#shark week

He didn’t mean to. Brendon Park really did not mean to bust in on the private staff changing room on you while you were all but naked, save for a lavender lace bra, a pair of purple panties with a bow on the top, and matching compression socks. 

Truly, when he had seen the rest of the team waiting for the go-ahead to scrub-in, he had assumed everyone had already changed, and he’d be free to walk into the room without knocking. 

It had been a great misjudgment, he realized when he heard your yelp as you scrambled to pull clothes up to cover your nearly bare body. He spun on his heel faster than should be humanly possible, reaching his hands up to cover his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve knocked,” the surgeon muttered, suddenly sounding a lot less self-assured than usual. “I’ll wait outside.”

You nod to his back, despite knowing that he can’t see you, and your cheeks burn as you hide behind the dark blue fabric of your scrubs. You silently pray that the ground will open and devour you whole as he slips out of the changing room.

“Fucking hell,” you breathe, swallowing the lump of embarrassment that forms heavy in your throat, threatening to pull tears from your eyes. You push it down, stomp it out like the last embers of a fire, and refuse to let the familiar feeling of shame consume you.

You slink from the room three minutes later, the navy operating room scrubs firmly on your body now, and don’t make eye contact with the orthopedic surgeon as you walk past him, ignoring the way your shoulders brush for the briefest of moments. You hear him sigh, but do your best to forget the way his face looked when taking in your bare body. It makes your chest ache, but there is a periacetabular osteotomy coming up for surgery in twenty minutes, and the last thing you’re going to do is stew in embarrassment instead of focusing on a patient.

Brendon groans when the door to the changing room closes, his head falling back so he can stare at the ceiling and curse himself. Just when the two of you had been managing somewhat of a friendship, he had to go and fuck it up.

The sight of your blushing cheeks lingers in his mind as he changes into his surgical scrubs, entirely stuck on the image of you flustered in your underwear.

God, this was going to be a long surgery.

“Screw three,” you murmur softly, passing the titanium screw to Brendon, his gloved fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. 

“Positioning seems stable,” he says clearly, after checking the work of the residents. “Get the next angle started.” When the doctors lean in to adjust the retractors, Brendon’s eyes drift back across the operating table, locking straight onto you. 

Your cheeks flush underneath your surgical mask, and you silently hope that he can’t see the redness that is likely spreading down your neck, too. You can’t help but squirm at his gaze, despite shaking your head once in an effort to regain focus on the procedure in front of you. 

Unprofessional. This was entirely unprofessional. Dropping your head, you make work adjusting the forceps that sit on the instrument tray, lining them up to be perfectly straight despite the slight tilt of them having no effect on the surgery.

The moment kept replaying in your mind. The door opening, your squeal, the way your cheeks had burned, embarrassment flaring heavy in your chest at the idea of your superior seeing you in such a crude form. You were finally making headway with the surgeon, having broken past the walls that seemed to be impenetrable, and had come to realize the teeth Brendon bore when anyone new came close were just a posture, but your chest tightened at the backpedaling that would, no doubt, happen as a result of this morning. 

You’d purposely waited until you saw all of your coworkers prepped for the operation to go into the changing room, which was nothing out of the ordinary. You preferred the privacy of getting to change alone, and you didn’t like to overanalyze the fact that the preference no doubt came from some deep-seated insecurity. 

Unfortunately, with the events that had transpired, you were left with no choice but to stew in those emotions. There was no doubt in your mind that Brendon was replaying the same thing in his mind. Your nearly-naked body, your wide eyes, the way you’d scrambled to press clothes to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. Chewing on your bottom lip underneath your mask, you ponder the optics of quitting your job and slipping downstairs to blend in with the ER nurses.

Across the table, Brendon shifts his grip on the instrument, but the movement does nothing to quell the sudden heaviness in his hands. Six years. He’s been a surgeon for six years. Has led thousands of operations and had no trouble focusing on any of them. Yet here he is, performing a periacetabular osteotomy, a notoriously demanding surgery, struggling to stay even half-concentrated at the open pelvis in front of him. Every time he tries to recenter his thoughts, his mind flicks back to the image of you just four hours ago. Caught off-guard, flushed, breathless, and maddeningly distracting. 

“Focus.” He orders the residents, his tone clipped, and there is no doubt in Brendon’s mind that he is projecting. 

You scrub your arms harshly, methodically getting every sud of surgical soap off of them. The tick of the clock above you is the only sound in the sanitation area, and you let out a relieved sigh when you read the time: 5:23. Only an hour and forty minutes of hiding from Brendon to go before you are free to rush home for a girls’ night with Yolanda and Trinity.

You keep your head down when you hear the door behind you swing open, eyes trained on the soap suds sliding down the sink drain. You can tell exactly who it is by the sound of his black shoes against the ground. Your pulse spikes.

Brendon’s voice breaks the silence, softer than the tone he usually speaks in, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you mutter, your attention stuck on the feeling of the cool water running over your fingers. “Good case. Positioning looked nice.”

“Yeah, it did,” he says, taking one big step towards the sink next to yours. Instead of turning on the tap to wash his hands, he reaches over and turns yours off, the water halting.

You freeze, hands dripping, as you look up at him and breathe a resigned sigh.

The surgeon leans against the counter, and you feel like his intense gaze could burn you to ash. You feel like the room is buzzing, and you’re surprised when you catch your own nervousness reflected in Brendon. He rubs the back of his neck with one huge hand.

“Can I talk to you about something?” he asks, his voice steady despite the tension.

Your stomach flips, and you can’t help but stammer, “If it’s about what happened this morning-”

“It is,” Brendon interrupts, a small smile threatening to form on his lips, though it almost seems like he’s embarrassed. “We need to talk about it.”

You squirm, hands dropping to your sides. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought everyone was done changing, and I just wanted to have some privacy. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

“You don’t need to apologize for what I saw. There wasn’t anything wrong with the sight.” He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just want to tell you that I am sorry for barging in without warning. I apologize for putting you in that position.”

You swallow, and you feel like you’re burning up, as he adds, “Let’s leave it behind us, okay?”

“No, it’s so bad, Yo.” You groan, letting your head fall back on the couch behind you once Trinity fills up your wine glass for the second time tonight.

“Park’s a weirdo.” She murmurs as she sinks down onto the floor beside her girlfriend, and you note the way Yolanda leans into the resident doctor, glad the two of them have finally come to their senses.

“You should have seen the look on his face. It was fucking awful. He looked like he was seeing a rotting corpse, I swear. His mouth opened, and he covered his eyes, and it was horrible,” you pout, reaching for your wine glass in a desperate but feeble attempt to nudge the embarrassment away.

“You’re the most dramatic person ever,” Yolanda tuts, hitting your shoulder lightly. “Your perception is seriously off. You’re hot. Brendon’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid. I’m sure he was just caught off guard."

“You’re just being nice,” you’re sulking, and you know it, but you can’t seem to stop the words from falling from your lips.

“Oh, you’re such a bitch,” Trinity groans lightheartedly, rolling her eyes. “We’re gay. We know when women are hot.”

“But it’s different with him,” you huff, taking a sip of your wine. “I don’t know why, it just is. It was so embarrassing. He kept looking at me during the surgery, and I got bright red. And then he cornered me when I was washing my hands, and I was stuck there.”

You pick at the corner of the carpet, “I thought we were finally friends and then this happens and I fuck it all up like a goddamned idiot.”

 “How is him walking in on you naked you fucking up?” Yolanda presses, clearly the least intoxicated of the three of you. “I’m serious. He didn’t knock. He walked in on you. He made things awkward. The only issues I’m seeing here are because of him.” 

“I don’t know,” you grumble, your throat feeling tight despite the firmness with which you try to will the tears away. “I just feel dumb. I keep thinking of his face. His dumb face and his big hands covering his eyes.”

“Oh my god, listen to yourself,” Trinity groans, her palm coming up to slap her forehead. “I don’t know how one person can be so smart and so stupid at the same time.”

“She’s right,” Yolanda agrees with a sigh, shrugging. “I’ve tried to tell you like three different times. Brendon’s a jackass, but he likes you. Genuinely. He gets all awkward around you. It makes him the tiniest bit less insufferable.”

“He does not!” You exclaim, taking a gulp of the red liquid in your glass. “You’re being stupid.” But your words get quiet, and you let yourself think over the last month of interactions you’ve had with the intimidating surgeon. 

Like that time he brought you coffee and somehow managed to get your overly complicated order right, even though he hadn't asked. Like when you’d quietly asked him for ibuprofen for a migraine during the third day of a four-day stretch, only to be lying in bed that night when you discovered someone had silently wiped the rest of your shifts off the schedule. Like the time he’d gone up to administration with you after you’d confided in him that you’d worked two days of overtime and hadn’t been paid properly for them. He’d argued on your behalf when Gloria had talked over you, and you’d been shocked to see a message from him that afternoon that read “The situation is handled. Your money should be there by the end of the week.”

You chew your bottom lip, eyes wide, when you ask Yolanda, “Are you sure?” 

“A thousand percent,” she nods. “He’s probably just mad at himself for crossing a boundary without permission, even if it was an accident.” “You really think that?” You question again, and Trinity grabs your phone from the coffee table, shoving it towards your face so it unlocks.

“He’s obsessed with you, dude.” She says, eyes glancing over your screen as she searches for Brendon’s contact.

You see her smirk when she reads some of the messages, cheeks heating as she types, “Here, send him this.”

Question: I’m going on a date on Saturday and wondered if you could give a man’s opinion on what to wear? I’d ask Yolanda, but I feel like gay women have different tastes than straight men LMAO. I just want to impress him.

“That sounds so unlike me,” your nose scrunches as you read the message, finger hovering over the send button.

“It’s fine,” Yolanda assures, looking at the message from over your shoulder. “You can take a picture of our wine if he responds weirdly. Pretend you’re drunk and not just a little tipsy.”

“Fine,” you reply, and on the same exhale, you click send. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gasping softly when you see three dots appear and then disappear, before a message from Brendon finally shows up.

You’ll impress him in anything you wear. You could wear what you had on at work, and he’d be pleased, I’m sure.

“Wait, why the fuck is he responding like that?” You shriek, popping onto your knees as you shove your phone into Santos and Garcia’s faces. “Why’d he say that?”

“I told you,” Yolanda groans, “You’re oblivious, and he likes you.”

“Well, what do I say?” You chew on your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, what about this?”

The scrubs or the panties?

“Good lord,” Trinity chuckles, “Give the girl two glasses of wine, reassurance, and some encouragement and she becomes bold.”

“Shut up,” you huff, and hit send before you can overthink the message. Your hands tremble.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Yolanda gapes, covering her eyes as she takes your phone into her hands.

Brendon’s message sits clear against the background of your chat, and your mouth falls open at the words.

I think I’d need a picture of them so I can refresh my memory. For accuracy’s sake.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you breathe, your face flaming red, stomach fluttering as you read and reread the text. “Looks like the shark found himself some prey,” Santos grins, lifting her wine glass to clink it against your own.