting.” You’re still laughing. “Oh my God.” Dana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, Garcia. I was enjoying watching this spiral.”

Trinity, delighted beyond measure, says, “Wait. Wait. You’re not—?” Frank and you speak at the exact same time. “She’s my sister.” “He’s my brother.” The station detonates. Victoria slaps a hand over her mouth. “No way.” Mel looks genuinely panicked. “I have said so many things out loud.” McKay starts laughing into her hand. Jesse bends in half over the printer. Mateo just goes, “Damn.” Perlah mutters something scandalized in Tagalog to Princess, who looks ready to ascend.

Dennis feels his entire soul leave his body and then slam back in when the world rearranges itself all at once. Sister. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Everything clicks—the softness, the shorthand, the protectiveness, Dana knowing, Robby not batting an eye. Garcia steps in with the final blow.

“She’s June Bug,” Garcia says. “His baby sister. Orthopedic resident. Try to keep up.” Abbot looks at Dennis and murmurs, “Well, that’s gotta feel like winning the lottery. Dennis nearly combusts.

Frank points at the whole group. “You people are freaks.” You wipe at your eyes, still laughing. “You’re the one who keeps hovering like a deranged mother hen.” “You’re five-four and choose to stand next to moving stretchers.” “I’m literally a surgeon.” “Debatable.”

Robby, who has watched this whole implosion with the exact expression of a man whose entertainment has finally arrived, folds his arms. “For the record, I knew.”

Dana deadpans, “No one likes you.” Garcia hooks an arm around your shoulder. “Come on, June Bug. Before these morons decide you’re secretly dating Park next.” From the other end of the desk, Park—who unfortunately hears everything—doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s signing. “I would rather walk into traffic.” You call back, “Mutual, Brenden.”

That gets another round of laughter.

The shift should end there, but of course it doesn’t. It’s the Pitt. A GI bleed rolls in. Shen steals someone’s pen. Abbot takes over resus with that calm, dangerous competence that makes night shift feel like a different planet. Frank gets pulled into a crashing patient. Garcia gets paged back upstairs. Park vanishes like an angry ghost.

And in the brief lull between disaster and handoff, you find Dennis again. He’s at the Pyxis, looking like he’s still recovering from the revelation that you are, in fact, unattached and not committing incest with Frank Langdon. You lean against the machine beside him. “You survived that well.”

He groans. “Please don’t.” “Why? It was cute.” He gives you a look. “I spent all day thinking I had a crush on a senior resident’s girlfriend.” “A crush on his sister, apparently.” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not better.” “No,” you say. “It’s definitely worse.” He closes the drawer with a soft thunk and looks at you, finally a little less scared than he was this afternoon. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you two looked romantic.”

You arch a brow. “What did we look like?” He smiles, small and honest. “Like you’ve been annoying each other your whole lives.” Something warm settles low in your chest. “Accurate,” you say.

There’s a beat. The department hums around you—monitors, phones, wheels, Dana yelling at someone across the hall, Shen laughing too loudly, Abbot standing at the board like a goofy drill sergeant.

Dennis rubs the back of his neck. “I’m glad you came over earlier. About the humerus fracture.” You study him for half a second. Quiet. Sweet. Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Pretty in that open, earnest way people underestimate. “Dennis,” you say, “next time you have a question, just ask.” He nods. “Okay.” “Okay,” you echo.

Frank appears down the hall then, sees the two of you talking, and narrows his eyes with immediate big-brother suspicion. You sigh. “And there he is.” Dennis’s smile turns real this time. Frank calls, “June Bug, are you leaving or moving into the ER permanently?” You call back, “Only if Dana lets me."

Dana, without missing a beat, says, “Absolutely not. I already have one Langdon too many.” You push off the Pyxis and start backing away. “See you around, Huckleberry.” Dennis watches you go. “Yeah,” he says, a little stunned, a little hopeful. “See you around.”

You disappear back into the chaos beside Frank, tossing some insult at him that makes him roll his eyes and fall into step with you anyway.

Dennis stands there for one extra second, listening to the noise of the department spin on.

Twelve hours ago, you were just a name in a page overhead.

Now you are June Bug. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Park the Shark’s favorite resident. Garcia’s best friend. The kind of surgeon who can walk into a trauma bay half awake and make everyone trust her in under thirty seconds.

And Dennis Whitaker, against all reason and every better instinct he has, is already gone for you.

It’s been a few days since you’ve been down to the ER.

Not because you were avoiding it. Park has mostly kept you upstairs, buried in scheduled orthopedic cases, hardware follow-ups, and enough OR time to make your shoulders ache by lunch. The ER has been out of sight, which unfortunately means it’s been just present enough in your head to be annoying. Especially because every now and then, between cases, you catch yourself wondering whether Dennis notices the lack of your presence.

He probably doesn't.

You hate that you care.

By six-thirty in the morning, you’re walking into Pitt beside Frank with a coffee in one hand and your bag over your shoulder, both of you moving with that easy sibling rhythm that comes from a lifetime of matching each other’s pace without thinking. Frank is in black scrubs, trauma folder tucked under his arm, looking unfairly composed for this hour. You’re in dark blue scrubs, hair clipped back, pager at your waistband, already mentally sorting your OR schedule.

Frank glances down at your coffee. “That is not coffee.” You don’t even look at him. “Good morning to you too.” “It looks like runoff from a parking lot.” “It’s a cold brew coffee. We don’t all suffer from thinking the hospital sludge is good .” “Abby would throw that out.” “Abby married you. Her judgment is clearly not flawless.” Frank lets out a low, offended sound. “That was mean.” “You sighed when you bent down to tie your shoes.”

“I am thirty-four.” “You made a dad noise.” “I am a dad.” “That doesn’t mean I have to respect it.” He cuts you a look, then bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “Mom says you got meaner in residency.” “Mom says that because she’s still pretending I was a sweet child.” “You bit me when you were six.” “You stole my popsicle.”“It was one lick.” “It was betrayal.” Frank snorts. “You’re impossible.” “You’re old.”

By the time you two hit the ER entrance, the department is already alive. Nurses in gray move through the station with meds, labs, and that particular kind of efficiency and chaos that only exists in emergency medicine. Dana is planted at the charge desk like she owns the building. Jesse is fighting with a printer. Perlah and Princess are talking near triage while Emma hovers nearby trying not to look brand new. The whole place smells like sanitizer, stale caffeine, and incoming problems.

Dana spots you first. “Well,” she says dryly, “look what ortho finally let out of its cage.” You peel off from Frank and head straight for her. “Missed me?” Dana sets her pen down just in time for you to lean over and give her a quick side hug. She pretends she’s tolerating it more than she actually is. “You vanish for days and think you get affection?” she asks. “I had surgeries.” “You always have surgeries.” “That’s because bones are needy.”

Frank leans on the desk beside you. “Interesting. She gets a hug and I get disrespect.” Dana doesn’t even glance at him. “Because she’s easier to like.” “Deeply hurtful.” “You also still owe me a discharge summary.” Frank straightens. “How do you know that already?” Dana looks at him over the rim of her coffee. “Because I’m Dana.”

That gets a laugh out of you, and that’s when you see Dennis.

He’s a few feet down from the main desk, chart in hand beside Mohan while Robby goes through sign-out in that clipped, blunt way of his. He looks up at the sound of your laugh, and for one quick second the rest of the department softens around the fact that he’s looking right at you.

His face changes immediately. Just a little. Enough. You lift your fingers in a small wave. He waves back, awkwardly enough that you almost smile harder. You mean to stop. You mean to say something. Anything. Even just hi. But your phone starts vibrating in your pocket with the very specific insistence of a man who thinks time itself is personally wasting his day.

You already know who it is before you check.

Park: Where are you. Park: OR 4 in ten. Park: If I have to start with the med student I’m blaming you.

You groan. Dana catches the screen. “Park?” “Unfortunately.” “Then run,” she says. “Before he comes down here and makes it all our problem.” You point vaguely toward Dennis and mouth later, not sure if he catches it, then start backing toward the OR hallway. “Try not to commit crimes before lunch, Frankie.” Frank lifts his coffee in salute. “No promises.” “That’s why Mom worries.”

Then you turn and head upstairs, Park’s texts practically shoving you along. The morning disappears the way OR mornings do. A scheduled distal radius ORIF that takes longer than expected. Then a tibial hardware revision. Then a postoperative wound check that turns into a whole debate with Park about swelling, soft tissue, and whether radiology “understands words.” He’s in one of his moods, which means he says less and expects more.

By late morning you’ve barely inhaled half a protein bar when your pager goes off with an ER consult. Chainsaw injury. Deep laceration to the knee. Concern for joint violation. You look up immediately. Park glances over from the chart he’s reviewing. “Mechanism?” “Chainsaw kickback while cutting limbs. Deep anterior knee laceration. Possible traumatic arthrotomy.” “Lovely,” he says flatly. “Go look. If the joint’s open, they’re ours.”

Garcia appears in the doorway at exactly the same time, trauma papers in hand, expression already sharpened with interest. “I’m headed down anyway. Come on.” The patient is in Trauma Three when you get there.

Middle-aged guy, work boots still on, jeans cut open to mid-thigh, sweat slick on his face and sawdust clinging stubbornly to his sock. The dressing over his knee is blood-soaked but controlled. Robby is already at bedside. Mateo is hanging fluids. Emma is setting out supplies with a concentration so intense it almost hurts to look at. Jesse is nearby muttering that this is why God invented professionals.

“Fifty-one-year-old male,” Robby says as you and Garcia glove up. “Cutting tree limbs, chainsaw kicked back into the left knee. No head strike, no loss of consciousness, no other obvious trauma. Bleeding controlled. Good distal pulses.”

The patient looks between all of you like he’s trying to decide which face is most likely to tell him he gets to keep his leg. “Am I screwed?” he asks. Garcia says, “Not fatally.” You pull the dressing down. The room gets a little quieter.

The wound is ugly. Oblique across the anterior knee, jagged and deep, cutting through skin and subcutaneous tissue and opening enough over the front of the joint to make your stomach tighten. It’s not some dramatic “chainsaw cut halfway through bone” nonsense, but it is absolutely deep enough to worry about capsule violation. There’s visible soft tissue disruption over the patellar region and enough depth medially that you’re concerned for a traumatic arthrotomy. You can see superficial cortical scraping at the patella rather than a gross fracture, but the real problem is whether the saw entered the joint and contaminated it.

You start with the basics. Distal exam first. DP and PT pulses are intact. Foot warm. Cap refill okay. Sensation intact distally. He can dorsiflex and plantarflex. You ask him to attempt a straight leg raise and he barely manages it through pain before dropping the heel back down with a curse.

“Don’t do that again,” you say.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

X-rays are up within minutes. No displaced patellar fracture. No tibial plateau fracture. But there’s obvious soft tissue defect, small flecks of air where they shouldn’t be, and enough concern from the location and mechanism that imaging alone doesn’t make you feel better.

Garcia looks at you. “You buying open joint?” “Yes.” Robby folds his arms. “Plan?” “IV antibiotics now if they’re not already hanging. Tetanus if needed. Formal irrigation and debridement in the OR if this is a traumatic arthrotomy, which it probably is. We can do a saline load test if needed, but honestly with mechanism and wound location, I’d rather not waste time pretending this isn’t what it is.” Robby nods once. “Reasonable.”

You step back and call Park. He answers on the first ring. “What.” “Chainsaw to anterior knee. Deep laceration over patella and medial parapatellar region. High concern for traumatic arthrotomy. No gross fracture, maybe superficial patellar cortical involvement. Distal exam intact.” A beat. Then, “I’m coming down.” Which, from Park, is practically emotional support.

He arrives six minutes later in navy blue scrubs, looking like he got dragged away from something he respected more. He steps into the trauma bay, examines the wound himself, reviews the films, and gives the patient exactly one sentence of human reassurance.

“We’re going to wash this out in the OR and make sure the joint’s clean.” The patient nods like that’s enough. Because with Park, weirdly, it usually is.

The case books quickly. You and Park coordinate the rest. Garcia peels away to do trauma surgery business. Robby moves on to the next fire. And once the patient is headed upstairs and your note is mostly done, you step out into the hallway expecting maybe two seconds of peace.

Instead, you hear Trinity.

She’s at the main station with Dennis, leaning against the desk in black scrubs, voice low but not low enough. “I’m serious,” she says. “He shouldn’t be back here acting like nothing happened.” You slow before you’re fully visible.

Dennis is half-turned toward her, chart in hand. He’s not saying much. Mostly listening. Mostly giving those quiet little nods he gives when someone’s venting and he’s trying not to escalate it.

Trinity keeps going.

“He made this place hell for some of us, Dennis. People can pretend rehab fixes everything in a neat little bow, but it doesn’t erase what he did. And frankly, I don’t care if Robby wants to play redemption arc. Frank didn’t make people like me feel like we belonged here.”

Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time.

For one second you think maybe just keep walking. Don’t do this here. Don’t do this now. Then Dennis nods again. Small. Automatic. Probably just trying to be kind. Probably not agreeing the way it looks. Doesn’t matter.

You step into view. “Maybe,” you say, voice sharp enough that both of them go still immediately, “you should mind your fucking business.”

The station goes dead quiet.

Trinity straightens first, eyes hardening. Dennis’s face changes instantly when he sees yours—surprise first, then something worse. You look at Trinity. “You do not get to use my brother as your lunch break topic.” Trinity crosses her arms. “I wasn’t talking to you.” “No,” you say. “You were talking about someone you clearly still resent, and you’re allowed to feel however you feel. But you don’t get to drag it out at the desk like gossip.”

Her jaw tightens. “That’s not what I was doing.” “It sounded exactly like that.” Dennis says your name quietly, trying to step in. “Hey—” You turn to him, and whatever he sees in your face makes him stop.

Because you’re not just angry at Trinity. You’re angry that he stood there and nodded along. Maybe unfairly. Maybe not. It still hurts.

You look back at Trinity one last time. “Find someone else to perform for.” Then you turn and walk away before either of them can answer. Behind you, you hear Jesse mutter, “Jesus,” under his breath, and Dana snap something about everyone getting back to work, but you don’t stop. You head straight for the stairwell, pulse pounding, throat hot, fury sitting ugly and sour in your chest.

The rest of the afternoon gets worse in quiet ways.

You avoid the ER.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to accuse you of anything. You just stay upstairs when you can, throw yourself into postop checks and floor notes and instrument trays and literally anything that keeps you out of the line of sight of the emergency department.

Garcia notices first, of course. She corners you between cases in the OR hall with her mask hanging loose at her neck and a look that says she already knows you’re lying.

“What happened downstairs?” “Nothing.” “That’s bullshit.” You shove a chart into her hands. “Read your trauma note.” Garcia doesn’t even look at it. “June Bug.” You exhale through your nose. “Trinity was talking shit about Frank. Dennis was standing there listening.” Garcia’s expression flattens immediately. “Ah.” “Yeah.”

“You yell at them?” “I told her to mind her fucking business.” Garcia’s mouth twitches. “That tracks.” You glare. “I’m not joking.” “I know.” Her face softens a little. “You’re also not exactly calm.” You look away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Too bad. You’re clearly madder at Whitaker than Santos.”

You say nothing, which is answer enough.

Then Park ruins the moment by appearing out of nowhere and saying, “Orca. Move. Consult.” You close your eyes briefly. “This is not the time.” “It’s exactly the time. Hip fracture in ED.”

So despite every instinct telling you not to go back down there, you end up riding the elevator to the ER beside Park, who has the social sensitivity of a cinder block and therefore doesn’t ask why you look like you want to punch drywall.

The consult is an elderly woman with an intertrochanteric fracture after a fall in her kitchen. Straightforward, medically speaking. Not straightforward emotionally, because her daughter is frightened and crying and asking all the same questions families always ask when a life changes in one wrong step on tile.

You’re sharper than usual. Not rude. Just shorter. More clipped.

You explain the fracture. Surgical plan likely tomorrow. Pain control tonight. NPO after midnight. Medical optimization. You answer every question, but without your usual softness. Park notices because Park notices everything. So does the daughter, probably. You hate that immediately.

When you step back into the hall, Garcia is waiting there like she materialized from your guilt. “You’re snappy,” she says. “You’re stalking me.” “Yes. You’re still snappy.”

Before you can answer, Frank appears from the opposite end of the hall, still in black scrubs, hair a little more wrecked now, expression shifting the second he sees your face.

“What happened to you?” “Nothing.” Frank stops in front of you and squints. “That’s your lying voice.” Park, beside you, glances between the two of you with mild disdain. “Can you do family therapy somewhere else?” Frank ignores him. “June Bug.”

You look away. Garcia answers for you. “She got overheated because Trinity was running her mouth about you and Whitaker was dumb enough to stand there during it.” Frank’s face changes immediately. “What?” You shoot Garcia a murderous look. “I hate you.” “Love you too.” Frank takes one step closer. “What did she say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” “If it upset you, it matters.” You laugh once without humor. “Great. Good. Awesome. Can everyone stop making my feelings a group project?” That gets silence. Not because anyone agrees to stop. Because they’re startled.

Park looks at you for a long second, then says, “Orca, go wash your face. You look rabid.” You stare at him. Garcia mutters, “Oddly supportive for him.” Frank looks like he wants details and revenge and maybe a list of witnesses. You point at all three of them. “I’m going to go write my consult note, and if any of you follow me, I’m throwing myself down the elevator shaft.”

That, finally, gets you left alone.

Mostly.

The rest of the shift crawls.

You stay busy because that’s easier than thinking. A pediatric wrist reduction. A floor page about a postop fever that turns out to be exactly what you expected. One more ER consult late in the afternoon with Park physically present, which means you’re spared any real chance of interacting with Trinity or Dennis beyond a few peripheral glimpses that feel worse than direct conversation would have.

Every time you see Dennis, he looks like he wants to say something. You don’t give him the opening. By the time evening settles in and night shift starts bleeding into the edges of day shift, you’re exhausted in that particular way that feels like emotional fatigue wearing a physical costume.

You’re down in the ER one last time near the end of the shift because Park sent you to review a questionable knee film and then vanished like a malicious spirit. You finish the note, sign the orders, and head toward the desk just as Dr. John Shen comes breezing in for nights with a Dunkin iced coffee in hand and the exact same amused, too-online expression he always seems to wear.

“Well, well,” Shen says when he spots you. “Ortho lives.” You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Unfortunately.” Abbot is right behind him, calmer, broader, carrying that steady night-shift presence like armor. He glances between you and Shen. “She looks mean.” “I am mean,” you say. Shen points at you with his straw. “Self-awareness. Love that.”

Abbot leans against the counter. “Bad day?” “Long day.” “That’s not what I asked.” You smile despite yourself. “See, this is why everyone thinks you’re secretly older than dirt.” Abbot grins. “And yet I’m still handsome.” “Debatable,” you say with a wink.

Shen lets out a delighted little noise. “Okay, slay.” You bark a laugh at that, and for the first time all afternoon something in your chest loosens a little, “Don’t ever say that again.”

Across the desk, Dennis stops.

He was clearly heading your way. You can tell by the way he slows when he sees you talking to Shen and Abbot. He hesitates just long enough to take in the scene—Shen making you laugh, Abbot leaning in with that easy night-shift confidence, you actually smiling for the first time since noon.

From a distance, maybe it looks a little flirty. It isn’t. But it looks easy. And Dennis is already carrying enough guilt to make himself miserable with the wrong read. He still comes over.

Slowly, but he comes.

You see him before he reaches you, and the second your eyes land on him, something tight settles back into your shoulders. Not anger exactly. More like the bruise left after it. Shen notices immediately, because apparently no one in this hospital knows how to mind their own business. “Oop,” he says softly around his straw. “I’m sensing plot.” Abbot gives him a look. “You are exhausting.”

Dennis stops a few feet away, eyes flicking briefly to Shen and Abbot before returning to you. “Can I talk to you?” You don’t answer right away. Shen, to his credit, lifts both hands. “I can vanish.” Abbot pushes off the counter. “Come on. Leave the adults to it.” “They’re younger than me.” “Barely, have you heard how you talk?”

Shen gives you a little salute with his coffee before he and Abbot drift off toward the night-shift board, still talking under their breath. Then it’s just you and Dennis.

The ER is loud around you, but the space between the two of you feels weirdly quiet anyway. Dennis rubs the back of his neck once. “I wanted to apologize.” You fold your arms. “For what part?” His face falls a little at that, but he nods like he deserves it. “For standing there. For not saying anything. For making it look like I agreed.”

You look at him for a long second.

“Did you?” “No.” Immediate. Firm. “No.” That helps. A little. He goes on, quieter now. “I wasn’t agreeing with her. I just… she was venting, and I was trying not to make it bigger.” You let out a short breath. “Well, congratulations. It got bigger.” He almost smiles, but thinks better of it. “Yeah. I know.”

You look away toward the tracking board, toward Dana scolding someone in triage, toward literally anything that isn’t his face. “She can hate Frank if she wants,” you say finally. “That’s her business. I know he hurt people. I know not everybody forgives him. I’m not asking for that.”

Dennis listens without interrupting.

“But hearing it like that,” you continue, voice lower now, “he’s still my brother.” Dennis nods once. “I know.” You look back at him then. “Do you?” He meets your eyes. “Yeah. I do.” Something in his face is so open it almost makes this harder instead of easier. “I should’ve said something,” he says. “Or I should’ve walked away. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

You’re quiet for a beat. Then another.

From farther down the desk, Shen glances over once, catches your eye, and immediately looks away with exaggerated innocence. Abbot says something to him that makes him snort.

You almost smile.

Dennis sees that too, and you can feel him misreading the whole thing just a little. The night doctors. The laughter. The fact that you seem easier with them right now than with him. It shows in the tiniest flicker of his expression.

You tip your head. “I’m not flirting with Abbot, if that’s what that face is.” His eyebrows lift. “What face?” “That one.” A faint blush crawls up his neck. “I wasn’t—” “You were a little.” He exhales, half embarrassed. “Maybe.” That almost gets a real laugh out of you.

Almost.

He takes one tiny step closer. Careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. “I’m really sorry, June Bug.” And there it is. Not doctor voice. Not careful work voice. Just you. You look at him for a long second, tired and still hurt and not nearly ready to fully let him off the hook.

But not done either.

“Okay,” you say finally. It’s not forgiveness, not fully. But it isn’t rejection. Dennis seems to understand that. His shoulders ease just a little.

“I’ll do better,” he says. “You should.” He nods. “Yeah.” Dana yells for him from across the station before either of you can say anything else. Whitaker!”

He looks over automatically.

“Your patient in six is trying to leave with his IV in.” Dennis closes his eyes briefly. “Of course he is.” That finally does pull a real, tired smile from you. He sees it. Smiles back, small and relieved.

“Goodnight, June Bug,” he says.

You glance toward the exit, then back at him. “Goodnight, Whitaker.”

And as he heads off toward fresh chaos and Shen starts cackling over something at the night-shift board, you stand there in the middle of the Pitt with the long, messy ache of the day still sitting under your skin and think, not for the first time, that nothing in this hospital ever stays simple for long.

If one thing is clear in the Pitt, no one gets to talk shit about your brother. You are loyal as hell and will stand up for those you care about. But another thing that isn't clear, is why you care so much about what Dennis thinks and does....

It’s Dennis.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand where you left it last night after sending one sad little good night x like a woman with no emotional self-preservation.

You stare at it. For one full minute, you do not touch it. Then you touch it.

The screen lights up too bright.

Dennis 💕: I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Dennis 💕: Good night, June bug. I’ll see you tomorrow.

That’s it. No explanation. No name.

No nervous, over-detailed Dennis paragraph where he apologizes three times and somehow makes you forgive him halfway through because he’s so painfully sincere about it.

Just sorry.

Just good night.

You lie there with the phone in your hand, the blue light painting the ceiling, and tell yourself you have no right to be upset. He said he was helping a friend.

People have friends.

You have friends. Yolanda would commit three HIPAA-safe crimes for you. Shen sends you memes like he’s being paid. Frank would rather choke than say he’s worried, but he showed up outside your apartment yesterday because he knew something was off before you did.

Dennis is allowed to have friends. Dennis is allowed to be busy. Dennis is allowed to help someone without giving you a sworn affidavit about it.

You know all of that.

Your body does not care.

That old, bruised feeling is sitting under your sternum again. Familiar. Embarrassing. The kind of feeling you thought you had outgrown because you’d gotten older and sharper and meaner and better at not needing anyone enough for them to hurt you.

Apparently not.

You lock your phone and sit up. “Nope,” you whisper into the dark. “We are not doing this.” Park’s 0700 case is waiting on your laptop, and if you show up unprepared, he will notice before you even breathe wrong.

You drag the laptop onto your bed, pull up the CT, and force your brain into bone.

Tibial plateau. Split-depression. Lateral plateau involvement. Articular step-off. Soft tissue swelling. Possible meniscal involvement. Approach. Fixation. Bone graft. Plates. Screws. Fluoro. Post-op restrictions.

The clean logic of it helps for maybe twenty minutes. Then your brain wanders again.

A friend.

That’s all Dennis said. Not who. Not why. Not why his face changed when you asked him to dinner. Not why Frank made that face in his kitchen. Not why Abby got careful at the sink.

You press the heel of your hand into your eye. You hate this. You hate that one vague sentence can reach back through years and grab something still tender.

Jake’s voice comes back too easily.

You were never around, June.

Your jaw tightens. Five years.

Five years together through undergrad and med school. Five years of exams, rotations, missed dinners, rescheduled birthdays, apologies typed in hospital stairwells. Five years of thinking you were building something with someone who understood ambition until he used it against you.

When he cheated, he hadn’t even had the decency to just be cruel. He’d been calm. Worse, he’d been disappointed. Like it was your fault he had needed someone else.

You cared more about the hospital than me.

You slam the laptop shut harder than necessary. Then immediately open it again because work still exists.

By 0530, you’re in navy blue scrubs. Your hair is twisted up, and Abby’s orca scrub cap is in your hands. She gave it to you after Park called you “meaner than a shark and twice as hard to redirect.”

You told her it was ridiculous. You wear it all the time. You tuck your hair under it, grab your badge, hospital brooks, pens, trauma shears, and a Tropical Red Bull from the fridge

You look at your phone one more time. No new text from Dennis.  Which makes sense. It’s five-thirty in the morning. He’s probably asleep. You are not upset that your boyfriend is asleep.

Your boyfriend.

The word should feel nice. Instead, it turns the bruise in your chest a little deeper. You shove the phone into your pocket and leave.

The parking garage is cold and echoing when you pull in at 0602.

You sit in your car for a second after turning it off, hands still on the wheel,  Red Bull sweating in the cupholder.

Your phone buzzes. Your stomach flips before you can stop it.

Dennis 💕: Good morning, beautiful.  I’m excited to see you today.

For one second, your face softens.

Then the soft thing gets tangled with the hurt.

Because yesterday, that message would’ve ruined you in the best way. You would’ve grinned like an idiot in your car, typed something stupid, called him Huckleberry, told him not to be cute before seven because you had a reputation to maintain.

Today, you just stare.

You type:

You: good morning

You look at it.

It looks cold, like you’re sending an email.  Like something you’d send to radiology. Not something you send to the boy who makes you melt with a single smile. You almost add a heart.

You don’t. Delivered.

Another buzz.

Frankie 🧸: You okay?

Of course.

Of course Frank knows. Frank can miss entire social cues happening directly in front of him, but if your emotional temperature changes half a degree, he develops military-grade radar.

You:it is 0600 Frankie :That wasn’t a no.

You stare at that and then type:

You: I'm fine. 0700 case.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then finally another response came through. 

Frankie :🧸Eat something.

You huff. A very Frank text. One that still shows he cares without showing too much of his hand. 

Another text.

Yoyo, My Lover: Park is here early and drinking black coffee like he’s about to declare war on soft tissue.

Despite yourself and all your sad girl feelings, your mouth twitches.

You: So what? That’s his usual demeanor.  Yoyo, My Lover:  No. His calm voice is out.

You wince.

You: thoughts and prayers for everyone with an intact ego.

Then Shen.

Dunkin Addict: night shift casualty report: Lena threatened the printer. Mateo spun around too many times and fell out of his chair. And my personal favorite is a patient called Jack “Dr. Jack Sparrow.” because he has a peg leg. Dunkin Addict: good morning bone gremlin.

You lean your head back.

You: why do you work the night shift is literally the psych ward.  Dunkin Addict/; because medicine is a prison and dunkin is my warden.  You: the printer deserves it? Dunkin Addict:printer was guilty.

Your phone buzzes again… Dennis.

Dennis 💕: Early case today?

You look at it. It’s a very normal question. A sweet question because he’s interested in your day. A boyfriend question. Wondering why his girlfriend is up earlier than normal. 

Your thumb hovers.

Then you lock the screen. Not to punish him. You are not punishing him.

You’re busy. You have a case. You have imaging. You have to be in the break room before Park decides you’re incompetent. You have no time to be weird about a man who said he was helping a friend and didn’t explain.

You grab your bag, your Red Bull, and get out of the car. The garage air bites at your cheeks.

Good.

You need the bite.

By the time you walk into the hospital, your face is arranged into something neutral. Unfortunately, neutral on you apparently reads as “actively haunting the premises.”

The surgical break room is mostly empty.

Mostly.

One scrub tech is eating oatmeal out of a paper cup. A circulating nurse is rummaging through the fridge with the bleak certainty of someone whose yogurt has been stolen. The coffee smells burnt enough to qualify as a chemical exposure.

You drop your bag into your locker, crack open the Red Bull, and pull up imaging on the workstation. The hiss of the can is too loud. The scrub tech glances over. “That kind of morning?” “It’s always that kind of morning.” “Fair.”

You scroll through the CT again, leaning close. Lateral plateau depression. Split fragment. Joint line involvement. Swelling. Approach. Plate position. Screws. Graft. Soft tissue.

You’re writing notes when Yolanda walks in. She stops and is not subtle. Yolanda is never subtle when it comes to you.  She comes to a complete halt in the doorway, coffee in hand.

“Oh,” she says. You don’t look away from the screen. “What?” “No.” “Helpful.” She walks over and drops into the chair beside you. “Your face.”

“My face is reviewing imaging.” “Your face looks like Trinity told me she wants to just be friends.” “That would affect you more than me.” “Exactly.”

You click to the next slice. “I’m fine.” Yolanda takes a slow sip of coffee. You can feel her staring. “What?” you snap. It comes out less sharp than usual. Tired.

Her expression changes. “Did Dennis do something?” “No.”

Too fast. You said that way too fast for it to actually mean “no.”

You both know it. “He didn’t do anything,” you say. “Okay.” “He was helping a friend.” A tiny pause. Small enough that most people would miss it. You don’t. You turn your head. “What?” Yolanda looks away. “Yo.” “What?” “You made a face.”

“I have a face.” “You and Frank both keep saying that like it proves something.” She exhales through her nose. “I’m deciding whether I should mind my business.”

“You have never successfully done that.” “True, but every day is a chance to grow.” You stare at her. She opens her mouth.

The break room door swings open. Park walks in with a chart in hand, OR cap already on, expression calm in a way that makes your spine straighten automatically.

His eyes go to Yolanda. 

Then you.

Then the CT.

Then back to you.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yolanda picks up her coffee like she’s just been handed popcorn. You lift your chin. “Good morning.” “That was not rhetorical.” “I’m fine.” “No.”

You blink.

Park sets the chart down and points to the screen. “Plan.”

Work.

Good.

Work you can do.

“Lateral tibial plateau split-depression fracture,” you say. “Supine positioning with bump. Anterolateral approach. Assess lateral meniscus. Elevate the depressed articular fragment. Bone graft or substitute depending on defect. Raft screws. Lateral locking plate. Protect the soft tissue envelope. Confirm reduction and fixation with fluoro.”

Park stares at you.

“Correct,” he says. You nod. “Flat,” he adds. “But correct.” Yolanda coughs into her coffee. You look back at the screen. “I’m tired.” “You are always tired. Usually you weaponize it.”

You don’t answer. The quiet is worse than snapping back. Park notices.

His voice lowers slightly. “Do not bring whatever this is into my OR.” Your jaw tightens. “I won’t.” “I know.” That makes you look up. His face is still the face of the Shark. Blunt, unimpressed, vaguely annoyed that emotions exist and insist on being managed.

But there is something underneath it.

Steady.

Awful.

Kind, if you squint hard enough and are willing to lie.

“Because if you thought you would,” he says, “you’d step out.” Your throat tightens. Yolanda suddenly becomes very interested in the lid of her coffee. Park picks up the chart. “Scrub in ten.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

“Langdon.” You look at him. “The orca cap is ridiculous.” You stare. Then he leaves.

Yolanda waits until the door closes. “That was affection.” “That was harassment.” “That was him saying he loves you.” “If Park loved me, he’d let me sleep.” “If Park loved anyone, the universe would fracture.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

Yolanda sees it.

“June,” she says quietly. You shake your head. “Not now.”

For once, she lets it go.

The OR is where you usually feel the most like yourself.

Cold air. Bright lights. Gloved hands. Instruments counted. Monitors humming. The clean, brutal honesty of anatomy. Bone is bone. Blood is blood. A fracture either reduces or it doesn’t. There is comfort in problems that show up on X-ray.

You scrub until your hands feel stripped raw, then back into the room with elbows up. The scrub tech gowns and gloves you. Park stands across from you, eyes on the draped leg, already silent in the way that means he’s watching everything.

Time out is performed to confirm the right patient and right surgery.

The CRNA calls vitals. The circulator confirms antibiotics. The C-arm is positioned.

Park says, “Tell me what matters.” You don’t hesitate. “Articular reduction. Alignment. Stable fixation. Soft tissue handling.” “What else?” “Don’t make the X-ray look pretty while the patient’s knee is functionally terrible.”

The scrub tech’s eyes flick up. Park says, “There she is.” It should make you feel better. It doesn’t quite.

You go through the approach. Skin. Subcutaneous tissue. Careful dissection. Respect the soft tissue. Identify the fracture. Protect what needs protecting. Think three steps ahead because Park expects five and punishes two.

He lets you do more than you expected. Which means he trusts your hands even when he clearly doesn’t trust your face today.

“Elevate,” he says. You work carefully, focusing on the depressed articular fragment. Your world narrows down to the joint surface, the fracture line, the instrument in your hand, Park’s voice, the scrub tech’s timing.

For a while, there is only bone. That helps.

Then Park says, “You’re quiet.” “I thought you liked quiet.” “I like purposeful quiet. This is sulking quiet.” “I am not sulking.”

“You’re retracting like someone insulted your dog.” “I don’t have a dog.” “Whatever substitute emotional support creature you use, then.”

The scrub tech’s shoulders shake.

You glance over your mask. “Are you trying to be funny?” “I am being educational.” “You’re being nosy.” “I’m your mentor.” “Unfortunately.”

His eyes narrow.

You sigh and focus back on the field.

The reduction holds. Fluoro looks good. Plate position is solid. Screws sit where they should. The joint surface is restored enough to make your shoulders loosen for the first time all morning.

By closure, your stomach growls audibly.

Park hears it. “Did you eat?” You do not answer fast enough. His sigh could sterilize the room.

“I had a Red Bull.” “That is not food. That is battery acid in costume.” “It was yellow and tropical.” “That does not improve it.”

The circulator laughs.

You finish dressing the incision. Park steps back.

“Acceptable,” he says.

Normally, you’d grin and make him regret praising you.

Today, you just nod.

His eyes narrow again.

You hate that he cares.

You hate that you need him to.

By 1030 the post-op small tasks are stacked on other small tasks.

Orders. Pain plan. DVT prophylaxis. Weight-bearing restrictions. Compartment checks. Physical therapy. Dressing instructions. Follow-up imaging. You explain everything to the patient’s husband while he wrings a baseball cap in both hands.

“Is she going to walk again?” he asks.

You soften. “That’s the goal. It’ll take time, and she’ll have restrictions, but the fixation is stable. We’ll monitor swelling closely and get therapy involved when it’s safe.” He nods too many times. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Thank you.”

When he leaves, Park stands a few feet away, arms folded.

“Better,” he says. You look at him. “You sounded alive.” “How generous.” “There.” He points vaguely at your face. “Irritating. Good.”

You roll your eyes.

For half a second, you almost feel normal. Then your phone buzzes in your scrub pocket. You know before you look.

Dennis 💕:Hope the case went okay. Can I see you later?

Your thumb freezes over the screen. You don’t answer. Park watches you not answer. “Problem?” “No.”

His gaze flicks to the phone. “Is this about the ER resident?” You blink. “What?” “Do not insult me by pretending there are many causes for this degree of idiocy.”

“Wow.” “You were competent before him.” “I’m still competent.” “Barely tolerable, but competent.” You shove the phone back into your pocket. “It’s not about Dennis.”

Park looks deeply unimpressed. “It isn’t,” you insist. He folds his arms. “Then I’ll phrase it differently. Whatever wound he accidentally touched, stop bleeding on my schedule.” That lands close enough that you look away.

Park sees that too. His voice is still blunt, but quieter. “If he’s an ass, I can make sure he fears stairs.” You stare at him.

He shrugs. “Lots of fractures happen on stairs.” A startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. Park nods once, satisfied. “Eat something,” he says. “Then rounds.”

Yolanda finds you in the OR break room eating half a turkey sandwich like you’re serving a sentence. She drops into the chair across from you.

“You look less haunted.” “I had protein.” “Medicine is amazing.” You take another bite and avoid her eyes. She watches you with the kind of patience that feels deeply suspicious coming from a trauma surgeon.

“You ignored him again.” You stop chewing. She sighs. “I saw your face.” “My face needs better security.”

“June.” You set the sandwich down. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want you to say the actual thing.” “The actual thing is stupid.” “Great. Say the stupid thing.”

You stare at her.

For a second, you consider lying.

Then you are too tired. “He said he was helping a friend,” you say quietly. “He didn’t say who. He didn’t explain. He didn’t text until late.”

Yolanda’s face softens. “And it reminded you of Jake.” 

There it is.

The name in the room.

You hate how small it makes you feel.

“I know Dennis isn’t him,” you say. “I know that. I’m not stupid.” “No one said you were.” “But I feel stupid. Because it’s been years, and one vague sentence and suddenly I’m twenty-four again, getting blamed because I was in the hospital too much and didn’t notice I was being cheated on.”

Yolanda reaches across the table and steals a chip from your plate. You stare at her. She eats it. Then says, “For emotional support.” “You’re terrible.” “I know.” She leans back. “Listen. I’m not defending men as a species.” “Brave.” “But Dennis isn’t Jake.” “No,” you admit.

“Dennis gives farm boy who apologizes to doors when he bumps into them. Dennis gives man who carries spiders outside and then asks if the spider is okay. Dennis gives deeply repressed guilt and catastrophic communication skills.”

You stare. “That was weirdly specific.” She looks away too fast. Your eyes narrow. “Yo.” “What?” “You know something.” “I know many things.” “About the friend?” She hesitates. Your stomach drops.

“You do.” “I know there is a friend,” she says carefully. “I don’t know details that are mine to give.” “Great.” “June—”

“No, that’s perfect. Everyone knows except me.” “That is not what I said.” “That is what it sounds like.” Yolanda’s voice sharpens. “Then ask him.”

You look away.

She softens again. “I mean it. Ask. Don’t punish him for Jake’s crimes, but don’t punish yourself by pretending you’re fine either.” You rub at your forehead.

“I hate feelings.” “You’re bad at them.” “You’re one to talk.” She points a chip at you. “Do not pivot to Trinity.” “Coward.”

“Absolutely.”

For the first time all day, you actually smile.

Then your pager goes off.

You both look down.

ED CONSULT — wrist deformity s/p fall, neurovascular intact

Yolanda grins. “Gravity again.”

You stand, grabbing only your phone and badge.  Just navy scrubs, orca cap, tired eyes, and a reputation you’re currently failing to uphold.

“Gravity remains undefeated,” you mutter.

You go to the ED at 1215 because you have to.

Not to linger.

Not to see Dennis.

Not to haunt the department like Shen has accused you of doing with increasing specificity.

You go because an eighty-year-old woman fell in her driveway, has an obvious distal radius fracture, and the ED wants ortho.

That’s all.

The second the sliding doors open, Dana clocks you from the nurse’s station. “Look who remembered she has a downstairs family.”

“I’m here for a wrist.” “You’re usually here for a Whitaker.” “Dana.” “Don’t Dana me.” She points a pen at you. “Your vibes are off.”

“My vibes are HIPAA protected.” “Your vibes are everyone’s problem.” Perlah walks by with blankets. “She’s right.” You point after her. “Betrayal.”

Room six smells like alcohol wipes and fear.

Victoria is already there. Joy, the med student, stands near the counter holding splint supplies like she’s worried they might detonate.

Dennis is not in the room. You are not disappointed. You are not relieved. You are both, which is annoying.

Victoria brightens. “FOOSH injury. Dinner-fork deformity. Sensation intact. Radial pulse strong. Pain meds on board. Dennis said you’d probably want reduction.”

You glance at her. “Dennis said that?” Victoria’s expression flickers. Barely, but you notice it.  “Yeah. He was here earlier.”

You nod and focus on the patient. “Hi, Mrs. Donnelly. I’m June with orthopedics.” The woman squints at you. “You look too young to be the bone doctor.”

You smile. “That’s because the lighting in here is kind.” She laughs.

Good.

You explain the reduction, the splint, repeat imaging, and what you’re checking before and after. Joy watches unenthusiasticly. 

“Joy,” you say, gentler than usual. “Come here. You’re going to help mold.” Her eyes widen slightly. “Me?” “You.” “I don’t want to mess it up.” “You won’t. I’ll talk you through it.”

The reduction goes clean. Traction. Correct dorsal angulation. Restore length. Splint. Mold. Check fingers.

“Can you wiggle for me?” you ask. Mrs. Donnelly wiggles her fingers. “Look at that. Pianist hands.” “You play?” “No. But I always thought I had the fingers for it.”

You laugh softly.

When you step out, Dennis is at the desk. He sees you immediately. His whole face shifts with relief.

“Hey,” he says, standing. You glance at the chart rack. “Hey.” His smile falters at your tone.

“How was your case?” “Fine.” “Good. That’s good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I texted you.” “I was in the OR.” “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

An awkward beat stretches.

Dana looks from him to you. Then loudly says, “I suddenly have business elsewhere,” and does not move at all.

You hold the chart closer to your chest. “I need to check repeat films.” “June—” “Later.” You walk away before he can say anything else.

Behind you, Trinity Santos’ voice floats over the desk.

“Oh, Huckleberry.”

You do not turn around.

It’s over halfway through the shift and Dennis is losing his mind quietly. Unfortunately for him, quietly is still very visible in the Pitt.

He stands at the physician station with a chart open in front of him, reading the same line four times and absorbing none of it.

Trinity leans beside him, arms crossed, watching like he’s a case study. “You’re staring,” she says. “I’m not.” “You are. Badly.”

Dennis looks down. “She’s mad.” “Obviously.” He looks up. “Why obviously?”

Trinity’s brows lift. “Because she’s been down here twice today and hasn’t insulted you once. That woman flirts through violence. You should be terrified.”

Dennis winces.

“I don’t know what I did.” Trinity stares at him. “Men are incredible.” “I’m serious.” “So am I.” He lowers his voice. “Yesterday after shift, she asked me to dinner. I said I couldn’t because I had to help a friend.”

Trinity waits.

Dennis looks uncomfortable.

“And?” “And that’s it.” “That’s it?” “I didn’t think—” “Correct.” He blinks.

Trinity points at him. “You told your brand-new girlfriend you were skipping dinner to help ‘a friend’ and then gave no details?”

“I wasn’t skipping—” “Whitaker.” “I was helping someone.” “Who?”

Dennis hesitates. Trinity’s eyes sharpen.

“Oh my God. Amy Miller?” Dennis’s jaw tightens. “It’s not—” “I know it’s not,” Trinity says. “Does June?” He goes quiet.

Before he can answer, Yolanda appears at the desk like she was summoned by emotional incompetence.

“Please tell me I misheard.” Dennis looks pained. “Garcia—”

Yolanda plants both hands on the counter. “You told June you were helping a friend, didn’t say who, didn’t explain, and then disappeared until eleven?”

“I didn’t disappear. I was working on the truck, and then the fence was—” Yolanda closes her eyes. “Jesus Christ.” Trinity looks at him. “The fence?”

“It was broken,” Dennis says helplessly. Yolanda opens her eyes. “Do you want to be single?” “No.” “Then learn how words work.”

Dennis drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know it would upset her.”

Yolanda’s face shifts. Her voice drops. “You don’t know about Jake.” Dennis looks at her. “Who’s Jake?”

Trinity’s teasing disappears.

Yolanda exhales. “Not my story.” Dennis goes still. “What happened?” “Again,” Yolanda says, firmer this time, “not my story. But if she tells you to listen, you listen. Don’t defend. Don’t over-explain. Don’t do that panicked apology thing where you accidentally make yourself sound guilty of seven extra crimes.”

Trinity nods. “Yeah, don’t do that. It’s weird.” Dennis looks between them. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says quietly. Yolanda softens just a little. “Then fix it before she decides she has to protect herself from you.”

At 1630, you are upstairs when Park finds you.

Technically, you are checking the wound vac on the infected knee washout. Realistically, you are also avoiding the ED with the focus of someone avoiding a live explosive.

The wound vac is holding suction. Dressing clean. Drainage appropriate. No concerning erythema spreading beyond the marked edges. Pain controlled. ID narrowing antibiotics based on early culture data.

You document everything. Then document the same sentence twice because apparently your brain is now mush.

Park stands in the doorway. You don’t have to look up. He has a silent presence that you can always sense. 

Most attendings have footsteps. Park has judgment.

“You’re rewriting the same note.” You delete the sentence. “No, I’m not.” “I watched you do it.”

“Then stop watching me.” “Stop being interestingly incompetent.” You look up. “That’s not a phrase.” “It is now.”

He steps inside, checks the wound vac seal himself, then looks at the patient. “Any increased pain?” The patient shakes her head. “No, doctor.”

“Good.” Outside the room, Park stops you. “Lunch?” You blink. “What?” “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” “What?” You hesitate. His eyes narrow. “A sandwich.” “When?” “Eleven-thirty.” “Fine.”

You stare at him. “Are you checking on me?” “No.” “You are.” “I am ensuring my resident does not pass out during consults and create paperwork.”

“Sure.” Park folds his arms. “You have two options.” “Oh, good.” “One, continue acting like a ghost with a medical license until everyone gets tired of pretending not to notice.”

“And two?” “Handle the thing.” You look away.

“I don’t know how.”

Park’s expression flickers. Almost sympathy.

Almost.

“Yes, you do,” he says. “You just hate that it requires exposing something soft.” Your throat tightens.

Then your pager buzzes.

Park glances down at it before you even do.

ED CONSULT — 22F upper arm deformity s/p fall, concern humeral shaft fracture, NVI

He nods toward the stairs. “Go.” You sigh. “You emotionally cornered me and then gave me a consult?” “Efficient teaching.”

“You’re a nightmare.”

“Correct.”

The ED is in that pre-shift-change churn when you get downstairs.

Day shift is trying to finish notes. Night shift is starting to appear around the edges like caffeinated ghosts. Robby is at the board looking personally betrayed by the patient volume. Dana looks one inconvenience away from biting someone.

She sees you immediately.

“Room eight,” she says. “Humerus. She’s scared, her girlfriend is scarier, and Whitaker already gave pain meds.” “Scary girlfriend how?”

“Protective scary. Not security scary.” “Important distinction.” “Don’t make it worse.”

Room eight is bright and tense.

The patient is twenty-two, pale and tearful, left arm supported carefully against her body. Her girlfriend stands beside the bed holding her hand so tightly you’re surprised both of them still have circulation.

Dennis is there with Victoria, showing her the X-ray on the computer. He looks up when you walk in. His whole face changes.

You ignore the tug in your chest.

“Hi,” you say, stepping to the bedside. “I’m Dr. Langdon with orthopedics. You can call me June.” The patient gives a watery nod. “Maya.” Her girlfriend says quickly, “Liv.”

“Maya, can you tell me what happened?” She sniffles. “We were leaving this coffee shop, and I tripped off the curb. I tried to catch myself, and I landed weird. I heard something pop.”

Liv’s jaw tightens. “It was awful.” “I’m sorry,” you say gently. “Upper arm fractures hurt a lot.” Maya’s eyes flick toward the screen. “Is it broken bad?”

You look at the X-ray.

Midshaft humeral fracture. Displaced. Closed. Ugly, but not catastrophic. The thing screaming in your brain is radial nerve.

“It’s a humeral shaft fracture,” you say. “That means the long bone in your upper arm is broken. Your skin is intact, which is good. Dennis tells me your pulse and sensation have been okay so far, but I’m going to check everything again myself.”

Dennis adds quietly, “Radial pulse strong. Hand warm. Cap refill under two. Sensation intact. She can extend wrist and fingers, but it’s painful.”

You nod.

“Good. With this kind of fracture, one of the big things we watch is the radial nerve.” Maya’s eyes widen. “Nerve?”

“I know that sounds scary,” you say quickly. “It runs near the humerus, so we check it carefully before and after splinting.”

Victoria moves closer. You look at her. “Exam?”

She straightens. “Radial nerve—wrist extension, finger extension, sensation over the dorsal first web space. Median nerve—thumb opposition, sensation to index finger. Ulnar nerve—finger abduction, sensation to small finger. Check radial pulse and cap refill.”

“Good.” Maya looks between you all. “That sounded like a test.” “It was,” you say. “You passed by association.” Liv huffs a tiny laugh.

You crouch beside Maya. “Can you lift your wrist back for me?” Maya winces but does it. “Good. Now straighten your fingers.” Another wince. Another movement.

“Perfect. Can you feel me here?” You touch the dorsal first web space. “Yes.” “Here?” Index finger. “Yes.” “Small finger?” “Yes.”

You check pulse, skin, compartments, swelling. Liv watches every move. “Does she need surgery?”

“Not necessarily,” you say. “A lot of humeral shaft fractures can be treated without surgery at first. We splint it, then often transition to a functional brace, and follow closely with repeat imaging. It depends on alignment, pain control, and whether the nerve exam stays normal.”

Maya swallows. “So I’m not going to lose my arm?” Dennis’s expression softens. “No,” you say gently. “You are not going to lose your arm.” Liv exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the curb.

Victoria passes you padding, and you talk her through it.

“Coaptation splint,” you say. “It starts near the shoulder, comes around the elbow, and back up the arm. Lots of padding. Watch axilla, elbow, and ulnar side. No pressure points. We’re using gravity and soft tissue to help alignment.”

Dennis supports the arm while you and Victoria place the splint. Maya cries once when the arm shifts, and Liv immediately leans closer.

“Hey,” Liv murmurs. “Look at me. You’re okay. You’re doing so good.” Maya squeezes her eyes shut. “I hate bones.” You murmur, “Honestly fair.”

Dennis glances at you like he wants to smile but isn’t sure he’s allowed to today. You don’t give him much back. After the splint is molded and wrapped, you check again.

“Wrist back.” Maya lifts it. “Good. Fingers out.” She spreads them. “Sensation still okay?” “Yes.” “Pulse good,” you say. “Cap refill still good.” Victoria nods, filing it away.

You step into the hall to call Park.

He answers with, “Tell me.”

“Twenty-two-year-old female, ground-level fall, closed displaced midshaft humerus fracture. Neurovascular intact, radial nerve intact before and after coaptation splint. Skin closed. Pain controlled after ED meds.”

“Acceptable alignment?” “Ugly but reasonable for splint and close follow-up. Repeat films pending.” “Good. Repeat films. If nerve changes, worsening pain, or unacceptable alignment, call me back.”

“Got it.”

When you step back in, Dennis is explaining pain control and discharge versus observation depending on repeat films and whether Maya can tolerate the splint.

Maya looks at you. “Can I still go to work?” “What do you do?” “I’m a barista.”

You make a sympathetic face. “Not right away. That arm needs rest. No lifting, no pushing, no pulling. You’ll need ortho follow-up, repeat imaging, and a work note.”

Liv nods firmly. “She’s getting the note.” Maya groans. “My manager is going to be so annoying.” Dennis says, “We can make the note annoying-proof.”

You glance at him before you can stop yourself. He gives you a tiny, hopeful smile. Your chest pulls. You look away first.

As you leave the room, Dennis follows you into the hall.

“That was good,” he says softly. You keep walking toward the desk. “The splint?” “No.” His voice is careful. “You.”

You stop.

For one second, the ED noise folds around you: monitors, phones, Dana telling someone not to block the med room, Robby’s voice at the board, night shift beginning to drift in.

Dennis stands close but not too close.

Careful.

Like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know where he’s allowed to put his hands.

You swallow.

“Thanks,” you say. It comes out flatter than you meant. His face falls a little. “June—”

Dana calls from across the station, “Whitaker, your abdominal pain is vomiting again.”

Dennis closes his eyes briefly.

You use the interruption like a door opening.

“I have to update Park after repeat films.” “Can we talk after?”

You pause.

Then nod once.

“After.”

You walk away before your face gives anything else up.

You make it as far as the ED hallway before you see Frank.

He’s outside trauma two talking to Robby, black scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it, expression tired in a way only an ER doctor can look tired.

He sees you. Stops mid-sentence. Robby follows his gaze, reads the room instantly, and takes the chart from Frank’s hand. “I’ll finish this,” Robby says.

Frank nods once and walks toward you.

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

That is apparently the final straw.

Not Dennis. Not the friend. Not memories of Jake. Not the slight loss of confidence in OR. Not Park seeing through you. Not Yolanda saying the name you were trying not to think about.

It’s Frank’s face.

Your brother is looking at you like he already knows. “Frank,” you say, and your voice breaks on the single syllable. He doesn’t ask questions. He just steps forward and pulls you into him. You fold. Right there in the hallway of the Pitt, between trauma bays and a supply cart, with antiseptic and coffee and cafeteria fries in the air.

Frank holds you tight, one hand at the back of your head, the other across your shoulders.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” You press your face into his chest. “This is so stupid.” “Nope.” “It is.”

“Nope.” “He didn’t even do anything.” “Still nope.” You make a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a sob.

Across the department, Dennis steps out of a room. He sees you and he freezes. Frank looks up. The expression that crosses his face is not subtle. It is older-brother murder in its purest form. Dennis goes pale.

Frank keeps holding you, but his eyes stay locked on Dennis for one long, brutal second. Then he looks back down at you.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Air.” He guides you through the ambulance bay doors. Cold air hits your face.

The ambulance bay is busy but less suffocating. An EMS rig idles nearby. Someone laughs by the doors. The sky is purple-gray, day thinning into evening while the hospital keeps going like it always does.

Frank leads you off to the side, away from the main path, and leans against the brick wall. You wrap your arms around yourself. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Frank says, “Talk.” You shake your head. “I don’t want to.” “I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” You huff weakly. “You’re such a dick. “Yeah. Talk.”

You stare at the pavement. “He said he was helping a friend.” Frank nods. “And I know that’s normal. I know people have friends. I know he doesn’t owe me a whole report.”

“Okay.” “But he got weird. He didn’t say who. He didn’t text until late. You and Abby both acted like you knew something, and Yolanda knows something, and I don’t, and I just—”

Your voice catches. Frank waits. You swallow hard. “I felt like Jake was right again.” Frank’s face changes. All teasing leaves. “June.”

“I hate it,” you whisper. “I hate that he still gets to be in my head. I hate that Dennis can be sweet and kind and awkward and not him at all, and one vague thing makes me feel like I’m back there. Like I’m too much work. Like I’m going to miss the signs because I’m at the hospital. Like I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” “I feel stupid.” Frank pushes off the wall and steps closer. “Listen to me.” You look up. “Dennis is not Jake.” You close your eyes.

“He’s not,” Frank says. “Jake was selfish. Jake wanted you smaller because your life made him feel small. Dennis is… Dennis is too helpful and too guilty and too Midwestern to explain himself properly.”

You open your eyes despite yourself. “Too Midwestern?” “He has a disease. It’s called ‘I can fix your fence and not discuss my emotions.’ Very tragic.” A wet laugh escapes you. Frank’s mouth softens.

“He helps people,” he says. “Sometimes to a fault. Sometimes because he doesn’t know how to say no. Sometimes because he thinks if he’s useful enough, whatever he couldn’t fix before won’t hurt as bad.”

You stare at him. He exhales. “That’s all I’m saying. The rest is his to tell.” “So there is something.” “There’s context,” Frank says. “Not a crime.” You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand, annoyed when it comes away damp.

“I hate crying at work.” “You’re outside. Technically different jurisdiction.” You glare weakly. He flicks your forehead gently.

“Ow.” “Stop spiraling alone.” “I wasn’t alone. I was with Park.” “Worse.” You laugh again, more real this time.

Frank tilts his head. “If it bothers you this much, ask him. Tell him. Don’t do the thing where you decide you’re safer if you shut down first.” You look away.

“I don’t want to be pathetic.” “You’re not pathetic.” “I ignored his texts.” “That was a little pathetic.” “Frank.”

“I’m being honest.” You shove his shoulder. He smiles faintly, then sobers. “You like him.” You don’t answer.

“You like him a lot.” “Unfortunately,” you whisper. “Then don’t let Jake win.” That lands quietly and deeply. 

You take a deep breathe in. Then out.

“Can you send Dennis out here?” Frank’s expression shifts. Protective again. Dangerous. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

“Don’t scare him.” “I’ll be normal.” “Frank.” “I’ll be very professional. I am at work..” “That is not reassuring.”

He walks back inside anyway.

Dennis comes through the ambulance bay doors less than two minutes later. He looks like a man walking toward sentencing.

Good.

No.

Not good.

Maybe a little good.

He stops a few feet away, hands half raised like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “June,” he starts, already rushing. “I’m sorry. I should’ve explained. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just—”

“Stop.” He stops instantly. You take a breath. “No panicked apology spiral.” His mouth closes. “I need you to listen.” He nods.

You look down at your hands because looking at him makes it harder. “My ex cheated on me,” you say. The words sit between you.

Dennis goes very still.

You keep going before you lose nerve.

“We were together for five years. Through med school. I was busy all the time because med school is med school and rotations were awful and I kept thinking if I just made it through the next thing, we’d be okay.”

Your throat tightens.

Dennis doesn’t move.

“When I found out, he blamed me. Said I was never around. Said I cared more about work than him. Said he wouldn’t have had to look somewhere else if I’d made time.” 

Dennis’s face changes. Pain first. Then anger. Not at you. Never at you.

“I know you’re not him,” you say quickly. “I know that. But yesterday, when you said you were helping a friend and didn’t say who, and then you didn’t text until late, it just hit something old.”

You finally look up.

His eyes are glossy in the low ambulance bay light.

“It made me feel like I was waiting to be lied to again,” you admit. “And I hated that. And I hated myself for feeling it.”

Dennis steps closer, slowly.

“Can I talk now?” You nod. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Not the panic version. The real version.” Your mouth almost twitches.

He swallows. “Her name is Amy Miller.” The name means nothing to you, but you listen. “She lost her husband,” he says. “He came into the ED on my first day and I couldn’t save him.” His voice goes quieter.

“I know that’s not rational. I know patients die. I know sometimes there’s nothing else to do. But he was young, and she was alone, and I just… I don’t know. I started helping out at her place sometimes. Farm stuff. Truck stuff. Fence stuff. Things he used to do.”

Your chest aches in a different way now. “It’s not romantic,” he says quickly. “It never has been. She’s my friend. Or maybe I’m just someone who shows up because I don’t know how else to deal with feeling like I failed her.”

You stay quiet.

Dennis rubs both hands over his face, then drops them. “And sometimes it helps with home,” he admits. “The farm. Being useful. Fixing something with my hands instead of standing in the ED wondering if I missed something.”

You soften despite yourself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Because it felt complicated. Because it wasn’t my story. Because I didn’t think saying, ‘I’m going to help Amy Miller with her fence because her husband died and I feel guilty’ was casual dinner-canceling information.”

You blink.

Then laugh once, wet and unwilling. “That is the most Dennis answer I’ve ever heard.” “I know.” “But you could’ve said more than ‘a friend.’” “I know.” He steps a little closer. “I should have. I will next time. Not in a way that hands you someone else’s grief like gossip, but enough so you’re not left filling in blanks with the worst thing your brain can find.”

That sentence makes your eyes burn again. You hate that he gets it. “I don’t want to be someone you have to manage,” you say. “You’re not.” “I ignored you all day.” “That sucked,” he says softly. You wince.

“But I get it now,” he adds. “I mean, I don’t like it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to disappear first. But I get why you did.”

You look at him.

He looks so sincere it’s almost painful.

“I’m not Jake,” Dennis says. “I know.” “But I’ll prove it anyway.” Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—” “I want to.”

The ambulance bay doors open behind him, and Frank appears just long enough to point two fingers at his own eyes, then at Dennis. Dennis nods solemnly. Frank disappears.

You stare. “Did he just threaten you silently?” “Yes.” “Good.”

Dennis huffs a tiny laugh.

You step closer.

“I’m still your girlfriend,” you say. His shoulders drop with relief so obvious it almost hurts. “Yeah?” “Unfortunately.” He smiles. “Can I hug you?” he asks.

You nod.

He closes the distance carefully, like you’re something precious and easily startled, and wraps his arms around you.

You sink into him. Not all the way. Not immediately. But enough.

His chin rests near your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter. “I know.” “I really did want dinner.” “I know.”

“I still want dinner.” “You missed your chance.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, horrified. You raise an eyebrow. Then say, “But I could be convinced to come over after shift.”

His face softens. “Yeah?” “Don’t say cool.”

He closes his mouth.

You smile for the first time all day like you mean it.

The rest of the shift is not magically fixed.

That would be too easy.

You still have notes. Dennis still has patients. Park still texts you about repeat imaging like your emotional breakthrough is inconveniencing his orthopedic schedule.

But things shift. Small things.

Dennis leaves peanut butter crackers beside your workstation without making a big deal of it. You eat them. Yolanda sees from across the hall and gives you a thumbs-up. You flip her off.

Trinity sees that and says, “Aw. Healing.” Dana mutters, “If this becomes a workplace romance learning module, I’m retiring.” Frank passes you near the board and says under his breath, “You good?”

You nod.

He looks past you at Dennis. “Is he alive?” “For now.” “Good.”

Park catches you upstairs finishing your consult note and studies your face. “Handled?” You sigh. “Do you have cameras everywhere?” “No. Your posture is less pathetic.” “Thank you so much.” “Better.” That, from Park, is basically a blessing.

Dennis’s apartment is quieter than you remember.

Not silent exactly. There’s the low hum of the fridge, traffic somewhere outside, the old-building creak of pipes and heat. But compared to the Pitt, compared to the OR, compared to Frank’s house with Penny accusing people of sock crimes and Tanner running dinosaur trauma, it feels almost impossibly still.

You’ve only been here twice before. Once after your first date, when you both sat awkwardly in the living room with Trinity and Yolanda. And Yolanda yelled at Trinity and you to stop being at each other's throats because of your brother.

Once another night after shift, when Trinity was home and barely looked up from the couch long enough to mutter, “Don’t be weird,” at Dennis before disappearing into her room.

So it isn’t unfamiliar. Not really. But it isn’t yours either.

You stand near the doorway for a second, suddenly aware that exhaustion has settled into your bones. Dennis notices immediately. “Do you want tea?” he asks. You blink. “You have tea?” He glances toward the kitchen. “Trinity has tea.” “That feels legally different.”

His mouth twitches. “She won’t care.” “She absolutely seems like someone who would care.” “She tolerates you now.” “That is not the same as liking me.” “No,” Dennis says, too honestly. “But it’s progress.”

You huff out a tired laugh, toeing off your shoes. “Fine. But if she asks, I was medically unstable.” “I’ll chart it.” “You better.”

He smiles like the sound of your voice matters.

You end up on his couch with takeout containers on the coffee table, neither of you eating as much as you promised you would. The tea sits warm between your hands, probably over-steeped, definitely stolen, and somehow exactly what you need.

Dennis sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch, far enough that you know he’s trying not to crowd you. He tells you about Amy in small pieces.

Carefully.

Not like gossip.

Not like an excuse.

Like a person handling someone else’s grief with both hands.

You listen. You tell him more about Jake than you meant to. Not everything but enough that he can sense the trauma and anxiety that relationship caused you.  Dennis doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t defend. Doesn’t make your pain about his guilt. He just listens, one hand resting near yours on the couch cushion until you finally slide your fingers into his. 

By 2315, the food is cold. Your tea is lukewarm. Your head is heavy.

Dennis is talking softly about Nebraska. About how fixing fence posts makes him feel less useless when the ED gets too loud inside his head. About how sometimes it’s easier to understand a broken hinge than a dead patient.

His thumb moves slowly over your knuckles. You lean sideways. Just a little. Then a little more. At some point, your head ends up in his lap. At some point, his hand starts moving gently through your hair. At some point, your eyes close.

“June?” he whispers. You make a small sound. “Do you want me to drive you home?” “No.”

It comes out barely human. He goes still.

You shift closer, cheek against his thigh, one hand curling into the fabric of his sweatpants like your sleeping body has decided dignity is optional. Dennis does not move. Not an inch.

He looks down at you with something terrified and soft and reverent. Like you falling asleep on him is a responsibility. Like your trust is something he can hold wrong if he isn’t careful.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He glances at it.

Frank Langdon: Is she there?

Dennis very slowly reaches for the phone without disturbing you.

Dennis: Yeah. She fell asleep.

A second later:

Frank Langdon: Don’t wake her up. She gets mean and could use the rest. 

Dennis looks down at you. Your breathing is even now, your face finally relaxed for the first time all day.

He types back:

Dennis: I won’t.

Then sets the phone down. He sits there, back stiff, one hand hovering awkwardly for a second before settling gently on your shoulder. You don’t wake.

From somewhere down the hall, Trinity’s bedroom door stays firmly shut.

Dennis glances toward it once, like he’s half expecting her to sense emotional vulnerability through the drywall and come out just to ruin him. Nothing happens. The apartment stays quiet.

He exhales.

“Okay,” he whispers. “We’re just staying like this.”

And he does.

Dennis doesn’t know how to explain what it does to him, seeing you like this—unguarded, heavy with sleep, your fingers still curled into his sweatpants like some quiet part of you chose him before you were awake enough to take it back. 

He keeps one hand on your shoulder, barely touching, terrified that anything more will feel like too much and anything less will make him lose this impossible little moment. 

He thinks about Amy, about all the ways grief can hollow a person out, about Jake, about Frank texting like he trusts Dennis not to mess this up. Mostly, though, he thinks about you.

How loud you are when you’re scared. How sharp you get when something hurts. How soft you look now in the dark of his living room, breathing evenly against him like safety might be something your body still remembers how to believe in. 

And Dennis sits there, leg going numb, heart aching in a way he does not have a name for yet, thinking he would stay like this all night if it meant you got to rest.

Taglist:

Your phone lights up against your pillow, and there it is.

Dennis💕: Morning, June bug. Dennis 💕:Please eat something before Park turns you into a weapon.

You smile so hard you have to bury your face into the pillow. Disgusting. Tragic. You type back anyway.

You: too late. I was forged in the OR and raised on spite.

The bubble appears. Then it disappears. Then it appears again.

Dennis 💕: That tracks.

You’re still smiling when another text drops down.

Frankie 🧸: Ten minutes. I’m outside.

You sit straight up.

You: outside WHERE Frankie 🧸: Your apartment, genius. You: you were not driving me today Frankie 🧸: I am now. You :why Frankie 🧸: Because I had a vision that you’d be annoying today and I wanted to witness it firsthand.

You stare at the screen.

You: that is deeply unsettling. Frankie 🧸: Nine minutes.

You throw your blanket off and immediately trip over the corner of it.

“Son of a bitch”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yoyo, My Lover: Park is already in a mood. Yoyo, My Lover: Like not a normal Park mood. A surgical thundercloud mood. You: so a Tuesday? Yoyo, My Lover: Worse. He said “teamwork” with his whole chest.

You wince.

Then another notification.

Dunkin Addict: you when someone says “ortho can see them outpatient” ( picture of a racoon sitting on a trash can holding a toy hammer.)

You snort, half dressed, one sock on.

You: aren’t you supposed to be asleep Dunkin Addict: just waiting for day shift. spiritually dead. physically looking forward to breaking down in parking garage. Dunkin Addict: also jack says if you keep haunting the ED for dennis you owe night shift rent.

You grin.

You: jack can invoice me. Dunkin Addict: he will. he has a guy.

By the time you make it downstairs, Frank is leaning against his car in black scrubs, coffee in hand, looking entirely too smug for a man who once cried because Penny called him “Frank” instead of Daddy for a full afternoon.

“You’re late,” he says. You look at your phone. “It’s been eight minutes.” “You took like eleven.” “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” He opens the passenger door. “Get in, parasite.” You slide in and immediately grab the coffee waiting in the cupholder.

“If this is decaf, I’m telling Abby you let Tanner use your stethoscope on the dog.” Frank gets in on the driver’s side. “It’s not decaf. I’m mean, not suicidal.” You take a sip. Pause. “This tastes responsible.” “Abby made it.” “Gross, there’s no flavor.” “She said you’d say that.”

You sink back into the seat as he pulls away from the curb. The city is still gray-blue and half asleep, roads damp from overnight rain, headlights streaking along the pavement.

Frank glances at you once. Then again. “What?” you snap. “You smiled at your phone.” “I smile at many things.” “You smiled like a concussed golden retriever.” “That’s oddly specific.” “Whitaker?” You stare out the window. “Maybe.”

Frank makes a noise.

You turn. “What does that mean?” “It means nothing.” “Frank.” “It means I don’t love the idea of my little sister dating someone I have to supervise.” “You barely supervise Dennis.” “I supervise the general air he breathes in my department.” “Robby supervises him.”

“Robby supervises all of us. That’s different.” You look at him. He sighs, softer this time. “He seems good.” You blink. Frank keeps his eyes on the road. “Annoying. Nervous. Kind of looks like he’s apologizing to furniture half the time. But good.”

Your throat tightens a little, and you hate that.

“He hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend,” you say. Frank nearly laughs. “Jesus Christ.” “What?” “You are both adults with jobs that require prescribing controlled substances and cutting people open.”

“I don’t just cut people open.” “You know what I mean.” “It matters,” you mutter. Frank’s expression shifts. He stops teasing for once. “Then tell him it matters.” You look down at your coffee. “Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”

You arrive at 0645, dreading the long day ahead. The hospital is already awake when you walk in. The Pitt always feels like that—like it never slept, like it just changed lighting and swapped casualties.

The ED board is ugly. Orange and red everywhere. Overnight holds. Chest pain. Abdominal pain. Psych waiting on placement. One trauma bay being cleaned from a rollover that came in at 4 a.m.

Night shift is in that end-of-shift state where everyone looks haunted and over-caffeinated. Jack Abbott is at the nurse’s station, one hand braced on the desk, hair doing whatever it wants, arguing with Robby in the calm tone men use when they are both absolutely not calm.

Robby sees Frank first. “Langdon,” he says. “Your sister keeps trying to become ED staff.” You stop mid-step. “I am standing right here.” Dana walks past with an armful of tubing. “Then stop loitering in my department.” “I was here for twelve seconds.” “Long enough.”

Shen appears from around the corner with a backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like he has personally been wronged by the concept of circadian rhythm.

He points at you. “Rent. Night shift wants rent.” “Bill Frank.” Frank doesn’t even look up. “Denied.” Shen’s gaze drifts past you toward the ambulance bay doors, where day shift is starting to filter in.

Dennis walks in at 6:58, black scrubs, backpack, hair still slightly damp like he showered too fast and left the house in a hurry.

Your stomach flips. Shen notices. Of course he does. He leans closer as he passes and murmurs, “Be less obvious, bone girl.” You elbow him. He grins and keeps walking toward the exit.

Dennis spots you a second later.

His face changes immediately. Not big. Not dramatic. Just softer.

“Morning,” he says, coming closer. “Morning.” Frank makes a gagging noise beside you. Dennis stiffens. “Morning, Dr. Langdon.” Frank smiles pleasantly. “Whitaker.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be weird.” “I’m never weird,” Frank says. Dana snorts from the desk. Robby claps his hands once. “Okay, daycare is over. Day shift, listen up.”

Everyone gathers loosely around the board. Robby runs through the overnight mess with Jack. Chest pain in five needs repeat trop and cards consult if it bumps. Belly pain in nine waiting on CT. Psych hold still no bed. Trauma bay open. EMS already called in a fall from scaffolding ten minutes out. You have no business hangout out here for this, but you don’t have a case until later.

Dennis stands close enough that his elbow brushes yours. You don’t look at him. You absolutely do not. He lowers his voice. “You eat?” You lower yours back. “I had coffee.” “That’s not food.” “It had emotional value.” Dennis gives you a look.

You smile. “What?” “You’re impossible.” “You like it.” His mouth twitches. “Yeah.” Frank, without turning around, says, “I can hear you both.” “Then stop listening,” you say. Robby points at all three of you. “Whatever this is, not near my board.”

You belong upstairs so by 0730 you make you’re way there. Reluctantly.

Park is already in the OR breakroom, standing over the OR schedule like it insulted his family. Yolanda is beside him, arms crossed, trauma pager clipped to her waistband, hair pulled back tight. “Nice of you to join us,” Park says. “I was at handoff.” “You are not ED.” “Robby needed my presence.” “Robby needs blood pressure medication.” Yolanda coughs into her coffee.

Park points at the board. “First case moved to 0830. Infected total knee washout, poly exchange possible depending on what we find. Wound vac after. You’re assisting.” You nod. “Cultures before antibiotics?” “Already on broad spectrum from yesterday. ID wants intra-op cultures anyway. We’ll take multiple samples.”

“Implant retention?” “For now. Components look stable. If it looks like a disaster, we escalate.” You grab the printed list. “And after?”

“Post-op rounds. Distal radius from yesterday needs a reduction check. Hip fracture on medicine service needs consent if cleared. ED will inevitably send us someone who lost a fight with gravity.” Yolanda leans against the counter. “Gravity remains undefeated.”

Park looks between you two. “Why do both of you talk like that?” “Trauma bonding,” you say. “Literal trauma,” Yolanda adds. Park closes his eyes briefly. “I should’ve gone into dermatology.” “You’d scare rashes,” you say. He points at you. “Do not make me proud and angry at the same time.”

For the next hour, you do the rhythm you know best. Pre-op check. Consent reviewed. Mark the correct leg. Talk to anesthesia. Confirm antibiotics. Confirm cultures. Make sure the wound vac supplies are available. Answer the patient’s wife’s anxious questions with the steady calm you save for families because panic spreads faster than infection if you let it.

“Are they taking the whole knee out?” she asks, gripping the side rail.

“Not unless they have to,” you tell her. “The plan today is irrigation and debridement—cleaning out infected tissue—possibly exchanging the plastic liner if Dr. Park thinks it’s necessary. We’ll take cultures so infectious disease can target antibiotics better.”

She nods but doesn’t relax.

You soften your voice. “I know it sounds like a lot. But we’re not going in blind.” Park watches you from the doorway. When you step out, he says, “Good.” You raise an eyebrow. “Was that praise?” “No.” “Sounded like praise.” “Get in the OR.”

The case smells like betadine, cautery, and old infection.

Park is supervising. Irrigation, debridement, tissue samples labeled cleanly. Synovium doesn’t look pretty. Fluid cloudy enough to make everyone quiet. The components are stable, which is something.

“You see this?” Park says, voice low enough that only you hear. “This is why superficial reassurance kills people. Infection does not care that the incision looked ‘fine’ three days ago.” You suction as he works. “Cultures times five?” “At least.” “Poly exchange?” He glances. “Yes. Call it.”

You do.

The scrub tech passes instruments with practiced speed. Anesthesia calls out pressures. The circulating nurse tracks cultures. You settle into the rhythm—anticipating Park’s hand, watching the field, thinking three steps ahead because he expects nothing less and somehow still finds something to criticize.

By the time the wound vac is sealed and holding suction, your shoulders ache.

Park pulls off his gloves. “Acceptable,” he says. You grin behind your mask. “You’re going to make me cry.” “Do it somewhere that isn’t sterile.”

You find Yolanda in the OR break room inhaling leftover pasta from a plastic container at 1130. You drop into the chair across from her. “He still hasn’t asked,” you say. She stares at you. “We’re still on this?” “Yes.” “June.”

“What?” “This is pathetic even for romance,” she says mid bite.  “He calls me June bug, and beautiful. He just makes me giddy. I’m a surgeon not a school girl.” “That’s worse.” “I know.”  She points her fork at you. “Then say something.” You lean forward. “Sure. Right after you tell Trinity that you like her.” Yolanda’s fork stops halfway to her mouth. You smile. She narrows her eyes. “You woke up more violent than normal.”

“You’ve been using her as your emotional chew toy for months.” “She flirts back.” “You deflect.” “She likes it.” “You like her.” Yolanda looks away.

Oh.

You soften, just a little. “Yo.” “Don’t.” “I’m not teasing.” “You are always teasing.” “I can briefly become emotionally available if needed.” She snorts despite herself. The door swings open.

Park stands there, holding a chart. He looks at you. Then Yolanda. Then the half-eaten pasta. “I don’t even want context.” “Good,” Yolanda says. Park points the chart at both of you. “Whatever romantic cowardice this is, fix it. You’re surgeons. We cut people open for a living. Speak plainly or be a disgrace elsewhere.” You mutter, “This is a hostile work environment.” “It is training,” Park says. “ED consult. Go.”

Your pager screams a second later.

ED CONSULT — ankle deformity s/p roof jump, intoxicated, college student

Yolanda looks delighted. “A darty ankle.” Park’s eyes narrow. “Do not chart that.” “I would never,” you say.“You absolutely would.”

The ED is somehow louder at noon.

A toddler is screaming in triage. Someone’s family member is demanding water for a patient who is very much NPO. Dana is telling a man with a towel wrapped around his hand not to unwrap it “just to check.” Jesse is restocking linens with the dead-eyed efficiency of someone who has been asked the same question thirty-six times.

Victoria meets you outside room twelve, tablet in hand, expression dangerously close to laughter. “Before we go in,” she says, “I need you to know he proposed to me, Dana, and the portable X-ray tech.” “He moves on quickly,” you say with a laugh.  “He says he has a lot of love to give.” “What’s the ankle?”

“Jumped off a roof at a day party. Landed badly. EMS splinted. Intoxicated. Got fentanyl en route, dilaudid here. X-ray shows fracture-dislocation.”

You look through the glass.

The kid is twenty at most, pale under a sunburn, backward cap still somehow on his head. His right ankle is splinted but visibly swollen, foot angled wrong enough to make your jaw tighten. “Neurovascular?”

“DP dopplerable. PT is hard to find through swelling. Toes warm. Cap refill less than two. Says he has tingling but he also says his foot is ‘emotionally underwater.’” You nod. “Okay. Let’s see him.”

You walk in.

The patient turns his head. His eyes widened. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “My wife.” Victoria makes a noise behind you that she tries to turn into a cough. You keep your face smooth. “Hi. I’m with orthopedics.”

“No,” he says solemnly. “You’re my wife.” “Not according to hospital records.” “Can we fix that?” “Let’s fix the ankle first.” He gazes at you like you cured his pain just by breathing. You pull on gloves and crouch by the bed. “I’m going to check your foot. Wiggle your toes for me.”

He wiggles them dramatically. “Anything for you babe.” “Good. Can you feel me touching here?” “Yes.” “Here?” 

“Yes.” “Here?” “My heart?”

Victoria turns fully toward the wall. You bite your cheek. “Not clinically relevant, but thank you.”

Dennis appears in the doorway halfway through your exam, chart in hand. “Victoria, Robby wants—” He stops. The patient lifts one hand weakly toward you. “You’re so pretty. Like if a doctor was also an angel but mean.”

You pat his shoulder. “That may be the most accurate thing anyone has said about me.” Dennis’s eyes flick from the patient to you. His jaw does the tiniest thing.

There it is.

You almost smile. “Whitaker,” you say innocently. Dennis clears his throat. “I was looking for Javadi.” Victoria, still facing the wall, says, “I live here now.” The patient squints at Dennis. “Is that your brother?” “No,” you and Dennis say at the same time.

The patient nods like this makes sense. “Good. Because I love her.” Dennis’s ears go slightly pink. You check pulses again, then step back. “We need reduction. Sedation?”

Dennis snaps back into doctor mode. “Robby’s available. I’ll get respiratory ready and check the last PO intake, though I’m guessing beer counts as recent.” “Beer and two hot dogs,” Victoria says. The patient raises a finger. “And a cupcake.” “Important,” you say. “Thank you.”

The reduction is controlled chaos.

Consent is limited by intoxication, but the ankle is threatened enough that emergency reduction is appropriate. Robby is at the bedside, calm and watchful. Dennis handles meds under supervision, Victoria watches like she’s trying to absorb every step, and you position yourself at the foot of the bed.

Robby glances at the monitor. “Everyone ready?” Dana stands nearby with that expression that says if anyone wastes her time, she’ll make them regret being born.

“Ready,” Dennis says. You look at Victoria. “Watch the skin. That’s what we’re protecting. Alignment matters, but perfusion and soft tissue are the clock.” Victoria nods.

Traction. Countertraction. A firm pull, controlled rotation, the ugly give of bone and joint moving back toward where they belong.

The ankle shifts.

The room exhales. “Pulse?” Robby asks. You check. “DP present. Toes warm. Cap refill is still good.” Dennis looks at you for half a second longer than necessary.

You splint with Victoria helping, molding carefully, padding bony prominences, keeping the ankle neutral. The patient mumbles through sedation, “Tell my wife she’s beautiful.” Dana says, “Which one?”

Victoria loses it.

Post-reduction films look better.

Not perfect. It’s still going to need operative fixation once he’s sober, optimized, consentable, and swelling is watched, but the talus is back under the tibia and the skin is no longer terrifying.

You step out of the room, stripping off gloves.

Dennis is at the desk pretending to chart. You lean your hip against the counter beside him. “Are you jealous, Whitaker?” His eyes stay on the screen. “No.” “You looked jealous.”

“I did not.” “You looked like you wanted to fight a sedated frat boy.” “I was clinically concerned.” “About his ankle?”

“Yes.” “About his flirting?” “No.” he says clenching his jaw.  You smile. “Good. Because only people who are my boyfriend get jealous.” That makes him look up. Really look up.

For a second, he’s quiet.

The ED moves around you. A monitor alarm. Perlah answers a call light. Dana yells, “Who took my trauma shears?” Robby walks past muttering something about CT delays.

Dennis swallows.

“Aren’t I your boyfriend?” You lift one shoulder. “I don’t know. Are you? Last time I checked, you haven’t asked.” His eyes soften first.

Then panic hits.

“You want me to ask? Here?” You glance around. “Do you need candles?” “No.” He straightens, like this suddenly matters enough to stand properly for. “No, I can do this.”

Victoria, ten feet away, freezes with a stack of discharge papers in her hand.

Dennis ignores her. Mostly.

“June Bug,” he says, voice lower now, still awkward but sincere in a way that makes your chest ache, “will you be my girlfriend?” Your mouth goes soft before you can stop it. “Yeah,” you say. “I will.” His face breaks into the smallest, sweetest smile.

“Cool,” he says. You stare at him. He immediately winces. “No. Sorry. That was—” “That was horrible.” “I panicked.” “You asked me to be your girlfriend and followed it with ‘cool.’” “I know.”

Victoria whispers, “I thought it was cute.” Dana, passing behind her, says, “It was painful.” Dennis rubs the back of his neck. You lean closer. “For the record, boyfriend privileges include jealousy, but only at a reasonable dose.” He smiles. “What’s reasonable?”

“Not fighting drunk patients.” “Okay.” “And you have to buy me coffee.” “That feels unrelated.” “It’s very related.” He nods solemnly. “Understood.”

Frank appears at the end of the desk, holding a chart.

He looks at you.

Then Dennis.

Then Victoria’s delighted face.

“Oh, God,” Frank says. “What happened?” Dana says, “Your sister got a boyfriend.” Frank’s expression goes flat. Dennis visibly considers moving states. You point at Frank. “Be normal.” Frank looks Dennis dead in the eyes. “I’m always normal.” “No one believes that,” Robby says from across the station.

The afternoon becomes a series of almost-moments.

You go upstairs for post-op checks. The infected knee patient’s wound vac is sealed, suction holding, drainage appropriate. You talk antibiotics with ID. You check sensation and pulses on the distal radius from yesterday. You call radiology about CT timing for the ankle kid.

Then the ED pulls you back.

Distal radius. Elderly woman, who fell on outstretched hand in her kitchen, obvious dinner-fork deformity, neurovascularly intact but miserable. Definitely a Colles’ fracture. 

Dennis is in the room when you arrive, finishing pain meds and explaining the hematoma block. The patient eyes you. “Are you the bone doctor?” You smile. “One of them.” She looks at Dennis. “He said you’d make it straighter.”

Dennis says, “She’s very good.” You glance at him. He looks down at the tray too quickly. You walk one of the med students, Joy,  through the reduction. “Traction steady. Watch the dorsal angulation. We’re not yanking. We’re convincing.”

Joy nods, clearly not enjoying her time here . “Convincing the bone.” “Exactly.” Dennis murmurs, “That sounds threatening.” “It is.” Reduction goes clean. Splint molded well. Repeat films are acceptable.

As you’re washing your hands, Dennis leans beside the sink.

“You okay?” he asks. You look over. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugs. “You get quiet when you’re hungry.” “I do not.” “You do.” “You’ve been my boyfriend for a few hours and you’re acting like you know me.” “Unofficially I do somewhat know you June,” he says. 

That lands somewhere low in your stomach..

Before you can answer, Dana calls, “Whitaker, your abdominal pain is trying to leave with an IV in.” Dennis sighs. “Duty calls.” “Go save the IV.” He points at you. “Eat.  You point back. “Chart.”

By 1600 you’re discussing a case with the family.

The cases of the elderly and hip fractures post fall are harder.  They always are.

Eighty-two-year-old woman. Ground-level fall. Shortened, externally rotated leg. Intertrochanteric fracture on imaging. On eliquis, unsure if the patient hit her head during the fall. The hospitalist is admitting. Ortho planning operative fixation once labs, anticoagulation timing, head CT, and clearance are sorted.

Her son stands with his arms crossed like posture can hold fear together.

“She was walking yesterday,” he says. “I know,” you tell him. “Hip fractures can change everything fast.” “So surgery is required?”

“Most patients do better with surgery, yes. It helps with pain control and getting her moving again. Without it, she’s at higher risk for complications from being stuck in bed—pneumonia, blood clots, pressure injuries.”

He looks toward his mother, small in the bed, gray hair spread over the pillow. “She’s tough,” he says. You soften. “Then we’ll treat her like she is.”

Frank is nearby, quiet for once, arms folded. After the family steps out, he says, “You’re good at that.” You give him a suspicious look. “Are you dying?” “No.” “Did Abby tell you to be nice to me?”

“Maybe I’m maturing.” “You cried because Tanner told you I was his favorite.” “He was wrong.” “He is four.” “Old enough to know loyalty.”

You bump his shoulder with yours.

For a minute, the two of you stand in the hallway without performing.

Then Frank says, quieter, “Whitaker asked?” You look over. “Yeah.” “Are you happy?” You hate how fast the answer comes. “Yeah.” Frank nods once. “Okay.” “That’s it?” “That’s it.” “No threats?” I can threaten him later. I’m pacing myself.” You smile. “Growth.”

The last consult before shift change comes in like a curse at 1750.  The kind of timing that makes you briefly consider changing specialties.

You are halfway finishing your orthopedic consult note, documenting the education and risks of the procedure of the lady with the hip fracture when your pager goes off. You groan. 

ED Consult : 17 M; clavicle fx, possible skin tenting, bike crash.

Park looks over from the workroom desk. “What?” You glance down. “Clavicle. Bike crash. Possible skin tenting.” His expression sharpens. “Go.” “Could be nothing.” “Could be pressure necrosis and an open fracture if everyone ignores it. Go.” “On my way dad.” 

By the time you get downstairs, the ED is in that pre-shift-change churn: day shift trying to finish notes, night shift starting to appear at the edges, Robby and Dana both looking like they’ve personally been betrayed by the patient board.

The patient is a seventeen-year-old boy in a grass-stained t-shirt, helmet cracked in a belongings bag, left arm cradled against his chest. His mother stands beside the bed, pale and talking too fast.

“He went over the handlebars,” she says before you even introduce yourself. “He landed on his shoulder. They said the helmet did its job, but his shoulder looks—” “Mom,” the kid mutters. “I’m fine.” “You are not fine,” Dennis says gently, looking up from the chart. “You broke your clavicle.”

You step closer. “My name is Dr. Langdon, but you can call me June. I’m with orthopedics.” The kid glances at you, then immediately looks embarrassed. “Is it bad?” You look at the X-ray pulled up on the screen. Midshaft clavicle fracture. Displaced. Shortened. One sharp fragment angled superiorly enough to make you pay attention.

“Bad enough that we’re going to take it seriously,” you say.

Ogilvie watches muttering things occasionally to Victoria while you move to the bedside. You keep your voice calm. “I’m going to look at the skin first.”

The second you pull the gown back carefully, you see it. Not open and not bleeding; but the skin over the fracture is tight and blanched where the bone presses from underneath. Dennis sees your face shift. “That’s tenting?” Victoria asks quietly. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s tenting.” The mother’s eyes widen. “What does that mean?” 

“Probably,” you say honestly. “Not always for every clavicle fracture, but skin tenting changes the conversation. We need to protect the skin.” Dennis’s eyes meet yours over the bed. ER resident mode is fully on now, steady and focused.

“Neurovascular?” you ask. “Radial pulse is strong,” Dennis says. “Hand warm. Cap refill under two. Sensation intact over the deltoid and distally. Motor intact. No numbness or tingling. Chest X-ray without pneumothorax.”

“Good.” You look at Victoria. “What else are we worried about with clavicle trauma?” She straightens. “Neurovascular injury. Pneumothorax. Skin compromise. Associated scapular or rib injury depending on mechanism.”

“Good.”

The kid looks between you all. “Can I still race next month?” His mother makes a sound. “Absolutely not.”

You give him a sympathetic look. “I’m going to say no in a medically professional way.” Dennis coughs like he’s hiding a laugh.

You fit him with a sling, careful not to press on the tented area, and call Park from just outside the room. He answers on the second ring. “Tell me.”

“Seventeen-year-old, bike crash, displaced midshaft clavicle, shortened, superior fragment with visible skin tenting. Skin intact but blanched. Neurovascularly intact. CXR negative.”

“Upload images.” “Already done.” There’s a pause. Then Park says, “Admit. NPO. OR likely tomorrow unless the skin worsens tonight. Mark and monitor. If it opens, I want to know yesterday.” “Got it.”

When you step back inside, Dennis is explaining pain control and NPO status to the mother.

“So no eating?” the kid asks. “Not until ortho decides timing,” Dennis says. The kid looks devastated. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.” You tilt your head. “You went bike racing on an empty stomach?”

He shrugs with his good shoulder. “I had a protein bar.” His mother closes her eyes. “I swear he was smarter before puberty.” Victoria loses a tiny laugh. You point to the sling. “Keep this on. Don’t try to straighten your shoulders to ‘test it.’ Don’t poke the bump. Don’t let anyone else poke the bump.”

The kid’s ears go red. “I wasn’t gonna.” His mom says, “He was absolutely going to.” Dennis smiles down at his chart. As you step out, he follows you into the hallway.

“That was good,” he says. You glance at him. “The fracture?” “No. The way you explained it.” You hate how quickly your chest warms. “Careful,” you say. “That sounded boyfriend-adjacent.” He smiles, small and shy. “I am your boyfriend.” “Technically.” “Officially.” You look up at him.

The ER noise folds around you, monitors and phones and Dana yelling for someone to stop blocking the med room, but for one second, it’s just Dennis standing too close with tired eyes and that soft look he tries to hide at work.

Then your pager buzzes again, and his phone rings at the same time. You both look down. He sighs. “Medicine is rude.” “I agree, I’ll see you before I leave,” before walking towards the stairwell. 

Shift change starts to thicken the air.

Night shift comes in. Day shift tries to finish notes with the desperation of people bargaining with God. Robby and Jack are already doing their strange little handoff dance at the board, part professional, part sibling rivalry, part divorce hearing.

Shen appears with fresh dunkin iced coffee, looking significantly more alive than he did twelve hours ago. He spots you near the physician station and points. “You’re still here?” “I work here.” “Upstairs.” “I’m consulting.” “You’re nesting.”

Dennis is beside you, closing a chart. “Hey, Shen.” Shen looks between you. Then grins slowly. “Oh no.” You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.” “You made it official?” Dennis blinks. “How did you—” “You both look stupid.”

Jack calls from the board, “Shen, stop harassing ortho.” Shen calls back, “But she makes it so easy.” You flip him off behind your chart. He puts a hand over his heart. “Romance is alive.”

You catch Dennis by the ambulance bay doors just as the sky outside is turning purple-gray. For the first time all day, there’s a pocket of quiet. Not silence. The ED never gives you that. But enough.

You lean against the wall, tired in your feet, your shoulders, the base of your skull. “Dinner?” you ask. “Since you’re my boyfriend now and everything.” Dennis’s face changes. 

Barely. But you see it.

He hesitates.

“I can’t tonight,” he says. “Oh.” “I’m sorry. I have to help a friend with something.” “A friend?” “Yeah.”

You wait for more. He doesn’t give it. Your stomach tightens, but your face stays easy because pride is a disease and you have a severe case. Previous fears threaten to escape from where you suppressed them years ago.

“Okay,” you say. “No big deal.” His expression pinches with guilt. “It’s not— I’m not blowing you off.” “I didn’t say you were.” “I know.” “Then stop looking like I accused you of murder.”

He tries to smile. It doesn’t quite work. You push off the wall. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Tomorrow.” You nod.

Then leave before your face gives you away.

You spend roughly 21 minutes in your apartment since Frank dropped you off. But you can't stand the quiet so you go for a drive. Which ends up with you going to Frank’s. Not because you’re upset. Obviously. You’re just nearby and hungry.

And maybe if you go home alone, you’ll stare at your phone until your bones leave your body.

Abby opens the door with Penny on her hip and a dish towel over one shoulder. “Oh,” she says, taking one look at you. “Come in.” You blink. “That obvious?” “Only to women and children.”

Penny reaches for you immediately. “June!” You take her, settling her on your hip. She smells like baby shampoo and pasta sauce. “Hi, tiny menace.” “My sock gone,” she tells you seriously. You look down. One bare foot. One pink sock. “Where did it go?”

“Daddy ate it.” From the kitchen, Frank yells, “I did not eat her sock.” Penny nods solemnly. “He did.” You whisper, “I believe you.” Tanner skids into the hallway in dinosaur pajamas, plastic stethoscope bouncing around his neck.

“Aunt June! I’m a doctor.” You gasp. “Finally. Someone competent.” Frank appears behind him holding a wooden spoon. “Excuse me.” Tanner points to the living room. “My dinosaurs had a trauma.” You shift Penny higher on your hip. “Mechanism?”

Frank groans. “Do not ask him about the mechanism.” Tanner answers immediately. “The T-rex fell off the couch and broke his whole body.” “Classic fall from height.” “June,” Frank warns. “What? I’m getting the history.”

Dinner is messy and loud and exactly what you need.

Frank burns garlic bread and denies it while holding the blackened evidence in his hand. Abby rolls her eyes and makes Tanner eat three bites of peas before dinosaur medicine resumes. Penny insists on sitting in your lap and feeding you one noodle at a time like you are a very large, emotionally unstable baby bird.

“You’re going to get sauce on my scrubs,” you tell her. “Pretty,” Penny says, patting the stain. Frank points. “She fixed it.”

You check your phone under the table.

Nothing.

Frank notices. Of course he does.

After dinner, you help Abby clear plates while Frank gives the kids baths. From down the hall, you hear splashing, Tanner yelling, “STAT!” and Frank saying, “Do not say stat in the bathtub.” Abby bumps your hip gently. “You okay?” You rinse a plate. “Yeah.”

“June.”

You look down at the sink. “He asked me to be his girlfriend.” Abby smiles. “That’s good.” “It is.” “But?” You sigh. “But then I asked him to dinner and he got weird. Said he had to help a friend.” Abby’s expression flickers. “Did he say who?” “No.”

She dries a plate slowly. “Maybe it really is just a friend.” “Frank made a face.” “Frank has many faces.” “This was a knowing face.” Abby pauses. You stare at her. “You know something too.” “I know Frank knows too much and says too little when he’s trying not to meddle.”

“That’s not comforting.” “No,” she admits. “But Dennis doesn’t strike me as careless with you.” That makes your throat ache. From the bathroom, Frank yells, “Penny, do not drink the bath water.” Penny yells back, “Soup!”

Abby closes her eyes. You laugh despite yourself.

Later, Tanner demands you read bedtime because “Daddy does the voices wrong.” Frank looks offended. “My voices are excellent.” Tanner shakes his head. “Your dinosaur sounds like grandpa”

You collapse onto the edge of the bed laughing. Frank points at his son. “That was personal.” Penny climbs into your lap during the story, warm and sleepy, her little fingers curled around your scrub sleeve.

Halfway through, your phone buzzes.

Your heart jumps.

You check.

Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: 0700 case moved up. Review imaging tonight.

You deflate so fast Frank catches it from the doorway.

After the kids are down, he finds you in the kitchen stealing a cookie.

“So,” he says. “No.” “I didn’t ask anything.” “You were about to.” Frank leans against the counter. “Do I need to be worried?” You look at him. “About Dennis?” “About you.”

That shuts you up. He softens, just a fraction. “You like him a lot.” “Unfortunately.” “And something feels off.” You stare at the cookie in your hand. “He said he was helping a friend. That’s normal.”

“Sure.” “But he didn’t say who.” Frank says nothing. You look up. “Do you know?” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I know Dennis helps people. Sometimes to a fault.” “That’s vague and annoying.” “I’m your brother. It’s my brand.”

“Frank.” He steps closer, voice quieter. “I don’t think he’s trying to hurt you.” “That’s not the same as saying there’s nothing.” “I know.” You swallow.

Frank reaches out and flicks your forehead gently. “Ow.” “Stop spiraling in my kitchen.” “I’m not spiraling.” “You’ve checked your phone every eleven seconds since you walked in.” “Maybe I’m popular.”

“You text three people and one of them is Park.” You glare. He smiles sadly. “Go home. Sleep. Yell at him tomorrow if you need to.” “I don’t yell.” Frank snorts. “Sure.”

The drive home feels longer than it should.

Your apartment is quiet when you walk in. Too quiet after Frank’s house. No tiny footsteps. No bath-water soup. No Abby humming while wiping counters. No Frank pretending not to hover.

Just your keys in the bowl. Your shoes by the door. Your phone in your hand. Still nothing from Dennis.

You shower hot enough to fog the mirror completely. You wash the hospital off your skin: chlorhexidine, sweat, sterile gloves, the faint metallic smell that seems to live in every trauma hallway.

You stand there too long, forehead against the tile, letting the water hit the back of your neck.

When you get out, you do the bedtime routine on autopilot.

Lotion. Skincare. Old T-shirt. Shorts. Hair twisted up.

The imaging Park wanted you to review pulled up on your laptop because apparently being emotionally unstable does not excuse you from tomorrow’s tibial plateau.

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it immediately. 

YoYo, My Lover: Trinity called me “insufferable” and then asked if I wanted coffee.YoYo, My Lover: What does that mean?

You smile faintly.

You: It means she wants you physically and emotionally. Yoyo, My Lover: Blocked. You: you love me. Yoyo, My Lover: Unfortunately.

A minute later Shen texts you.

Dunkin Addict: night shift update: guy put skittles in his ear “for later.”

You laugh out loud, alone in your bedroom.

You: did jack survive handoff Dunkin Addict: barely. Robby used the disappointed dad voice. Dunkin Addict: also your vibe was rancid when you left. drink water or commit a crime, but pick one.

You stare at that longer than you mean to.

You: I'm fine Dunkin Addict: that is woman for “actively cursed.”

You set the phone down. Pick it back up. Open Dennis’s thread. No new messages. You scroll up like an idiot.

Morning June bug. That tracks. Eat something. Can I kiss you later?

You close the app. Open it again. Close it.

At 10:47, you finally type.

Delete. Type again. Delete.

Then, because you refuse to be the girl who sends a paragraph after one weird evening, you send:

You: Good night x

The message sits there.

Delivered.

No dots.

You put the phone face down on the nightstand. Then flip it over again thirty seconds later. Still nothing. You curl onto your side, blankets pulled up to your chin, feeling ridiculous and hurt and angry that you’re hurt. He’s allowed to have friends. He’s allowed to be busy.

He asked you to be his girlfriend seven hours ago, and now you’re lying in bed wondering why that somehow made you feel less secure instead of more. You close your eyes.

Your phone lights up at 2300

But you're already asleep, slightly disappointed by how your day ended. Unaware of the text you’ve been waiting hours for. 

Dennis 💕: I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Dennis💕: Good night, June bug. I’ll see you tomorrow.

No real explanation. No name of the friend.  Nothing comes more than the goodnight text. The screen dims on on your nightstand

And somehow, after a day where he called you his girlfriend in the middle of the ER, that tiny little message will hurt you worse in the morning than the silence. 

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“June.” 

Dennis. Everything snaps back into place so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Dennis and Trinity’s apartment. Sitting on his couch with take out containers on the coffee table. The conversation last night. The terrible, humiliating, necessary act of letting somebody see you cry and not bolting the second they tried to be kind about it.

You fell asleep in Dennis’s lap and apparently he had shifted and ended up underneath you. You lift your head slowly, not wanting to startle him. He is sprawled under you on the couch, black T-shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, one arm locked around your waist like even unconscious he made a decision about where you belonged. His other hand rests between your shoulder blades, warm and still.

His eyes are still closed. A soft even breath coming from him. Your panic does not disappear all at once. It drains slowly, reluctantly, like your body has to be talked down from a ledge. 

You stare at him, admiring his unguarded state. The soft crease between his brows, the faint shadow under his eyes. At the way his mouth is slightly parted because he is exhausted and human and not performing calmly for anyone. He really is beautiful. 

You feel safe. The thought slowly creeps into your mind. Safe. Not because you have calculated every exit in the room. Not because Frank is standing between you and the world with his jaw clenched threatening anything and everyone for even looking at you wrong. Not because you have decided not to care enough to get hurt. 

You feel safe just because Dennis is holding you. You haven’t felt safe in someone’s arms in a long time. Not someone who wasn’t your older brother. Anyone beside Frank felt like there were terms and conditions you had to agree to or they’d leave. But not Dennis.   

 Your throat tightens, overwhelmed with these new feelings. “Stupid,” you whisper, but there's no heat in it. Dennis shifts under you, still mostly asleep. His hand sliding a little higher on your back. “Stay,” he mumbles. 

You feel something in your chest at his words. So you do. You lower your head back down to his chest, cheek pressed over his heartbeat, and curl closer. His arm tightens again, not enough to hold you down. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

For maybe ninety seconds, the whole world is kind. 

Then a bedroom door opens. You freeze. A whisper slices through the living room. “Oh my God.” You open one eye. Trinity Santos stands in the hallway outside her bedroom. Hair messy, oversized t-shirt, just staring at you and Dennis like she’s walking in on a drug deal. 

Behind her, Yolanda appears looking equally disheveled. She is very much trying not to laugh. You stare back at her. 

Trinity’s mouth curves slowly. “Well,” she says, voice scratchy with sleep. “Look at Huckleberry, using June as his personal weighted blanket.” Dennis jolts awake beneath you. “What?” His eyes fly open. “What happened? Is someone coding?” You sit up too fast and nearly knee him in the ribs.

Yolanda snorts. Trinity leans against the doorframe. “No code. Just you and ortho’s meanest little whale cuddling on my couch.” Dennis blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes. Looks between the three of you and realizes you are very much still half on top of him. His ears turn red. “Oh,” he says. 

You point at Trinity. “Do not make this weird.” Trinity raises both brows. “Me? Never.” Yolanda is giggling at the phone in her hand. “I should send this to Shen.”  You gasp. “Yolanda.”

You scramble off the couch. “Delete it.” “No.” “Yolanda Garcia.” “You looked cute.” “That’s worse.” Trinity walks past you into the kitchen like this is a normal morning. “Send it to me.”

“Absolutely do not send it to her.” Yolanda grins. “Already did.” You lunge. Yolanda shrieks and takes off around Dennis’s coffee table. “Privacy is dead!” “You took a photo of me sleeping!”

“You were on Huckleberry like a weighted blanket!” Dennis sits upright on the couch, hair sticking up, looking like his soul has not caught up with his body yet. “Please stop calling me Huckleberry before nine,” he mutters. Trinity opens the fridge. “No.”

You catch Yolanda by the waist and tackle her onto the rug.

She laughs so hard she can barely defend herself. “Delete it,” you demand. “No. It’s adorable.” “I am not adorable. I’m mean.” “You were literally asleep on his chest.” “That is irrelevant,” you say with a huff. 

You pin her wrist. “Show me.” Yolanda narrows her eyes. “You’ll delete it.” “I won’t.” “You lie for sport.” “I will tell Trinity you call her pretty in the OR break room.” Yolanda freezes.Trinity turns from the fridge. “Oh?” Yolanda glares up at you. “You are evil.” “And effective.”

Grumbling, she unlocks her phone and shows you.

The photo is unfair. You’re curled against Dennis’s chest, completely asleep, one hand fisted lightly in his shirt. His arms are around you, chin tipped toward your hair, face soft even in sleep.

It looks peaceful.

It looks intimate.

It looks like safety.

Your throat tightens. “Oh,” you say quietly. Yolanda’s expression softens. “Yeah.” You immediately clear your throat and climb off her. “I still hate you.” “I know.” “Send it to me.” “Already did.”

Dennis is looking at the photo over your shoulder now, quiet in a way that makes the air shift.

His face does something small, soft. Painfully soft. “I didn’t know you were that asleep,” he says. You shrug, too fast. “I was tired.” “You felt safe,” Yolanda says. You throw a pillow at her. She catches it.

“See?” Trinity says from the kitchen. “Romance and violence. This is why I keep telling Huckleberry he has a type.” Dennis drops his face into his hands. “I live here. I pay rent. I deserve peace.” “No,” Trinity says. “You deserve accountability and to do the dishes, we’re out of spoons.”

You finally check your phone. There are texts. A lot of texts.

Frankie 🧸: You alive?  Frankie 🧸: Whitaker says you fell asleep. If he wakes you up, I’ll convince Dana to put him in triage for a week. Abby: Frank said you stayed at Dennis’s. Proud of you for not spiraling alone. Text me when you wake up, honey. Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Alive? Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: That was not sentimental. I need to know if you’re functional next week. Dunkin Addict: Morning bone gremlin. Did the farm boy live to see another day?

And then

Yoyo, My Lover: [Image Attachment]

You stare at the photo, thumb hovering over the screen. Dennis’s hand brushes yours between the cushions. A question. You let your fingers slide into his. An answer.

Trinity sees immediately. “Soft,” she says. You glare. “Roommate privilege does not mean commentary privilege.” 

She drops into the chair across from you with a mug and takes one sip. Her whole face twists. “Dennis.” “What?” “This coffee tastes like a burnt apology.” You snort. Dennis looks offended. 

“It’s fine.” “It is not fine. It is why you make bad decisions. You’re not allowed to buy coffee ever again.” Yolanda, still sitting on the rug, says, “Actually, he makes bad decisions because he has a savior complex and no communication skills.” Dennis points at her. “I apologized.” “And yet we remain here.”

You lean back against the couch. Still sleepy, still warm, half listening to the conversation, and fighting the urge to look at the photo again. Dennis clears his throat. “You wanna get out of here?” You blink at him. “What?” The blush reaches his ears again, but he still holds your gaze. 

“Coffee,” he says. “Real coffee, or a walk? Or both? Before..” He glances towards Trinity and Yolanda, who are now watching you two with shameless interest. “Before we get teased to death, this apartment becomes a tribunal.” 

Trinity lifts her mug. “Too late. Teasing you is my 9-5 Huckleberry.” Yolanda just grins. You look at Dennis who looks nervous, but hopeful. Not pushing or cornering you, just offering you an exit that still includes him. It makes your chest feel fuzzy. 

Yeah,” you say. “That sounds great.” Trinity gasps lightly, “A morning-after coffee date after spiraling and other things.” She follows with a wink. “It’s not a morning after anything,” you snap. Yolanda smirks. “You slept on top of him.” “You’re supposed to be on my side. What happened to friendship.” 

Dennis stands, rubbing one hand through his messy curls. “I’m going to change.” You look down noticing you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday. “I don’t have a change of clothes,” you say. “Um you can wear one of my sweatshirts, if you want,” Dennis says. “That’d be great. Thank you.” 

Trinity watches him disappear down the hall, then looks at you. “You know he’s going to give you one of his Nebraska Husker hoodies and come back wearing a flannel right.” You frown, “why do you say that like it's a bad thing?” Yolanda points at you, “because you’re down bad.” 

You stand and smooth your shirt like dignity is still an option. “I am leaving this hostile environment.” Trinity smiles into her horrible coffee. “Bring Huckleberry back by curfew.” Dennis does, in fact, come back with a red hoodie for you and wearing a flannel.  

A soft blue one, sleeves pushed up, jeans, hair still slightly damp from the rushed attempt to tame it. He looks unfairly normal. Unfairly dateable. Unfairly like someone who should be leaned against in the produce section of a farmers market while holding a carton of strawberries. 

You hate him a little for it. He catches you staring. “What?” “Nothing.” Yolanda coughs. “Liar.” You point at her. “Inside-out shirt.” She looks down at her shirt, trying to hide her blush. Trinity’s smile turns slow and sharp. You grab your phone, your keys, and Dennis’s wrist. “Great talk. We’re leaving.” “Coward!” Yolanda calls after you. “Pervert!” you call back.

Dennis lets you drag him into the hallway, laughing quietly under his breath. The morning outside is cool enough that it bites gently at your skin. You both stand there for a second on the sidewalk, the apartment building door closing behind you, and suddenly there is no audience. No Trinity smirking. No Yolanda weaponizing your emotions.

Just Dennis. Just you. Dennis looks at you softly, “Still okay?” You let out a breath, “yeah.” “Really?” You look up at him and smile. Thinking about how he asked it so carefully. Like the way he said it matters, but that your answer matters even more. “Really,” you say. You can visibly see the tension leave his shoulders as he reaches for your hand. 

The coffee shop is six blocks away, tucked on a corner with fogged windows and a chalkboard sign that promises seasonal lattes in handwriting too cute to trust. You start walking because neither of you seems ready to get in a car yet. For the first block, it’s quiet. Not awkward. Just careful.

Then Dennis says, “So.” You glance at him. “So?” “Why does Park call you Orca? Like I get that he’s the shark but.” You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets and watch your breath puff faintly in the morning air. “I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was little,” you admit. “Like, badly. Making Frank watch ocean documentaries, shark books, whale facts, the whole thing. I had this whole plan where I was going to move to the coast and study sea life and live on a research boat and be mysterious.”

 Dennis looks delighted. “Mysterious marine biologist June.” “Yes, very cool. Wind burnt cheeks and soaking shoes half of the time.” “Instead you went into medicine, and now hit bones with a hammer.” “Yes, well.” You shrug. “Bones got me.” “That sounds ominous.” “It is. Orthopedics is a cult with better power tools.” Dennis laughs.

You try not to preen about it.

“Park found out about the marine biology thing somehow,” you continue, “and then I got interested in sports med and trauma and he started calling me Orca because apparently I’m aggressive, social, and capable of ruining a shark’s day.”

Dennis nods solemnly. “That tracks.” “You’re supposed to disagree.” “I value honesty.” “You value getting punched?” “I'm a little afraid to answer that.” You laugh, and it feels easier than it should.

At the corner, you stop for the crosswalk. A car rolls past with a dog hanging its head out the back window, ears flapping like it has never known tragedy.

Dennis watches it go, then looks at you again.

“Did you always know you wanted medicine after your marine biology phase?” You make a face. “Unfortunately.” “Unfortunately?” “I was the annoying kid.” “I don’t believe that.” “You should. I skipped sophomore year.” Dennis turns his head sharply. “You what?” You grin. “Skipped sophomore year.” “Of high school?” “No, Dennis, of residency. I just walked into the OR as a fetus.” He gives you a look.

You smile down at the sidewalk. “Yeah. I tested well. Took some summer stuff. School moved me ahead. Then I started taking college courses while I was still in high school because apparently I had no interest in being normal. By then Frank was already in college studying pre-med and I thought that I could maybe do that too. I can’t let him be better than me.” 

“That’s…” He shakes his head, smiling softly. “That’s really impressive.” “It was mostly weird.” “Both can be true.” You glance at him, and the sincerity in his face makes you look away too fast.

You’re better with jokes than compliments. Always have been. Compliments make you feel pinned. Jokes let you wriggle out from under whatever tenderness someone is trying to hand you.

So you say, “I was deeply insufferable.” Dennis smiles. “Were you?” “Oh, absolutely. I had color-coded notes. I corrected teachers under my breath. I took anatomy too seriously. I think my lab partner feared me.” “I can see that.” “Rude.” “You just said it.” “You’re not supposed to agree with me when I’m insulting myself.” His smile fades a little, but not in a bad way. More like he heard the thing underneath by accident.“I’ll remember that,” he says.

A few leaves skitter across the sidewalk in front of you. The city is still half-asleep. Someone is unlocking the door of a bakery. A bus sighs at the curb. The air smells like wet concrete and coffee grounds and somebody’s cigarette from too far away.

Dennis says, “I was the opposite.” You look over. “Normal?” He snorts. “No. Just… small town normal.” “Nebraska small town normal?” “Very Nebraska small town normal. I would go to school, go back and do my chores before the high school football game. There wasn’t much else to do.” 

You’re smiling up at him while you're walking. You nearly trip over the curb. Dennis catches your elbow automatically, steadying you before you can fully embarrass yourself. His hand stays there for half a second, warm and broad through your sleeve, then he lets go like he’s afraid to assume.

You miss it immediately.

The coffee shop is warm when you step inside. It smells like espresso and vanilla syrup and toasted bagels. A barista with a nose ring calls out a greeting. There are two old men in the corner arguing over a newspaper and a med student-looking person half-asleep over a laptop.

Dennis gestures toward the menu. “What do you want?” “Iced vanilla latte.” “It’s cold out.” You fake shock, “it’s never too cold for iced coffee.” He smiles. “Okay.” You narrow your eyes. “Do not judge my drink order.” “I would never.” “You drink sad bean water at home.” “That feels like a violation of privacy.” “Trinity was right. It tasted like a burnt apology.”

He sighs and steps up to order. He gets your iced vanilla latte without making a single comment about the weather. He gets himself a plain coffee, because apparently some men cannot be saved, and a cinnamon roll you didn’t ask for. When he hands it to you, you blink. “What’s this?” “You looked at it.” “I look at many things.” “You looked at that like you wanted it.” You just stare at him.

The worst part is that he isn’t smug about it. He’s not trying to be smooth. He just noticed. He noticed and bought the cinnamon roll and now he’s standing there with his coffee and his stupid flannel looking like this is normal. You take it. “Thank you,” you say, quieter than you mean to. His face softens. “You’re welcome.”

You sit by the window. For a while, it really does feel like that first date again. But yet different, soft and strange. Like there is more on the line this time. 

Dennis tells you about being the youngest of four boys, which explains more about him than he probably realizes. “Four?” you ask, straw halfway to your mouth. “There are four of you?” “Yeah.” “Your poor mother.”

“She says that a lot.” “You’re the youngest?” He nods. You grin slowly. “Oh, that explains everything.” His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?” “You have the youngest child's energy.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do. You’re quiet enough that people think you’re harmless, but I bet you got away with everything because your brothers were louder.”

Dennis looks into his coffee like it might protect him. “That is not entirely false.” You point at him. “I knew it.” “I didn’t get away with everything.” “Name one crime.” He exhales through his nose, smiling. “I once blamed a broken window on a hailstorm.”

“Was there a hailstorm?” “Two days prior.” You gasp. “Dennis Whitaker.” “I was ten.” “You framed the weather.” “My brothers were impressed.” “I’m impressed.”

His smile goes shy around the edges, and you hate how much you like it.

He tells you about his family slowly at first, then more easily. His brothers. Their wives. Nieces and nephews who climb him like a jungle gym when he goes home. A nephew who once asked if he “fixes dead people” because nobody had explained emergency medicine gently enough. A niece who made him play veterinarian for a stuffed horse with “who broke their leg”

You laugh into your latte. Because it sounds all too familiar to Penny and Tanner. You smile thinking about how good he would be with them and maybe kids of your own someday. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when he says, “I consulted Ortho.” 

“You should have.” “She recovered.” “Good outcome.” His expression warms. “They’re a lot.” “You miss them?” “Yeah,” he says. “I do.” It’s the way he says it that gets you. No performance. No bitterness. Just the truth. He misses them, but he stays here in Pittsburgh anyways. 

You pick at the edge of the cinnamon roll. “Do you ever regret leaving?”

Dennis looks out the window for a second.

“No,” he says eventually. “But sometimes I wish wanting more didn’t feel like leaving people behind.” Something in your chest recognizes that. You look down at your hands. “Yeah,” you say. “I get that.”

Because you do. Skipping a grade felt like leaving people behind. Taking college courses in high school felt like leaving people behind. Going to med school and becoming too busy with rotations and studying causing your relationship to end. Becoming the kind of person who could stand in an OR and hold a drill steady while everybody else panicked had felt, sometimes, like leaving behind every softer version of yourself.

Dennis watches you carefully. “Did it feel lonely?” You look at him. “Did what feel lonely?” “Feeling like you had to grow up so fast.”  You shrug. “Sometimes. I mean, I had Frank. And Abby eventually. And I was busy. Being busy is useful.” “Useful,” he repeats.

“Don’t use your therapist's voice on me.” “I don’t have a therapist voice.” “You absolutely do. A wanna be a theology major voice. Same family.” He laughs softly. “I forgot you knew that.” “I know many things.” “Should I be scared?” “Probably.”

He leans back in his chair, hands around his coffee cup. “I was going to be a pastor for a while, it’s what my family wanted me to do.” “I know.” His brows lift. “You do know many things.” “Dennis, you’re like if a youth group leader got hot and developed a stress ulcer.”

He chokes on his coffee. You smile sweetly. He coughs into his fist, ears red again. “That was violent.” “That was affectionate.” “That was not affectionate.” “It was deeply affectionate.” His eyes flick over your face. “Okay,” he says, softer. The word settles between you.

The conversation slows after that, but it doesn’t die.

It just gets quieter.

He asks about Frank when you were kids. You tell him Frank was bossy even then, that he acted like a third parent before anyone asked him to, that he once threatened a boy in your class for making fun of your name.

Dennis’s expression changes. “Your name?” You groan immediately. “No.” “What?” “Nope.” “June.” “I am not telling you.” He leans forward a little. “You know about my Runza devotion. That’s vulnerable.” “You chose to expose that.” “You know about my weather-related vandalism.” “That was criminal history. Different category.”

He smiles. “What’s your name?” “June.” His look says he knows you’re full of it. You sigh dramatically and stare out the window. “My first name is Eleanor.” Dennis goes very still. You turn back slowly. “Do not.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You thought something.”

“I thought it was pretty.” You make a pained noise. “That’s worse.” “It is pretty.” “It sounds like I should be haunting a lighthouse.” “It sounds classic.” “It sounds like I own a brooch.” “You might.” “I do not own a brooch.” 

“You do own a sourdough starter like it’s a dependent.” “That is different. She is alive.” Dennis smiles. You point at him. “You cannot call me Eleanor.” “I wasn’t going to.” “Ever.” “I won’t.” “Not even in emergencies.” “If you are actively coding, I’ll still call you June.” “Good.”

His smile goes soft again. “Eleanor June Langdon.” You slap your napkin down. “Dennis.” “Sorry.” “You are on thin ice, Nebraska.” He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You end up walking again after coffee. Not anywhere in particular. Just around the block, then down two more, then through a little pocket of farmers market stalls set up along the sidewalk even though it’s not a full market day. Someone is selling early flowers and jam. Someone has bread. Someone has handmade soaps shaped like tiny fruit.

Your whole face lights up before you can stop it. Dennis notices immediately. “Farmers market girl?” You gasp. “Don’t say it like that.” “You are.” “I am a girl who enjoys multiple pleasantries,” you say sarcastically.  

You drift toward a table with sourdough loaves stacked in brown paper sleeves. Dennis follows, smiling like he knows exactly what is happening. You pick up a loaf and inspect the scoring.

“Judging?” he asks. “Respectfully evaluating.” “Looks like judging.” “This ear is beautiful.” “I’m not sure bread has ears.” You stare at him. He raises both hands. “Learning. I’m learning.”

“My sourdough starter could do this. Actually she’d probably do better. " "Her?” “Her name is Mabel.” Dennis opens his mouth. You point at him. He closes it. Smart man.

You buy bread you do not need, two jars of jam, and a small sheet of stickers from a vendor because they have tiny dinosaurs and ocean animals and you’re physically incapable of not thinking about peds patients.

Dennis watches you tuck them carefully into your bag. “For your patients?” “Yeah,” you say. “Kids get scared. Stickers help.” His eyes soften.

You sigh. “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I’m nice.” “You are nice.” “I’m terrifying.” “Both can be true.” You look away because, once again, Dennis Whitaker has said something too honest and now you want to walk into traffic about it.

Your phone rings before you can answer.

You glance down.

Frankie 🧸.

“Oh, no.” Dennis looks over. “What?” “It’s Frank.” “Is that bad?” “It’s always suspicious.” You answer and put the phone to your ear. “Hello?” A beat of silence. Then Frank’s voice comes through, flat and dangerous. “Eleanor June Langdon.” Your whole body recoils. Dennis’s eyebrows shoot up. You close your eyes. “Do not government-name me.”

“Did you forget about your niece and nephew?”

You groan so loudly that a woman at the flower stall looks over. “I did not forget.” “You forgot.” “I remembered adjacent.” “You are walking around buying bread with Whitaker while my children are preparing for emotional abandonment.”

“They are five and two.” “Tanner has asked three times if Aunt June is still coming.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You are so dramatic.” Frank gasps. Actually gasps. “Me?” “Yes, you.” “You slept at your boyfriend’s apartment and then disappeared into the city for a coffee date like a rom-com montage, and I am dramatic?”

Dennis turns bright red. You turn slowly to stare at him. He mouths, Sorry. You mouth, Traitor. Frank continues, “Date night starts at six. Abby has been looking forward to this all week. If you ruin it, I’m telling Penny you hate Bluey.” “You wouldn’t.” “I would.” “You’re a monster.” “I’m a father.” “Same thing.”

Dennis coughs into his fist. Frank hears it. “Is he laughing?” “No.” “Put him on the phone.” “Absolutely not,” you say.  “June.” “I am not putting my boyfriend on the phone so you can threaten him before noon.” Dennis’s face changes instantly at “my boyfriend”. It goes soft and startled and happy in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

Unfortunately, Frank also hears the pause. “Oh my God,” Frank says. “You looked at him weird, didn’t you?” “Goodbye.” “Six o’clock.” “I know.” “Penny wants mac and cheese.” “I know.” “Tanner is in a dinosaur phase.” “He has been in a dinosaur phase since birth.” He laughs. 

“Tell Abby I love her.” “You love Abby more than me.” “Yes.” “Fair.” You hang up.

Dennis is still looking at you, when you put your phone back in your pocket.  You point at him. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You’re smiling.” “I liked hearing it.” You huff. “Hearing what?” “My boyfriend.”

You hate yourself a little for how hot your face gets.

Dennis steps closer, not touching you yet. Just close enough that the farmers market noise seems to blur around the edges. “Is that okay?” he asks. You look up at him. There it is again. That carefulness. That softness that doesn’t feel weak. It feels strong enough not to rush you.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s okay.” His smile is small, but devastating.

Then your phone buzzes.

Frankie 🧸: I know you are making cow eyes at him. Six o’clock.

You groan and show Dennis. Dennis laughs. “Cow eyes?” “He’s obsessed with ruining my life.” “He loves you.” “Same thing.”

By the time Dennis walks you back to your car, the morning has slipped into afternoon without asking permission. You are carrying bread, jam, stickers, an iced coffee you finished twenty minutes ago but refuse to throw away because there is still ice in it, and the uncomfortable realization that you have been happy for several consecutive hours.

At your car, Dennis stops beside you, one hand in his pocket. “Do you want help tonight?” You blink. “With Tanner and Penny?” “Yeah.” “You don’t have to.” “I know.” “They’re chaos.” “I work in the ED.” “They are worse.” Dennis smiles. “I believe you.”

You study him, imagining him sitting cross-legged on Frank’s living room floor while Tanner explains dinosaur triage and Penny accuses him of eating a haunted sock.

Your chest gets soft again which is annoying. 

“You want to meet them in full chaos mode?” “I do.” “That’s brave.” “I have a dinosaur sticker book in my car.” You stare at him. He looks almost embarrassed. “I bought it after coffee. When you were looking at the jam.” “You bought a bribe for Tanner?” “I panicked.” You laugh so hard you have to lean against the car.

Dennis smiles like the sound matters.

“Okay,” you say, still laughing. “Come by after dinner. But if Penny asks if you ate her sock, say no with confidence.” His face turns serious. “Is that likely?” “Extremely.” “No sock crimes. Got it.”

You kiss him before you can overthink it. It’s quick. Soft. A little clumsy because you’re smiling and he freezes for half a second before he catches up. Then he kisses you back. Gentle at first, and then he finds his confidence.

His hand finds your waist and yours curls into the front of his flannel and for one dangerous second you forget you are standing on a public sidewalk with bread in your tote bag and your brother threatening you via text. When you pull back, Dennis looks dazed.

“Cool,” he says. You point at him. “We talked about this.” “Sorry. Reflex.” You laugh all the way into your car.

At 1745, you pull into Frank and Abby’s driveway. Before you even reach the door, Tanner throws it open wearing dinosaur pajamas despite it not being bedtime. “Aunt June!” “Tanner, why are you already in pajamas?” He looks down like this is brand-new information. “Because I’m ready.” “For what?” “Chaos.” Frank appears behind him. “He has been saying that for an hour.”

Penny toddles in behind them, hair in two uneven pigtails, holding one pink sock with the solemnity of a sacred artifact. “June,” she says. “Socky haunted.” You crouch. “Again?” She nods gravely. You take the sock and inspect it. “Definitely haunted.” Frank points at you. “Do not validate that.”

Abby appears in the hallway wearing a dress and earrings, looking pretty and less exhausted than usual. “Oh my God,” you say. “You look hot.” Frank turns toward her immediately, face softening. “She does, doesn’t she?” Abby smiles. “Thank you, June.” “You’re welcome. Frank, you look present.” “Rude.” “You have two children and an ER job. Present is a victory.”

Abby hands you a list. You glance down. “I know the routine.” “I know. This is mostly for Frank’s anxiety.” Frank frowns. “I don’t have anxiety.” Penny raises her haunted sock. “Daddy scared.” You nod. “Daddy is scared.” Frank looks betrayed. “Penny?”

Tanner pulls on your sleeve. “Aunt June, is Dennis coming?” Frank’s head snaps toward you. You freeze. “Who told you about Dennis?” Tanner points directly at Frank.

You slowly turn. Frank looks away. “You talked about my boyfriend to your children?” “I said you had a friend.” Tanner frowns. “You said boyfriend.” Abby presses her lips together, suppressing a laugh. You stare at Frank. Frank clears his throat. “I may have said boyfriend.” Penny gasps. “Boyfren?” You cover your face.

Abby kisses your cheek. “Have fun.” “Coward.” “Yes.”

Frank stops in front of you before they leave.  For a second, all the noise shrinks. “You good?” he asks quietly. You soften despite yourself. “Yeah.”

His eyes move over your face like he’s checking for fractures nobody else can see. Then he nods. “Call if you need anything.” “I’ve babysat before.” “I meant about you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “I know,” you say. “I’m good.” Frank kisses the top of your head fast, like he hopes no one notices, then points at the kids. “Behave.” Tanner salutes. Penny yells, “No!” Frank sighs. “That feels honest.”

The doorbell rings at 1905, after you have just completed an hour of dinosaur hospital. Tanner gasps. “Dennis.” Penny yells, “Boyfren!” You open the door. Dennis stands there holding a grocery bag and looking nervous enough to be presenting to Robby.

“Hi,” he says. You glance at the bag. “What’s that?” “Mac and cheese. The good kind. Fruit snacks. And, uh…” He pulls out the dinosaur sticker book.

You stare at him. Then at the sticker book. Then back at him. “You really brought a child offering.” “I told you. I panicked.”

Tanner pushes past your leg. “Are you Aunt June’s boyfriend?” Dennis’s eyes widen. You bite your lip. “Yes,” Dennis says carefully. “I am.” Tanner studies him. “Are you a bone doctor?” “No, I’m the same type of doctor as your dad.” 

Tanner looks at you. “So less bones?” You nod sadly. “Less bones.” Dennis presses a hand to his chest. “That hurt.”

Penny toddles forward, holding the sock. “Did you eat sock?” Dennis crouches to her level, completely serious. “No. I did not eat the sock.” Penny stares at him. Then nods. “Okay.” You mouth, good job and Dennis looks proud for passing this weird test. 

Dinner is mac and cheese, apple slices, fruit snacks Penny sneaks before anyone can stop her, and Tanner asking Dennis increasingly difficult questions for a five year old.  

After dinner, Dennis helps clean up while you chase Penny down the hallway with pajamas. “No pants!” she yells. “Pants are socially required!” “No!”

Dennis peeks around the corner. “Need help?” You are holding a toddler like a football while she laughs maniacally. “No,” you say, breathless. “I’m winning.” Tanner appears behind Dennis wearing his pajama shirt backward. “Dennis, can you read dinosaur facts?” Dennis looks at you. You nod. “Welcome to the gauntlet.”

Bath time is somehow wetter than medically possible. Penny pours water on Dennis’s shoe. Tanner explains that velociraptors are “basically nurses because they work in teams.” You nearly choke. Dennis says, “That actually tracks.”

By 2030, both kids are clean, pajamaed, and only mildly feral. You text Abby a photo of Tanner showing Dennis a dinosaur book while Penny sits in Dennis’s lap putting stickers on his arm.

You:  he has been accepted by the tiny council. Abby:  Frank just made a noise.

A second later—

Frankie 🧸: Why is my daughter on Whitaker. You: because she has taste. Frankie 🧸: Unclear. You: enjoy your date. Frankie 🧸: Don’t let Tanner negotiate bedtime.

You look over. Tanner is whispering to Dennis. Dennis says, “I don’t think your aunt will agree to 10:30.” You point. “Correct.” Tanner groans.

At 2100, Dennis leaves because he has an early shift, but not before Penny hugs his leg and Tanner gives him one dinosaur sticker “for bravery.” At the door, Dennis looks at you. “You okay?” You smile. “Yeah.” He glances toward the living room, where Tanner is pretending not to eavesdrop behind a pillow.

“I had fun.” “You got interrogated by a five-year-old.” “I stand by my statement.” “You also passed the haunted sock test.” “I studied.” You lean against the doorframe. “Thanks for coming.” “Thanks for letting me.”

You kiss him softly. From the living room, Tanner yells, “EW!” Penny yells, “Boyfren!” Dennis laughs into the kiss. When he leaves, you close the door and turn around. Tanner is standing with his arms crossed. “You kiss him?” “I did.” “Why?” “Because I like him.” He considers this carefully. “More than dinosaurs?” “No.” He nods, satisfied. “Okay.”

By 2130, you are in Tanner’s room with both kids because Penny decided her room was “too scary.” You sit on the bed between them, the storybook open in your lap. Penny is tucked against your side, thumb near her mouth, curls damp from bath time. Tanner is on your other side, head heavy on your arm, one hand still clutching the dinosaur sticker book Dennis brought.

You read three books. Then four. Then half of a fifth because Tanner insists the dinosaur needs closure. Your eyes burn. Your voice gets softer. “And then,” you murmur, barely awake yourself, “the little triceratops realized that sometimes being brave means taking a nap…”

Penny’s breathing evens out first. Then Tanner’s. You mean to move. You really do. But Tanner’s blanket is warm, and Penny’s hand is curled in your shirt, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, your body decides it is safe enough to stop fighting sleep.

When Frank and Abby come home close to midnight, the house is quiet. Frank opens Tanner’s door carefully and then it freezes. Abby peeks over his shoulder. You are asleep in Tanner’s bed, the storybook open across your lap. Tanner is curled against one side of you, Penny tucked against the other, both children completely out. Abby’s face melts. “Oh,” she whispers.

Frank just stands there. For once, he doesn’t make a joke. He takes in the scene. His little sister, asleep and soft. His kids wrapped around you like you’re the safest place in the house.

The same little sister who used to come home furious because people called her Eleanor like it was a weapon. The same little sister who skipped grades and took college courses and pretended being lonely was fine as long as she was busy. The same little sister who grew sharp enough to survive and somehow still carried stickers in her scrubs for scared kids.

Abby nudges him gently. “Don’t wake them.” Frank nods. Then very carefully, he reaches in, takes the book from your lap, and sets it on the dresser. You shift slightly but don’t wake. Penny mumbles, “Sock…” Frank whispers, “Still haunted, baby.”

Abby covers her mouth to keep from laughing. Frank pulls the blanket up over all three of you, slow and careful. Then he stands there another second, just watching.  Abby slips her hand into his. “Is she okay?” she whispers. Frank looks at you. 

He thinks of you breaking in the ED. Thinks of Dennis looking at you like he was afraid to hold you wrong. He thinks of you standing in his kitchen earlier, rolling your eyes at being called Eleanor June Langdon, pretending irritation was easier than admitting you liked being remembered. Thinks of you asleep now, surrounded by people who love you without asking you to earn it.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.  Then, after a beat— “I think she’s getting there.” He turns off the light. The door stays cracked.

And inside, you sleep through it all, one hand still resting on Tanner’s blanket, Penny tucked under your arm, safe in a way you’re finally starting to believe might last.

Sorry this is a little long. But Dennis and June have made up! I hope you all enjoy! We're nearing the end of the series :(