renabout

“Have my med students kidnapped you” a part of him relished the way everyone in the group but you jumped a little at his voice, their immediate reaction to try and hide the beer as if they had been caught doing something wrong.

All except you who grinned up at him from the bench, tilting your neck back eagerly to give him a quick kiss in greeting with a hum of approval. “Kidnap? Please, I think I could take them”

Mel’s head tilted slightly to the side as if trying to figure out whether you were joking or not while Javadi’s eyes go wide and bounce rapidly between the two of you still trying to figure out if she was somehow going to get in trouble for this.

It was Whitaker who pipped up to fill the silence “Well Santos knows Krav Maga”

You looked at the intern with a raised brow, watching as she tried to bite down and hide her proud smirk behind her can. “That’s okay she’d be on my side”

“Damn right I would” she responded immediately, clinking her can against yours in a toast as you chuckled.

“Well now that your white knight is here what do you say we head home” he cut in putting a hand on your shoulder and giving it a soft squeeze.

“And that kiddies is my cue” You gave a dramatic groan as you stood up, raising your can in front of you to address them “to my favorite doctors in all of PTMC who work under Dr. Abbot” you gave a pause for dramatic effect “who I am incredibly proud of and did amazing work today”

Javadi gave a snort at that “you weren’t even here to verify that”

“Oh those weren’t my words” you assured her quickly “those came directly from Jack”

“Now hold on” he tired to interject but you steamrolled ahead.

“Goes on constantly about how proud he is of you guys”

“Wait a second”

“How you are the best residents he’s ever had”

“I certainly didn-“

“And that you’re all getting raises”

Jack tried to swallow back the chuckle that ruminated in his chest “And with that we are leaving”

You chuckled fondly at him, Jack beyond powerless to do anything but smile softly back at you.

“Alright I will see you all…probably fairly soon you’re kinda stuck with me now”

Mel pipped up just as you started to retreat “we’re still on for Friday right?”

“Yes” You responded eagerly, making your way over to Jack and not hesitating to take his hand in yours, giving the fingers a reassuring squeeze “your sister’s okay with it right?”

“Of course she is she likes you” Mel rolled her eyes like it was obvious only making your grin widen.

“Good I like her too. But I wanted to check. You can’t just crash a King sister tradition without checking” Pulling softly on his arm you started to lead Jack away from the benches, still calling out back behind you “text me if she doesn’t want me to come, no hurt feelings got it?”

Mel gave you a thumbs up in response, you just about to finally turn around and leave with Jack before Whitaker called out again.

“Goodbye Mrs.A-“

“Whittaker you finish that sentence I’ll sic Santos on you”

And finally, finally Jack had you all to himself. A comfortable silence falling over the two of you as you started to make the familiar trek home.

“You’ve met King’s sister?”

“You haven’t?”

And all Jack could do was laugh because of course you have. Of course you knew all about how she spent her time outside of work. Of course you had gotten yourself invited to their family tradition.

But still his mind was stuck on one particular part of that conversation. Unable to stop himself from asking even as he felt he shouldn’t. “Have you ever thought about it? Being Mrs. Abbot”

“Of course” you answered so quickly, so thoughtlessly, as if those two words hadn’t made his heart stutter in his chest “that’s why its written in pink glitter pen on every page of my diary”

And maybe you noticed the way his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes, or the way his laugh didn’t live in his chest as it normally did, but something made you pause before giving a more honest answer.

“Yeah I’ve thought about it”

He let the answer hang for a bit, let you enjoy yourself watching him squirm before he spoke “and?”

Like he knew you would you grinned back at him. Giving your interlocked hands a little swing “and I think I could go either way”

“Really?” he asked with a raised brow “you have no opinions?”

You shrugged in response “I think I’ve decided my priority is you.”

And truthfully he didn’t know what to say to that. In all the ways he had envisioned this conversation going, all the possible answers you could have given that was not one he had prepared for.

“I like what we have going” you shrugged, giving his hand a soft squeeze “we’re good. I like the idea of making it official, I don’t need it though” And finally you looked up at him, a soft smile on your lips, nothing short of complete devotion in your eyes “at the end of the day I’m going to spend my life with you Jack Abbot and there’s nothing you can do about it”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of him, the kind that rumbled deep in his chest, as he forced the two of you to stop, an action you didn’t seem at all surprised by.

He brought his palm up to cup your cheek, fingers threading lazily though the hair behind your ear as he rubbed softly back and forth on your skin, taking a moment to truly look at you, appreciate the beauty of the person he was so unfathomably lucky to call his. “You promise?”

“For you my dearest Jack Rabbit” you declared with a grin, going up onto your toes until your nose touched his, finishing on a whisper “I vow it”

-

“You know you two aren’t being subtle” Jack hadn’t even bothered to look up as he said it, had in fact spent the better part of the day avoiding their gaze as much as possible.

“Well I wasn’t going for subtle. Dana?” Robby stated matter-of-factly, glancing over at his charge nurse as he said it.

“I was going for overt” she shrugged.

And Jack knew exactly what their expressions would before he looked up, could guess the mixture of barely contained mirth and disappointment that would paint their features without needing to confirm.

“Well if you could keep your overt stares to yourselves that would be great”

“What is it Jackie-boy is it the ring?” Dana ignored him, leaning forward onto her forearms from across from him, bending down and seeking his gaze just as he usually did with people “I told you the ring’s perfect. It matches all of the stuff she already has well”

“No it’s not the ring” Jack cut her off with an annoyed look, keeping his head pointed down at the charting he had abandoned long ago “now if you excuse me some of us have a job to do”

“Well if not the ring then what?” Robby jumped in, mirroring Dana’s stance as he did so, the two doing their best to present a unified front, a fact that almost had Jack chuckling despite himself “You know when I told you she was too good for you I was mostly joking”

With a dramatic sigh Jack finally straightened and looked at the two across the desk from him, resigning himself to the fact that there was no escaping this conversation for much longer “no it’s not-“

“Dr. Abbot” Mel King his saving grace appeared next to him effectively catching the attention of all three of them, Jack more than happy to distract himself with whatever case she needed him on than withstand anymore grilling from his two so-called friends.

“Yes Dr. King”

“I just wanted to ask if-“ and he spoke too soon.

“No” Jack effectively cut off the line of questioning, turning back to his chart physically putting an end to the conversation

“But I just think that-“ Mel tried again

“No”

“Have you considered-“

“Still no”

“Dr. Abbot” Robby finally cut in, raising a brow at his friend as he put on his best teacher voice that only succeeded in pulling an eye roll from Jack “I’m not sure if you’re aware but this is a teaching hospital”

“It sure is” Jack responded in a similar tone “and teaching is exactly the thing I would love to be able to do today but thanks to some of us who have decided to be nosey and ‘overt’” he pointedly glared at the two of them “the rest of the staff have gotten it in their heads that they should get to be there when I propose”

And though he hoped that would be enough to get everyone back to work Jack was never that lucky, Robby immediately jumping in with “so it is for sure a when not an if then”.

Jack only glared at his friend, pointedly ignoring the shit-eating grin he wore as he stared unflinchingly back, Mel deciding this was the perfect opportunity to plead her case again “I just think that when it happens I-“

“Okay everyone listen up” Jack cut her off with a loud clap of his hands, effectively pulling the attention of anyone in the center of the ED.

“Dr. Abbot” Dana tried to call his attention, but he steamrolled ahead.

“I’m only going to say this once”

“Jack” Dana tried again as Jack once again pointedly ignored her.

“It will be done in private, just the two of us, at a time when I feel it is right alright?” He challenged the ED with a raised brow, his audience, despite his words, looking almost giddy before him.

“Sweetheart” Dana again tried to cut him off but Jack was too deep into his speech now.

“I appreciate your help with the ring and everything you all have done for the two of us but you need to stop pushing”

At this Dana had no more to say, little more than a deep sigh coming from the nurse as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter behind her.

“When I propose it will be on my own terms got it?”

The ED went silent around him, his students eyes wide as they did little more than stare up at him with rapt attention confusing Jack slightly.

“When you what”

Jack froze. He knew that voice. He knew that voice all too well. And even if he didn’t one look at the shit-eating grin on Robby’s face was more than enough to confirm it.

Jack spun in place quicker than his feet could really keep up to see you standing just a few feet behind him, frozen in place staring back at him with a wide-eyed gaze making Jack curse under his breath.

For the longest time no one said anything, the two of you frozen before one another as Jack’s head desperately reached for absolutely anything to say, finally settling on a defeated “what are you doing here”

“When you propose?” And God help him the way your lips twitched up at the corners as you said it made him nearly melt on the spot, Jack unable to fight the smile from growing on his lips in response as he took a few steps closer to you until he was almost chest to chest.

“Okay fine yes, when” he conceded with a soft chuckle, stooping his head slightly to fully meet your gaze as he drove his next point home “which is not this moment”

“But it’s going to happen?” Your question came back quick, your smile quickly growing to a full on grin that Jack wanted to be exasperated at. It would’ve been so much easier to shut down this conversation if he could remain stoic but the unbridled glee in your eyes had his resolve crumbling.

“In the future yes but I cannot stress this enough, not right now”

“Yes I say yes, or I will say yes” you eagerly grabbed at his forearms as the words all but spilled out of you. Jack helpless against the warmth that radiated within his chest at the action, his hands reaching forward to grab your face between them as a laugh threatened to bubble out of him.

“I am not proposing right now”

You all but ignored him, pulling his hands off your face but keeping them captured in your own as you continued on “have you already bought a ring? Can I see it?”

You were like a dog after a treat, oh so eager to barrel on ahead despite everything and Jack was finding it much too hard to be mad about it “I don’t have it on me because I refused to get engaged in the Pitt while I’m in scrubs”

And finally you seemed to properly take in the scene around you, the florescent lights ahead, the beep of machines all around you, the much too eager eyes of his coworkers who watched the scene before them unfold with rapt attention. “Alright fine”

Jack nearly sagged in relief at that, glad you were finally seeing things from his point of view before you cut him off again.

“But can I see it when we get home?”

A shocked laugh spilled out of the man as he shook his head, raking an exasperated hand over the lower half of his face “will you let me do it properly? Get on one knee, recite a speech I’ll pretend I didn’t spend hours writing. The whole nine yards” Never in his life did he think he would have to beg his fiancé to let him properly propose.

You pretended to think it over, the grin on your face telling him you were getting entirely too much enjoyment out of torturing him like this “Can we do dinner first? My favorite restaurant?”

He rolled his eyes at your response, unable to fight the fond smile from his lips as he did so “this isn’t a negotiation”

But you only stared up at him through your lashes, bottom lip pinned between your teeth, and Jack was putty in your hands, throwing  out the last resemblance of a plan he had with a sigh “we have reservations this weekend”

He barely got the words out before you were wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your lips up against his, Jack grinning happily into the kiss as he pulled you by the waist deeper into him, finding that he didn’t much mind this part of this catastrophe of a proposal.

But like usual the ED chimed in at the perfect time, an abrupt cheer from his friends around him pulling the two of you apart as you were swarmed by his med students, the kids eagerly pulling you into their own set of congratulatory hugs.

But with a grin like that on your face Jack still found he couldn’t be too mad about it.

A hand clapping his shoulder pulled Jack’s attention away from the excited conversation happening between you and his students, Robby sliding up next to him with a smug smile on his face “You know I’m honored you’d want me here today to witness-“

Dana, however, as she normally does, knew better, a look shared between the two women as she stayed silent and instead focused on Jack, the man himself having not moved his gaze from your form for a second.

Pinching your shirt at the waist softly he gave it a small tug, physically pulling your attention back to him as his eyes scanned your face “is it that headache you had the other night? Is it back? I can bump you up the CT line”

“Honey” you cut him off with that small laugh that always had his chest warming “I promise I’m fine I texted you like an hour ago to meet me in the parking lot, you just forgot your lunch”

He could physically feel the relief hit his system at your words, his shoulders dropping as he finally took a deep breath, his next words tumbling off his tongue before he could put any thought to them “you didn’t have to-“

But just as he knew you would, you cut him off with a shrug and the same words you always used when he tried to dodge being taken care off “I know but I wanted to”

He couldn’t have fought the fond smile off his face if he had tried, something he knew he was going to get shit over from Dana and inevitably Robby later. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here have you been waiting long?”

“No I’ve been talking to Dana” And it was so entirely you the way you stated it like it was obvious. As if this little act of kindness in going out of your way to get him food hadn’t hijacked your entire morning. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to pull you into him, barely registering the way you pivoted back to Dana at the mention of her name.

“A conversation we absolutely will be finishing” spoken like a threat that had the charge nurse chuckling, “drinks later? Location and time TBD?”

“Sounds good kid”

And maybe it was a little selfish of him to want you just to himself in that moment, to pull you out of the Pitt to get even just two minutes of you alone. But Jack had found over the past year that he liked being selfish when it came to you “Oh and Langdon was looking for you earlier if you haven’t seen him yet”

“You spoke to Langdon too” he’ll admit to only faking part of the exasperation in his tone that had you giggling.

“He’s got a new puppy” you protested with a grin “what was I supposed to do? Not ask to see photos”

“You’re right ridiculous question” he conceded easily, “now aren’t you supposed to be at work”

And Jack relished the way he knew what your exact reaction would be seconds before you made it, the way your eyes widened almost comically before you reached for his arm, pulling his watch specifically into your line of sight, Jack using the momentum to press a quick kiss to your temple before he could think any better of it.

“Shit I’m gonna be late” You groaned softly, Jack chuckling at the action.

“I mean it, you didn’t have to bring my lunch in today”

“Please we both know you wouldn’t eat anything if I hadn’t” you brushed him off thoughtlessly before brightening and exclaiming “oh before I forget”. Suddenly you were pulling back from him, reaching deeply into your bag and rummaging slightly before pulling out a fistful of protein bars “give these to Dennis”

“To Dennis” he repeated with a raised brow as you pushed them into his chest.

“Yeah Dennis, well except for the chocolate ones”

“You want me to give these to my med student” he repeated with another exasperated sigh.

Again you responded exactly like he hoped you would, a giggle and a teasing push against his chest “yes except for the chocolate ones he doesn’t like those he likes the fruit ones. He won’t tell you that though, he’ll gladly take them all but he’s just being nice about it because he doesn’t want to offend you”

He couldn’t help but appreciate how well you seemed to fit into his life. How you’d forged relationships with each member of the Pitt’s team that existed wholly outside of him. It was tough now to believe there existed a time when he had been hesitant to introduce you to the chaos of the Pitt given how you now had seemed to adopt each member of his chosen family on your own.

His train of thought was effectively cut off as he watched your gaze suddenly deviate from him to something behind him, the corner of your mouth ticking up as you took one of the bars back from his grasp and yelled across the room “Dennis”

The poor kid looked terrified for a brief moment as he spun around before breaking out into a relieved grin once his eyes landed on you.

That was all the acknowledgement you needed before you were throwing the bar at him, Whittaker to his credit only looking panicked for a brief moment before he was effortlessly catching the bar, grinning down at his new snack appreciatively once he had it “Thank you Mrs. Abbot”

“Not my name” you corrected breezily with a wave “but bug Jack if you want more I’m giving him the rest”

“Great now if you’re done upsetting the natural order of my ED don’t you have work to get to” Jack cut in with fake exasperation.

“Natural order of the Pitt” you scoffed “that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one”

Your comment had Dana snorting as she didn’t even bother to try hiding the fact that she had been eavesdropping on your conversation up to this point.

“Yeah yeah now get out of here” he rolled his eyes with a fond smile “one of us has to make sure our bills our paid this month”

“I’m going I’m going” you groaned with a matching eye roll, pushing up slightly onto your toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling away much too quickly for Jack’s liking with a whispered I love you.

Then you were gone, headed back the way you came leaving nothing but the soft scent of your perfume in the air around him as Jack forced his eyes down to the chart in his hands, pointedly ignoring Dana’s gaze.

Just when he thought he was going to be trapped in the inevitable teasing of his charge nurse Dr. King came running up to the station, Jack more than happy to turn his attention to her and ready to distract himself with whatever case had her moving so fast.

Instead, however, Mel’s expression with brimming with barely contained excitement, her gaze searching everywhere around Jack but never properly landing on the man himself “Was that Y/N I heard? Is she here?”

With a disbelieving huff, Jack went back to his chart “you just missed her”

“No she’s by the door with Robby” Dana cut in with a smile, enjoying the way Jacks neck nearly snapped as he whipped his gaze across the ED to where you now stood with Robby, talking animatedly about something while the older man listened with  a smile on his face and hands in his pockets, looking much more relaxed than the two of them usually saw him within the department.

Mel peeled off without a second word to either of them, the pair watching the way your expression lit up once more as you recognized her as she approached.

“You gonna correct that” Dana nodded vaguely in your direction, her and Jack leaning onto the counter of the nurse’s station from opposite sides watching you give Mel an enthusiastic high five over whatever story she had rushed over to tell you.

“Probably talk to everyone at some point” Jack shrugged in response “the Pitt can’t afford to come to a screeching halt every time she so much as walks in the doors”

“No dumbass” Dana admonishes with a dramatic groan “it’s good the way everyone brightens up when she’s here. God knows we could use some positivity around here. I mean Whitaker’s comment about the wrong name”

“I mean she’s already told him to call her by her first name but I could talk to him-“

Dana silenced Jack with a glare, the attending turning his attention back to you from across the room as you eagerly talked to Mel and Robby.

“Was thinking about asking Robby to go ring shopping with me this weekend” he admitted softly “Scale of 1-10 how bad of an idea is that”

“Not where I thought this story was going but love is love so I support-“ now it was Jack’s turn to silence Dana with a glare, the charge nurse enjoying way too much the way the tips of his ears colored at the admission.

“a seven” she mused with a shrug, turning her attention back to you as you finally said goodbye to the two doctors “maybe a six” she let the silence settle around them and watched as Jack eyed her with a skeptical glare from her periphery “invite me along and I can keep it below a three”

Jack studied her for a second, crossing his arms over his chest before nodding softly “done”

Dana fought to keep the grin off her face as Robby finally started to make his way towards the two of them, Jack catching him slipping an awfully familiar looking protein bar into the pocket of his sweatshirt “Jesus how many of those does she have”

Robby shrugged with a chuckle, eyes casting up to the board above the desk as he did so “she mentioned something about having extra chocolate ones”

“I saw her slipping Santos bags of trail mix earlier if you’d prefer that” Dana chimed in with a smirk as Jack huffed dramatically.

“did everyone get to talk to her but me this morning?”

“You get her every day, stop being so selfish” Robby clasped his shoulder with a smug grin, giving it a soft shake.

 “Selfish” Jack repeated under his breath with a shake of his head, eyes going up to the board to pick out his next case as he did so “god forbid I want to spend time with my future wife”

He hadn’t even realized he said it out loud until the Pitt around him seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Casting his gaze back down he caught Robby and Dana sharing pointed, amused looks before turning their teasing grins back on him.

And now, a few days before his nameday, you sat by the window of your chamber, the despair growing in your chest as you stared at the disaster in your lap.

“You were supposed to be ferocious.” You informed the dragon accusingly.

Maekar was not cruel, but he was proud. A severe warrior prince. You could not imagine presenting him with this crooked little monstrosity without dying of shame the moment he looked at it.

But, you wanted him to have something from you. Something made because you thought of him while making it. 

The sound of boots outside your chambers startled you from your thoughts. Your heart lurched and too late, you tried to hide the handkerchief as the door opened.

Maekar stepped inside still dressed from training, silver hair damp at the temples, shirt opened at the neck. There was always something imposing and beautiful about him after sparring. His gaze landed immediately on you, then narrowed at the linen in your lap.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Nothing.” You said, standing and hiding the cloth instinctively around your back.

“It does not look like nothing.” He said, coming closer.

“It is an ugly, unfinished project, my love.” You attempted to dissuade him.

Heat crawled up your neck as you felt his gaze on you like a touch. You could still save yourself, you thought. You could say that it was practice, a gift for one of his children. 

You hesitated too long, and his eyes sharpened immediately.

“It is for you…” You admitted finally, sighing. “I… tried to make something for your nameday.”

His expression shifted into something more attentive and somewhat warmer. You suddenly wished even more desperately that the dragon did not resemble a dying bird.

“It was supposed to be better than this.” You rambled quickly. “I wanted to make something nice, but halfway through I realized it looked ridiculous and I thought perhaps it would offend you! So I decided not to-”

Maekar simply held out his hand.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“The handkerchief.” He stated simply. “Give it to me.”

“No!” You said, mortification washed over you instantly. 

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you will look at it.”

“That is generally what one does with things, wife.”

“But it is terrible! Simply dreadful! I cannot give it to you.”

“I have survived worse.” He grunted. “Now give it here.”

You stared at him suspiciously for a long moment before finally surrendering the linen.

Maekar unfolded it carefully. There was silence, absolute, unbearable silence as his eyes moved slowly across the embroidery. Once, twice, then again, his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second. The shape made very little sense to him. It was clearly something, or perhaps several somethings in red thread.

He turned the handkerchief slightly sideways. There was a neck, he was sure of it, curved at such an unnatural angle it looked broken. And there were leaves, or flames, he was not certain. Then, he turned it upside down, which somehow made it worse because now it looked like a damned crab.

Gods, a battlefield map might have been easier to decipher. 

“What in Seven Hells is this?” He finally asked.

Mortification flooded through you like a crashing wave.

“It is supposed to be a dragon…” You mumbled weakly. “I tried to stitch the sigil of your house, my love.”

At that, Maekar looked back down at the embroidery. Then back at you, and slowly back at the embroidery again. Now that he knew what to look for, he recognised the shape. One of the heads was noticeably larger than the others, while the other appeared to be stuck in permanent outrage. The third looked exhausted by the entire situation. If he were truly honest, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon resembled three deeply offended snakes.

Maekar continued staring, and then, to your absolute horror, a sharp snort escaped him.

“Oh, you are cruel.” You gasped in betrayal.

“I did not say anything.” He attempted to regain some composure and control of the situation.

“But you laughed!” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

Scoffing, he looked back at the dragon once more. “Becuase the heads look personally insulted by their own existence." 

“Or maybe it is because the dragon knows you are mocking it!” You said dramatically, glaring at the offending fabric through your fingers.

Another snort escaped him before he could stop it.

“Maekar!” Your eyes widened in scandalised outrage, before declaring miserably. “It is horrible! I know it! And now you know it too!”

“I did not fucking say anything like that.” Maekar replied, sounding truly exasperated now.

“But you looked at it in silence for nearly a minute! And then you laughed!”

“I did it because it required examination.”

“It is an embroidery, not a strategy for the battlefield.”

That finally broke him and a real laugh escaped him this time. You looked at him in utter betrayal. His gaze dropped back to the dragon, thumb brushing once over the crooked red stitching.

“You made this yourself…” It was not a question.

You nodded reluctantly, warmth settling in your chest at his somewhat soft tone.

“For me.” Maekar looked at you then and something unreadable lingered in his expression. It was not softness, but it was dangerously close.

“No one has ever made me a dragon before.” He said quietly.

Your throat tightened, the words landing heavier than anything else in the room.

“It is still a bad one.” You whispered. “It is not what you deserve, my love.”

“But it is mine.” He said firmly. “Just as you are mine, wife.”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer, finger warm against your jaw as he tilted your chin upward. You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.

Maekar kissed like he did everything else, deliberate and thorough. His warmth surrounded you completely, as he drew you closer, hand tightened gently against your jaw and hips firm against yours. When a low moan escaped you, something in him shifted. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the kiss deepening at once.

It was possessive in that devastating way that made your heart stumble painfully in your chest.

His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw and neck, as though soothing you even while he kissed you harder. And the contrast nearly undid you entirely. You could feel the restraint in him, the effort to remain under control. Yet the unmistakable hunger and affection lived underneath, wrapped tightly beneath all that iron self-control.

When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours. Your annoyance dissolved completely, leaving only warmth and the dizzy awareness of how closely he was still holding you.

“You did not need to hesitate to give me your gift…” He said quietly.

You sighed. “I thought you might be offended...”

“I am not easily offended.”

Maekar’s thumb brushed once against your cheek before he released you entirely. He looked down at the handkerchief again. Then, with a finality that brooked no argument, he folded it carefully and gave it back to you.

“You will finish it.” He said simply.

“Even if it looks like that?”

“Yes.” He grunted. “I intend to keep it.”

And this time, when he looked at you again, there was something quieter in his gaze. Something that suggested he meant more than just the dragon.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Maekar would keep the handkerchief privately. Maybe tucked away in a chest somewhere, or hidden among his things. Instead, he carried it with him. Not openly or proudly, afterall Maekar was not the sort of man who displayed sentiment for the world to admire. But it was constant enough that you began noticing flashes of cream linen and crooked red stitching everywhere. 

And it was not just you. 

No one dared question him directly at first, because your husband’s presence discouraged any foolishness naturally. Unfortunately, that did not apply to every knight. When one squinted openly at the fabric and remarked if it actually was a dragon, Maekar looked sharply at him.

“Concern yourself with your swordsmanship. Leave dragons to House Targaryen.” He said threateningly.

You wanted simultaneously to kiss him and disappear into the floor.

When a courtier, one of those men who thrived on false smiles and subtle mockery, remarked lightly that it was an “unusual interpretation” of the royal sigil, humiliation rose instantly in your throat. But Maekar looked at him, with a cold anger that suddenly made the air feel thinner.

“Careful.” The single word cut through like a blade. The courtier paled immediately.

“It was made by my wife.” Maekar said evenly. “And I would advise you to be careful how amusing you find that.”

The courtier attempted a weak smile. “I intended no insult, your Grace.”

“And yet you continue insulting me with your presence. Fuck off!” He growled.

You stared at him, and for a brief moment, his hand grasped yours firmly. The warmth of it lingered long after.

Then came Aegon, who unlike others, did not mock your little dragon. When he wandered one evening into Maekar’s solar, he noticed the handkerchief beside the candlelight, and picked it up curiously.

“Father, why does it look like that?” He asked bluntly. 

You nearly choked on your own spit, from where you sat nearby with your book.

“That is because it is a dragon.” Maekar deadpanned.

“It looks like one head wants to bite the other ones.”

“They can be angry creatures.”

The boy considered this carefully, before nodding solemnly and accepting this explanation completely with the seriousness it deserved. 

“You carry it everywhere.” 

Maekar’s expression did not change, but something gentler settled beneath the severity.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Because it was made for me.”

That was all. It was nothing poetic or elaborate, but the words settled warm and heavy in your chest. It became impossible not to understand what he was truly defending.

It was never the dragon, because even he understood that the creature looked mildly cursed.

It was you.

And the fact you wanted to make something for him badly enough to sit for nights stabbing your fingers raw with needles.

Maekar was not a gentle man, he was fire and iron sharpened by duty. But everyday, he carried your ridiculous little dragon as though it were something precious. And he never once hid it away. And he defended it every single time. 

That realisation changed everything. The embarrassment remained and you suspected it always would whenever someone stared too hard at the linen. But beneath all that, something softer began blooming. Pure love and affection for your husband, especially when you caught him later at night absentmindedly smoothing his thumb once across the red stitching before joining you in bed.

And when Maekar looked at you afterwards, quietly and impossibly warm, you thought every crooked stitch was worth it after all.

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“Precious is looking for you at the Nursing Station,” he informs, which— well, coming from him, is the most courteous way you will ever hear him say Get the fuck back out there and make yourself useful, to someone crying their eyes out in an on-call room.

“Shit. Okay,” you nod, trying for steadiness as you blink back tears. But your voice cracks, and the humiliation only adds to the shame of you having flinched out your skin at being caught weeping by your literal boss, alongside the exhaustion and the weariness and the grie— 

“Sorry. Just. Give me a minute.” You sniffle. Wipe your tear-stained cheeks like a child as you palpably feel Park observing (…judging?), silently, before drifting into the room.

He leans against the work table. Crosses his arms. (A shred of consideration, perhaps, if you’re hopeful to read it as such: A 6’2” beast of a man trying his best not to crowd you in a tiny room by keeping distance; keeping your space on the bed yours as much as he’s keeping his own in the corner.)

“Minute’s up,” he bluntly declares, after a beat. And just before you can open your mouth to protest:

“What the hell happened?” he asks.

You look up at him, blindsided.

Park has never been the type for small talk or inanities. A captain of a no-nonsense, streamlined, tight ship who preferred to nip bullshit in the bud. The abrupt gesture of conversation has you haywiring for a moment: He hadn’t asked it in a way that sounded fed up or impatient at all.

You shake your head. Duck your gaze to pick at the soles of your shoes. They’re stained, still, with dried blood. 

He just wants to make sure you’re not a liability, you reason to yourself. Quit crying before you ruin your image to him.

“M’fine,” you finally exhale. “Just exhausted.”

“You’ve had shittier days,” he disagrees immediately, as if he’d predicted your reply— which is true, you’ve endured longer hours than today before in your career. Park is simply cutting to the chase, like the problem solver he is; that familiar tone in his voice sparking your reflex into deference. Don’t waste my time, it feels like.

And so you yield. Unlatch the floodgate of your heart. 

You tell him about the 15-year-old who could’ve been saved with a clamshell thoracotomy had his sternum and ribs not been pulverised into too many fragments for you to pick out; about the premature twins delivered to the NICU after an 8-month-pregnant mother had suffered an Open Book pelvic crush fracture on the drive back home from their OBGYN check-up with PTMC just an hour before.

You tell Dr. Park about the other trauma patients you watch code and die on the table despite doing everything you could; and about the 12-year-old little girl with the open skull fracture, and the above-the-knee amputation you had to perform on a 17-year-old teen, and the 21-year-old man who you’re sure is going to wind up paralysed from the waist down.

That while most of your patients were stabilised enough to survive and pull through emergency surgery, they still have a long way yet to go in suffering the winding road to recovery; still have to endure the ICU anyway to fight for their life, and we both know how postoperative mortality rates fucking look like, don’t w—?

“Hey,” Park overrides sharply, cutting cleanly through the tempest in your spiralling head. 

You suck in through your teeth with a flinch. Fortify yourself. Bring the levees back up around your heart for when he spears you with a barrage of strictures; to tear into you for wallowing in your despair like a child. 

Only—

“You just said you did everything you could,” he points out incredulously, brows pinched. “That’s as high as the ceiling goes in trauma cases like these.” 

A difficult thing to hear, given his stern cadence as he harshly says it, and an even harder pill to swallow. But it works enough, surprisingly, to steady you back into some semblance of sanity. Anchoring you from going adrift. 

“Anything further is the work of God— and I don’t believe in in divine miracles,” he censures, pragmatic. “I believe in Doctors. And the good ones do everything they can.”

(That is to say: you did good. You are good— of which also says: I believe in good. I believe in you.)

It feels like a cold plunge. Shocks you into blinking up at him again, with what you can only imagine is owlish surprise, considering the way he’s looking back at your teary gaze with that same unimpressed expression he gets whenever he states something glaringly obvious: Detached. Clinical. 

You bleed out the saturated warmth welling up somewhere beneath your ribcage before it can drown you. Flood it with cerebral rationale instead:

Park the Shark does not hand out compliments, and so you ought not to foolishly consider what he implied as such. This is… charity. That scrap of validation he knows everyone seeks desperately from him. Just an off-hand lifeline thrown to buoy you through rough waters.

(Then again, you’ve never known Park to say something just for the sake of saying it. He’s the taciturn sort, and above all an unapologetically brutally honest one. So maybe—?)

You internally shake your thoughts.

“The rest is just noise,” comes his fierce conclusion. “Tune it out.”

“Did it take long?” you ask, just as the redundancy of the question had hit you. “To tune it out, I mean.”

It should’ve been a blatant no to hear from the cold-blooded Park the Shark of all Doctors— bold and hardhearted and perfectly sensible for someone who’d earned a certified specialty in Ortho-trauma early on in his career. Bone-deep certainty driving his hands and cold data clearing his head that provides infallible, utilitarian disconnect from him and other people. 

But it appears, briefly, like he’s considering something as he stares at you. It’s gone into the depths before you can make out the shape of it: A flash of something alive underneath the maritime blue of his eyes. 

“Your shift is over,” he settles stiffly, after the pensive moment. “Go home.”

That sits you up straight, diverted by the non sequitur. “What? No, I—” You must have crossed a line; must have failed some unknown test he’d been dishing out to be abruptly dismissed like this, surely? “I can keep going—”

“Go home, pup,” he repeats, in that menacing snap of finality he uses to clinch arguments. Teeth and a scrunched nose in a half-snarl. “I won’t say it again.”

“Two more consults,” you barter pathetically, sliding off the bed before you can stop yourself: You’ve planted yourself stubbornly in front the door where he’s made headway to exit after pushing off his corner. “I have four more patients.” 

You unflinchingly meet his leviathan-keen gaze when he stops short in front of you. There’s an exasperated bristle to his expression, as if you’re a pesky little sea urchin insistent in blocking his path back to the shoreline.

“You’ve been on your feet for over 14 hours.” So have you, Shark, you manage to swallow back. “Yeshua volunteered to come in early,” Park continues, visibly growing more annoyed. “You covered for him last time. Scale’s even.”

“Yeshua? He never volunteers for anything,” you scowl, only for it to hit you a moment later. Yeshua never volunteers. Park would have had to put him up to it, essentially giving you an out, and… sparing you a kindness? 

Be realistic, you remind yourself. It couldn’t be. He’s probably punishing Yeshua for something while replacing your uselessness. Two birds with one stone. Ever efficient.

“Look, alright? I’m done crying. I got it out my system,” you insist, as patiently as you can. Pointedly taking a deep breath and tucking your hair back in an attempt to back your mettle. “I’m fine. I’m not a liability, Dr. Park—”

A noncommittal scoff. As if to say Is that what this is, pup? “If you were, I’d have told you a long time ago.”

There it is again. A liferaft. The sliver of recognition you can’t help but take to heart as implied approval, like the greedy, self-indulgent girl you are. Clinging hopelessly onto the flimsy fact that his absence of criticism is the closest thing anyone can get as praise.

“Now move, or you will be moved,” he warns, dryly.

You heed him before your imagination runs wild at the idea. Step aside to let him make his way out the door. End the conversation.

But he shifts slightly to pull it wide instead, his hand coming up high against the door and above your head to hold it open for you. An easy, economic motion, stretching him into a looming figure. There’s more than enough space to let you pass if you dip below his arm just a fraction.

Hardly chivalrous. Enough, though, that it’s a dissonance to his otherwise… ungracious character.

Well? An impatient tilt of his head to the threshold. Ladies first. 

“Handover after speaking with Precious,” he orders sharply, disregarding your shy, sheepish Thanks once you finally duck past him. “I don’t wanna see you after that.”

It should’ve come across unforgivably offensive with the way he’d delivered the coarse words, but the entire exchange you’d just shared with him since he’d walked in had only served to soften the abrasiveness of his instruction into something achingly endearing in your chest.

“…Yeah,” you mumble, flustered. “Okay.”

2.

The amputation bites you back in the ass within a few months of the MCI: a teen with an athletic scholarship loses his future, an angry father’s threat to sue you comes to fruition, and PTMC’s Legal Department contacts you— and all the medical staff involved in the operating theatre that day, much to everyone’s chagrin— in regards to the case.

Dr. Brendon Park has a decorated career in medicine long enough to have faced his own line of medical malpractice lawsuits against him. You, however, do not. 

The email alone sends you spiralling.

“Quit pacing,” Dr. Park scowls. He sets the break room coffee pot down with a frustrated thud that echoes like a gavel. “You’re gonna give me a fucking headache.”

“They’re filthy rich,” you ignore, undoing your surgical cap with an exasperated rake of fingers through your hair. “They could easily take this all the way to court if they wished—”

“Then I’ll testify on your behalf,” Park dismisses, easily. He doesn’t even meet your gaze as he hisses it— delivered so scathingly yet casually; you can’t decipher if there’s any truth to it or if he’s just trying to placate you from wearing a hole through the floor. “Every doctor gets sued at least once in their life.”

You throw your hands up. “Yeah, well, I was sure as shit hoping not to join that statistic.”

“Then go get a fuckin’ job at the VA hospital,” he cuts, brutal. (It’s sensible: any lawsuit there would instead go against the government.) He’s raised his voice now, to bring an end to the discussion. “Or, you can doctor up and deal with this like everybody else has to.”

“It’s a deposition,” he says, in what you can only compare to as a verbal eye-roll. “Not the end of the world.”

Feels like it, you don’t snap back, resorting instead to a huff too deliberate to go unnoticed. Park shoots you a look sharp enough to pierce through your soul at the sound, and you find yourself shrinking back from the eye-contact instinctively.

His pager blips through the tension before he can lash out at you. He assesses it between a sip. Sighs frustratedly.

“They’re going to ask you questions,” he begins— and the coffee must’ve stilled the torrent in his veins, because his voice has shifted to something more relenting; though with no less attitude. 

“Yes or no will suffice. If you give anything more, the lawyers will poke holes— and trust me, they will find a way to— so keep it short. Stick to the facts and the data. Don’t overexplain or try to defend yourself, because that’s your attorney's job. D’you understand?”

He takes another swallow of his coffee. Watches you nod stiffly as you absorb the information. 

“ED needs consult,” Park announces, lazily. He jerks his chin. “Use the distraction.”

On any other day it might’ve been humiliating to be dismissed this offhandedly and sent away on what’s most certainly going to be a menial case— but for some reason this time feels less like blatant rejection and more like he’s giving you another out; another escape.

Distraction. It’s unusually transparent of him.

The way he’d said it hadn’t been unkind. Not exactly warm, either. Still rough around the edges in a way only Park can manage to deliver an attempt at comfort.

So you do take it.

You know better than to come back from the moment’s reprieve still being a useless worrywart; so you let his cold advice ring through your head across the days like a countdown— All the way up until Park had allowed the hospital attorney to pull you out of a simple arthroscopy procedure, and finally escort you to your deposition, of which you spend the entire time fidgeting in your seat.

“You did excellently,” compliments Attorney Morgan Stiles, in the wake of the aftermath. “You gave me infinitely less trouble than Park did, for what it’s worth.”

In the middle of the elevator ride back down, your attention snaps to the folder in hand being offered to you. Park had completed his deposition yesterday morning. He hadn’t mentioned a peep of it to anyone.

ORAL DEPOSITION TRANSCRIPT, reads the document, once you curiously accept it. You skim the unnecessary information— dates, names, summaries, confidentialities— and jump to a random page: 

(Somewhere in the end-half of the deposition, you figure. You can picture it in your mind’s eye; the austere hospital courtroom, with Dr. Park seated sentinel and glacially calm as usual, voice answering steadily throughout the examination in that unabashed impatience and contempt reserved for people taking up his time.)

A: That’s the nature of traumatic cases. What you’re doing is conflating a poor outcome to poor medicine, which isn’t the case, because some of PTMC’s best trauma surgeons were operating on this patient.  Q: And would you agree a different Senior Attending Physician, such as you, Dr. Park, may have altered the outcome for this patient had they been present? A: No. I’d have done exactly the same thing as my Resident did from bedside to theatre. Q: And so you maintain your Resident did not err in her decision to amputate above-the-knee? A: Yes. Q: Would you classify her decision as a judgement call, given the circumstances of the mass-casualty? A: Didn’t we just clarify this? [Sighs] No. Q: Are you confident in your answer, Dr. Park? A: Confidence is sure as hell what it takes to work as an Orthopaedic Surgeon in a Level-1 Trauma Center, isn’t it? MS. JENN WALTERS: That’s nonresponsive, Doctor. A: Jesus christ, yes. I’m certain. Q: If confidence is needed for an Orthopaedic Surgeon, as you’ve said, why did your Resident reportedly appear distressed following the case? MS. MORGAN STILES: Objection. Relevance.  Q: It regards to the confidence of the standard of care the physician delivered-- A: Excuse me? No, absolutely not. It regards to her being a Doctor with a fucking conscience. Q: Be professional, Doctor. You’re on the record. A: You undermine my Resident, Sir. A trained and capable surgeon who recognised the acuity of the injury, escalated accordingly, and executed it appropriately to standard of care. That’s exactly why I signed off operationally, and that’s why I’m here. If you challenge her decision, you challenge mine-- Q: [crosstalk 00:44:21] --As established, yes-- A: --Her “poor confidence” post-operation doesn’t indicate the level of competence she performed in that OR whatsoever. If you’re gonna try her as guilty for showing a little heart after an evidently difficult case amidst an MCI, then you should be trying me, the entirety of the Surgical Department, and the goddamn rest of PTMC too for every tear we shed on a loss, don’t you think? Q: Carry on, Doctor. MS. MORGAN STILES: Objection. Asked and answered. You’re not required to continue, Dr. Park. A: Yeah? Well, I want it on the record anyway-- Good medicine begins with good character, and hers has never once been in doubt to me. I don’t-- I wouldn’t want to lose her. Any doctor worth their salt wouldn’t want to lose someone like her.  Q: Alright. Well. Shall we say you acknowledge all of what you said, Dr. Park, as your personal opinion? A: [Pause 3s] It’s a professional one.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Attorney Stiles shoots you a discerning look as she studies your flustered expression. 

“That page you’re reading,” she repeats slowly, taking the transcript back with a knowing smile as the elevator descends, “I was saying, that for all the times I’ve had to represent Dr. Park, he’s never once failed to acknowledge the competency of his colleagues. He is, for all intents and purposes, a man of honesty.”

That makes you deflate more than you’re willing to allow yourself. Professional opinion, you remind yourself. That’s all it is. 

“But,” she continues, and this time you do glance at her with a flash of hope in your eye too bright to ignore, “I’ve never seen him jump to anyone’s defense the way he did for you that day. He took off on a tangent. You can’t gauge the tone in his transcript, but he was angrier than he sounds here. Angry for you.”

Something treacherous flits behind your ribcage. You smother it before it can take flight. “He’d have done it for anyone, I’m sure.”

A snort. “I’ve represented him multiple times across the years. He never has,” she says, brows raising at you. “Dr. Park has always been a man in control of his emotions especially when it matters most— but that deposition was the first I ever witnessed him lose his cool. You must be a pretty good doctor, aren’t you?”

The elevator dings. Sound akin to a lightbulb going off in your head when you decipher the smirk on her face.

“Like he’s mentioned: he was just…” You shrug unconvincingly, laughing it off with an awkward smile as she slips out to her floor. “He was just being professional.”

She winks as the doors shut. “Sure. Whatever floats your boat, Doc.”

3.

“…ith the systems out. Spectralinks are down. Paging departments will be done by the hospital landline or in emergencies by mobile phones,” Park explains, before raising a clipboard with a sticky-note attached. “This is my number. Only contact me if it’s urgent, unless you want an early fucking grave.”

But that’d been over a week ago. Within specific context of a literal cyberattack sending everybody offline and analogue.

Here, now, with your phone in hand and vision swirling after forcibly hurling the contents of your stomach out in the dingy bathroom sink of a bar— You hit send on your text before you can backpedal and wonder if this too could even count as an emergency to Park’s eyes:

Stranded in a bar, your last long island iced tea sweating on a cocktail table had tasted glaringly off; And it must be paranoia kicking you into overdrive, vulnerably surrounded by a posse of drunkards, but you’d decided to empty your stomach just in case before you could talk yourself out of it.

Maybe it’d been a heavy pour, you’d tried to convince yourself, Or just a flat drink, or the fact you’ve been nursing alcohol on a relatively empty stomach after a 6 hour spinal fusion cas—

Your heart stumbles. Notification chirping.

You’d expected him to not open your long-winded, over-explained S.O.S messages from you at all. Maybe leave you on read. Hell, blocking your contact would’ve been less of a surprise than a straightforward reply going:

9:55 | Address and live location.

Straight to the heart of the matter, as usual. You know better than to argue. Too late to take it back without making further a fool out of yourself.

➤ …You started sharing your Location with Park the Shark 🦈.

9:51 | [Live Pin📍631 Suismon St. Pittsburgh, PA 15212.] 9:51 | Its ok rlly i can just call an uber. U can ignore this

He calls you two minutes later, saving you in the nick of time from being inveigled into a game of pool with the ragtag group of strangers you’ve been held socially-hostage to by proxy of your now-missing friend. (You should’ve known better than to thirdwheel her and her partner.)

Ten minutes. Stay on the phone, Park orders, You okay?

The abrupt bound of your heart at the question feels ill-timed given the situation, but you feel the unbidden surge in your gut anyway: Here is Park the Shark, beastly and brutal, asking if you were okay.

“Oh. Yeah, I—”

“Yo,” comes a new voice. It’s the ginger who’d cornered and badgered you into the game, a drunken grin on his face as he leans on his cue stick, eyes obviously wandering. “Who’re y’on that call with? C’mon, join me.”

Your grip tightens around your phone.

“My boyfriend,” you blurt reflexively, anything to throw up a boundary to ward off or deter anyone else from encroaching further into your seemingly-inviting space. “He’s on the way to pick me up.”

A beat.

The lie catches up to you a moment later. Has blood rushing to your face and your ears when you remember, mortifyingly, that Park is overhearing everything over the line. 

Fuck. Whatever. It’s done. You’ll deal with the fallout later, you figure. Endure the humiliating consequences he’ll put you through and the inevitable snarl of a lecture. The all-too-familiar trademark wrath of Park the Shark that you’ve survived before—

Park hums. A half-breath that escapes as an… amused huff. (You’re probably mistaken, right?) Makes your pulse rabbit further. “That shake him off?”

You’re caught off guard. Glancing sideways at the group prowling your periphery, half-waiting for you to rejoin them for the night. “Not really,” you admit. “How close are you?”

“Seven minutes. Just keep talking to me. What’d you drink?”

You obey dutifully. Answer whatever he asks: why you’d been out tonight, where your friend had gone, and about the little clique that had invited you into a round of pool with less choice than they made it feel like. 

Park doesn’t interrupt you when you make an off-hand lament about your heels digging at your ankles, nor about your addled drink; rattling to him that no, no, I threw it up. I’m a little queasy but I’m fine, really. I can still just call an Uber and power through the hangover tomorrow morning— 

His voice keeps you company. Occupied. Distracts you just enough to make the short wait less insufferable; That by the time you’re looking up from where you’ve been picking distractedly at a drink coaster, you witness Park’s leviathan shape slice through the bar and part patrons like water to a prow, not sparing a drop of attention to the turned heads as he sails past the pool table into a dead-reckoning towards you.

Let’s go, is all he snarls. Abrasive. Canine-sharp and a flashing glint of jagged teeth as he delivers his classic shark-stare to your fishy onlookers. And if the inebriated ginger and his shoal of drunkards had any suspicions about Park being with you, it’s promptly dashed by his hovering hand behind your back as he weaves you through the revelling crowd; his leading presence and angling body enough to shoulder and be a proverbial breakwater for you all the way out the door.

It’s drizzling out tonight. Chilly. When you exit the bar, the dark sleek of his car is idled (Read: parked illegally) and waiting at the slick curb. He strides ahead just enough to open the passenger door, hand on the roofline as he guides you to duck into your seat. It’s a welcome warmth of pressure behind your back, and then again when the crown of your head brushes his palm. 

A shield from clipping the frame. Startles you more than the touch itself. 

“Hey. Eyes on me,” he orders, in that maddeningly level tone of his, once he’s sure you’ve settled properly and clipped your seatbelt on. “If anything changes— you tell me before you decide to throw up in my car, or I’ll leave your ass on the street. Got that?”

“God forbid.” Your smile is tight-lipped and sheepish. “Yeah. Thank you, Dr. Park.”

He doesn’t answer until much later, when he’d put in your address and let the murmuring humdrum of the radio fill in the space, that he stiffly reminds: 

“Didn’t I tell you before not to get used to me playing nice?” 

Your mouth opens, then shuts in contemplation before you let yourself slur your words. “I know. I’m sorry. This was highly unprofessional and I, I shouldn’t’ve called, but I just figured…”

He’s white-knuckling his steering wheel. You can see the masseter in his jaw flex. “Don’t make it a habit,” he snipes.

“I won’t,” you start, fumbling for your phone in your purse. Your vision is muddling as the seconds fly and your soberness begins to ebb once more. “I’ll delete your contact, if you want—”

“I meant the unsafe drinking,” he amends, pointedly. 

You blink. Battle with yourself, fleetingly, on whether he knows what he’s just unintentionally implied; how dumb it would be to ask Does this mean I get to keep your number? as your lockscreen winks back to sleep again. Does this mean you care? Does this mean—

“It was a personal opinion, wasn’t it?” you find yourself blurting out. 

The car rolls to a stop at the red light of an intersection. Nothing but the steady, pitter patter of rain threading the silence with a melodic lull. It unwinds you more than you realise, has you unconsciously sinking into the comfort of your seat. There’s no taking back what you’ve asked now. No escaping. In for a penny…

“What you said about me in your deposition, I mean,” you continue. I don’t want to lose her. That’s what he’d stopped himself from saying, hadn’t it?

The traffic light blinks go. Sea-green floods through the windshield and washes over Park. Reveals him in a way you’ve never witnessed before: caught out; a fish out of water. There’s a few loose strands over his forehead that somehow only makes him the most domestic you’ve ever seen him— and frustratingly attractive.

Someone honks. (That hopeful part of you is digging its watery grave again: taking his distracted hesitation as something else that could be entirely different.)

“You’re lucky you’re drunk,” he comments, once he remembers to move. Blank. You can’t read him. Can’t gauge the depth of the ocean-blue in his eyes from where you’ve been metaphorically walking the plank.

“Oh,” you murmur humorously, letting him off the hook for ignoring the question, “you’d know if I was drunk, Park, believe me.”

“Yeah? What the hell are you right now, then?”

“Sleepy?” you offer, before shaking your head. “No. Not that.” Head over heels, you don’t answer, turning to gaze outside the window instead. Watching raindrops race as the city flickers past. “…I’m struck.”

A beat.

You can feel him spare a pensive glance as you let your head tip back into the carseat, eyes fluttering heavily for a moment’s reprieve between your tipsiness; Can feel him like a brand on your skin, gaze searing into your profile. Judging you, perhaps, between the streaks of streetlights passing rhythmically across your face.

You can hear him in your head, even if the words never leave his mouth. The hell’s that supposed to mean?

Silence. 

You must have let it stretch too long, though, because something shifts in the tense air that you can reflexively pick up after years of working hand in glove with him in the OR: Stillwater. Doldrums. A calm before the storm.

Park’s attention has sharpened to a scalpel’s point.

Somewhere between the syrup-thickening haze of sleepiness, your thoughts have quietly muted out, and your eyes slowly slip shut into the diaphanous beginnings of a fever drea—

His hand lands on you.

Presses on the inside of your wrist.

(Who knew Park the Shark could be so gentle, comes your candid thought.)

It’s enough to startle you, lazily cracking one eye open to peer at him through the gossamer of exhaustion: Park’s got an arm across the console reaching easily for you, gaze focused— not on you, not quite, but on where his fingers meet your pulsepoint.

He’s… counting your heartbeat.

(You hope he doesn’t notice your pulse skip at the contact; at the dreadful idea he’d discover your girlish fondness over him—)

“You said you threw it up,” he says, evenly, turning from another red light to warily chase your half-lidded gaze. “Hey. How long after?”

“Mh,” you hum, susurrus. “Soon, I think.”

“Pup,” he asserts. Then your proper name. (You take a deep breath in at that, hope he doesn’t feel the goosebumps line your skin at the bass of his voice.) It stirs you awake.

“I’m fine,” you muse drowsily, flattered. “Just… tired. S’been a long night. Had that spinal case today, remember?”

Park glowers. Withdraws his hand back. He doesn’t look reassured or humored when that same sea-green light from traffic bathes him soft again. 

“I’m driving you to the ED. Keep your eyes open ‘til we get there,” he orders, already checking his blindspot as he makes a sharp turn when you begin to protest. “And shut up and stop arguing with me.”

That was that.

He’d firmly ceased the conversation from any possible attempts of dispute, and drove you to the ER to hand you over to a rightfully stunned Dr. Shen, while ignoring the prickle on his skin from half the medical staff curiously watching the scene take place. 

Then Lena is asking you questions, though your thoughts are a little gummy around the margins. Park answers where he can. Ever the one to make the situation efficient. She called me to pick her up from a bar. I’m worried her drink might’ve been spiked. It’s been roughly twenty minu…

(I’m worried. The words pass so fleetingly it could’ve been imagined by you. It probably had been.) 

And then IV lines, and a bed, and the turn of Park disappearing behind the curtains of North-4, and—

Come morning, there’s a white paper bag set at the foot of your bed by your zipped purse. The label and symbol emblazoned below its handles is recognisable: it’s from PTMC’s Gift Shop. 

You peer into it to find… slippers.

Slippers? Not the standard-issue hospital ones that are rubber-soled and thin, but the plush ones; meant for visitors or nit-picky patients unexpectedly admitted overnight: Pale blue, absurdly comfier than necessary. There’s neither a purchase receipt nor a tag in sight.

Your heels are tucked neatly by the wall instead of being kicked someplace else. For one disorienting second, you expect to see Park posted by it in that impossibly statuesque stillness of his— nose down, arms crossed and folded, expression predatorily severe in that way it always gets before he launches into a scathing lecture.

…He isn’t there, of course. That would’ve been ridiculous. Park had no reason to stay once you were in capable hands; once you were safe.

(His absence leaves a stubborn hollow in your chest regardless.)

“Oh, hey,” you begin, when Lena checks in on you sometime later. “I’m feeling way better. Thank you. But, uh, can I just ask— Who bought me the slippers?”

Her brows are raised as she peeks at you over her spectacles, half-amused. “Who d’ya think, sweetheart?”

+ 1.

By the (alleged) third HR report that quarter, Gloria does a shakedown in regards to the infamous Park the Shark.

It pisses him off even more than usual. It pisses off everyone in Orthopaedics, in fact. On one hand because an angry Dr. Park means a shorter fuse and more tongue-lashing; And on the other: because everyone in Ortho defends each other’s throats like they were their own.

The in-fighting between departments have never been anything but off-hand retorts and petty remarks; but now that someone who knows a guy who knows a guy who’d bribed a guy managed to catch wind on which specific departments have reported Dr. Park— well. It hadn’t taken long to figure out the names.

“And yet, somehow, not a single peep from any soul in the Ortho Department,” points out Gloria, after she’d stolen you into her Director’s office for a ‘brief conversation’ one Monday morning. You have a feeling you might not have been the first person buttoned into this situation today— let alone the month.

“Oh,” you say, failing to hold back the bubble of laughter at what her tone is setting up. “You think we’ve been Stockholm’d?”

“I think Dr. Park is a six-foot-two white man who has an intimidating presence to match with his terrible reputation and notoriously curt behaviour.”

You make a face. “He went toe-to-toe against Precious and lost.”

(This time Gloria makes a face. She knows well and clear the spitfire of a personality your charge nurse Precious— a four-foot-eleven Filipina who’s been running the Ortho floor like the Navy itself long before you or even Park joined— carries around. )

“Well,” she relents comically, sinking into her office chair. “Precious is an outlier.”

“So you think everyone else is just too afraid to speak up?” you conclude.

“Doctor, I need you to take this seriously.”

Right, you inhale, making a theatrical show of straightening up. Gloria looks expectantly at you as you gather your thoughts with a sigh.

“Do you remember when Dr. Lee lost his youngest daughter back in June?” you begin, glancing at the back of a framed picture on her desk. “It was a car accident. Quick and painless. Common for her age group; Common emergency case for a Level 1 Trauma Center like ours.”

“Funnily enough, after he buried her— Dr. Lee didn’t encounter a single paediatric trauma case for the remainder of the year, you know?” you continue, meeting Gloria’s gaze. “Somebody else was always mysteriously available to take the patient away from Lee’s hands.”

If Gloria got the hint, she didn’t show.

“And on Ramadan, Dr. Arif never worries about whether he’ll faint toughing out an 8-hour operation like he did in his intern year,” comes your next story. She knows this one, surely: Park had infamously kicked him out the theatre for it. “That’s because ever since that day, trauma cases during that month are redirected to somebody else if it overlaps with the only time Arif gets to break his fast.”

“There’s also Suren, one of our best and most senior scrub nurse, who had to step away from work to return to Mongolia and dedicate her time taking care of her dying mother. She left just last month with a collection enough to help her tide over anything: hospice, funeral, even travel.”

Gloria interjects with a finger— “Precious started that fund,” — which only serves to make you snort.

“You really think our nurses here are paid enough to pool together almost, what, ten grand on a week’s notice?”

“Okay, alright, I get it,” she instantly says, sounding unbelievably incredulous. It grinds your gears more than you expect.

“So you think Dr. Park is responsible for all this… charity? You think he goes out of his way to order cases to be rescheduled or redirected for others; That he’s the type of man who would reassign personnel for their benefit— that he’s somebody who’d go the extra mile?”

“I don’t think. I know,” you correct, matter-of-fact. “He’s a good man. He may be an asshole, and the furthest thing from being nice— but that doesn’t mean he’s unkind.”

Gloria’s mouth purses at your defense. The uncharacteristic flash of ferocity and canines you’re baring is, undoubtedly, an unconscious trait of mettle you’ve inherited from the Shark. Protective; territorial.

“When you work with Dr. Park long enough, there are two things you learn quickly. One: is that he values efficiency. Tact to him is for people who have time to waste. If there’s a path of least resistance that gets him the results he desires— that the patient needs, above all— he’ll do it.”

Gloria gives you a stare that looks like, and secondly?

“Second: he’s fair. Consistent. He’ll tear you apart for a shitty postop note, sure, but he also never humiliates people for things outside of their control. He’ll bitch about the circumstances, ofcourse, but doesn’t everybody? He doesn’t care to be liked. He sure as hell doesn’t look for approval.”

There’s a myriad of things you can add on that you curb yourself from saying: My first year of Residency I didn’t have to endure the blatant misogyny for long because he drilled respect into my peers' skulls. In every case where there was an escalation or combative patient he would already be standing ahead of me like a bulwark. Whenever I come home to the blue pair of slippers he bought me because I complained about my heels once in passing, I’m reminded he picked me up when I had no one to call and drove me to the ER. 

You shake your head. Draw steel into your voice. 

“It’s difficult to tell the difference between whether Dr. Park is inconvenienced or concerned,” comes your conclusion, “until you eventually realize that with him, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Gloria’s office chair squeaks as she sinks back.

“You sound very certain,” she says, after a defeated pause.

The smile you give her is deceivingly sweet. “I am.”

Recognition comes by Thursday evening in the breakroom, thanks to nursing chatter.

“A little birdie told me you stuck your neck out for me,” says a low voice. 

You shut the refrigerator door. Turn around to see the broad back of Dr. Park, busying himself with pouring what looks to be his third coffee. 

“I’m sure everyone on the floor did,” you answer, leaning to the counter adjacent to him. “Especially Precious, I heard.”

“Little lady chewed Gloria’s ear out over nursing staff shortages and safety measures instead,” he muses. “She was locked in that room with Precious. Not the other way around.”

A punch of a laugh escapes you. “I could never.”

“But you did,” he allows, making you look at him in surprise. “Whatever bullshit you said to Gloria three days ago in that office seemed to convince her I’m worth the HR-trouble of keeping around. I got off with a slap on the wrist.”

(Which roughly means: he’ll keep his head down for awhile until the storm has passed, before he’s back to biting the heads off whoever he deems incompetent again.) 

“It wasn’t bullshit,” you deny. “I won’t bore you with the details. But I just told her the truth.”

“That I’m an asshole?”

You shrug at his deadpan expression. “Well, we can’t all be perfect.”

A beat. 

And then— Park laughs.

Laughs.

Curling at his lips and dimpling into his cheeks. Slight, brief, but candid. It’s a mellow, breathier sound than you would’ve ever expected. Knocks the air from your lungs in an instant and damn near startles your brain into short-circuiting. He’s never looked more roguishly handsome than he is now:

Privately smiling. Slicked-back hair now boyishly tousled from the surgical cap he must’ve yanked off after that 7 hour scoliosis case, eyes crinkled at the corners and half-weary from exhaustion as his arms lazily uncross to grab his mug. It feels alot like you’d managed to peer behind the drawn curtains; like you’ve just met the glimmer of Brendon Park.

“Don’t expect a thanks,” he scoffs, too tired to deliver it seriously, and you find yourself wishing you could continue memorising his smile when it finally vanishes behind a long sip of his coffee.

“I don’t. I wouldn’t have said what I said professionally if I didn’t believe it all personally,” you dismiss, as if it’s obvious.

His mug eventually lowers. It takes all the willpower in you not to watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows his drink. Again, there’s that curious flash you catch momentarily in the watercolour blue of his eyes, diving away from sight.

“Guess that answers your question, then.”

You blink. What?

Park stares. Waits for it to register. Nothing comes, however; Not until he easily shifts forward, suddenly stepping proximally close into your space, enough you can smell the coffee steaming from his mug as he slightly corners you in an attempt to reach with his other hand—

The drive to the ER, you suddenly remember. 

The realisation of it all comes to you in the zip of electricity that travels up from where Park has now (deliberately?) brushed his hand against the skin of your wrist— your pulsepoint: He’d been reaching for his pager left ontop the counter behind you, it appears.

I don’t want to lose her. That’s what he had stopped himself from saying that day. You’re sure. The evidence had been right there; it’d been the furthest thing from being professional. It’d been intimate.

It was a personal opinion, wasn’t it? You remember tipsily asking. A nondescript way of asking if you matter at all in the way he matters to you. If it had been something more— and now: I guess that answers your question, then.

“Oh,” you say, like an idiot, as if his confirmation hadn’t just brought up a thousand other questions in your mind. 

His eyes tarry. Always something so jarringly intimate in the way they cut clean into yours. Lets it take up your speechlessness.

You wonder if the there-and-away flicker of his gaze to your lips, just before he’d turned to leave the breakroom, was just a feverish figment of your imagination.

Delusion, you convince yourself, when the door clicks shut. Surely.

You didn't really think about it, the first time it happened. You'd been halfway through a chart, awareness pitched somewhere behind you in case someone needed you — someone always did, eventually — and when you heard the name Sharkbait, you knew instinctively Santos was talking to you. She's always giving out nicknames like that, and you didn't have one yet, and people had taken to dragging you over to present for Park the Shark, because apparently you were the only one who could handle him without getting your head bit off.

You didn't really get what the big deal was. It wasn't hard to figure out how to deal with him — that's what you do, after all, assess people and then figure out how to deal with them. He wants clear, concise answers, and respect, so you give him both. Easy.

He's not the kind of person you'd joke with, or get chummy with, not unless he crossed that line first. Even then, best to tread carefully.

But he's not complicated, and he's certainly not scary the way everyone seems to think he is — though you would categorize him as intense. Focused. It's what makes him such a good surgeon.

And sure, maybe he trains his laser focus on you more than anyone else in the ED. Maybe his attention is less sharp when it settles and finds you on the receiving end.

It doesn't mean anything, surely, but that didn't stop Santos from noticing, and it didn't stop her from making a shitty nickname, and if you were thinking a little more clearly, you'd have realized that you should've shut that shit down. Park is your much older, much more attractive, incredibly no-nonsense indirect boss, not to mention, you actually kind of like the guy. He probably wouldn't take lightly to everyone going around implying he's trying to get in your pants, and even if Santos is mean, she's not evil. She'd back off if you needed her to.

But you'd been tired, and distracted, and you hadn't really thought about it that hard. And when she called out "Sharkbait, get over here!" you hadn't corrected her.

Instead, you'd tapped out the last line of your sentence and carelessly called back, "Sharkbait, ooh-haha." It wasn't even a conscious decision.

It's from some fuckass movie you watched when you were eight, and you hadn't thought about it in years, but apparently that one word had been enough to trigger the call and response you learned in second grade. It shouldn't have stuck, either, but then Whittaker had called you Sharkbait while you were talking to a patient, and you'd muttered it under your breath, and now you just can't stop.

Everywhere you went, people called you Sharkbait. Even Robby does it sometimes, when he's calling you over to observe procedures. And you, in a true show of human adaptability, do not stop to think about why it's such a mistake. You hadn't caught it the first time, and you hadn't caught it the second time, and by the third it simply became another thing in the background. Another name, another title, none of them really you.

Everywhere you went, you'd parrot it back. Mostly it was an announcement, a way to say I'm here, I'm paying attention, tell me what you need, without quite so many words. In the more serious situations, it was a half-whispered thing under your breath, a reminder that there would be time where things weren't falling apart, and you would be capable of joy and whimsy again.

Either way, it always came.

Unless Brendan Park was in the room. The Shark walked in, and suddenly everyone was calling your full name like you're George fucking Bush. Even the mention of a consult from him was enough to dissuade the use of it for a few minutes.

All of which led to twenty minutes ago, when you'd been hunched over a trash can, shoveling a granola bar down your throat with such ferocity that you felt simultaneously like a starved horse and the kind owner feeding it.

You'd caught a glimpse of Park gliding through the ED like Moses parting the Red Sea, and had stuffed the last of your precious calories into your mouth in a desperate bid to be done by the time he reached you. Even when you weren't called over to present, he rarely came down without stopping by, so you'd gotten used to putting on your best face on a dime.

You could see that Dennis was going to call you over before he actually did it, so you'd already been shuffling over to the hand sanitizer when you it happened. "Sharkbait! Whittaker says you should present this one."

Your mind knew it was a bad idea — tried to stop your mouth from following through — but habit is a bitch. "Sharkbait, ooh-haha," you fired back, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the ED.

For a half-second, everyone froze.

Park turned to you, molasses slow. Arched an eyebrow. "You like that stupid nickname?"

You'd blinked at him. Refused to shrink under his gaze, or his tone, or the way it all made your blood sing and your skin burn. Forced your voice smooth and even, just as unbothered as he sounded about... well, everything. "I haven't really thought about it all that much, honestly. Mostly just reflex by now."

Maybe he genuinely believed you. Maybe it's because you've always been honest and efficient. Maybe he just doesn't think you have the balls to lie to him. Whatever it is, he hadn't commented on it further, so you didn't either.

You both pretended it never happened, right up until he disappeared back upstairs, and you allowed yourself a single moment to acknowledge the fact that you may have just lost all your goodwill with the best orthopod in the hospital.

What you don't know is that Park had been the one to start it with an offhand comment to Garcia about the ED dangling you in front of him like sharkbait every time he went down there. She'd repeated it to Santos, and soon it had spread like wildfire. Not what he'd intended, and he'd considered snapping at the mousy boy when he'd drifted by and heard him calling you that a few weeks ago — only to be stopped dead by your sweet little call-and-response, like you were fucking taunting him. Practically begging him to come bite.

The fact that you had the balls to do it with him right in front of you — and then look him dead in the eyes and call it reflex — has just cemented what everyone else already knows.

He wants you.

You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life. 

What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.

You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.

You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.

Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death. 

What day is it?

Do you know where you are?

What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?

Can you tell me what five times seven is?

Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.

The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.

Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon. 

It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do. 

Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-

That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.

Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.

“Imp.”

His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-

“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”

Well, now you’re definitely crying.

He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation.  He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.

“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”

The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Bren?”

“What room are you in.”

The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.

“I think Central Three-“

“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”

The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-

“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”

The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago. 

“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.

He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.

“Um, yes?”

None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”

Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.

“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”

Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.

You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”

Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.

“What happened.”

It’s a command, not a question.

Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up. 

“Um, I fell?”

His eyes narrow.

“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.

“Vitals and GCS.”

Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.

“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”

“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”

You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.

“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.

You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide. 

“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”

He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.

“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”

Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch. 

“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”

It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind. 

“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.

“Robinavitch.”

From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of. 

“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”

Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.

“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”

You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground. 

You tell him, and he nods.

“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”

You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse. 

“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”

“Like fuck she will.”

Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.

Oh god, maybe you are concussed.

Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.

“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”

“No one else is touching her.”

The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.

“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.

Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”

Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.

“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”

The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.

“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.

“What?”

It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.

“Someone bumped into me.”

His eyes turn downright murderous.

“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”

That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall. 

“Don’t move,” he orders.

Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs. 

“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.

He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.

“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.

You could say so many things.

Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.

“Because you make me feel safe.”

You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“

He kisses you.

He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”

He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.

“What?” he barks.

“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”

She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again. 

“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.

He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger. 

“Yes.”

You smile.

“But only if you don’t take too long.”

You’re laughing as they wheel you away.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robby

“Huh.”

It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.

He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.

He is indeed, surprised.

Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured. 

“What are we staring at?”

Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.

“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”

“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”

“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”

Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.

“Nearly took off my head, too.”

“That’s kind of sweet.”

Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma. 

“Excuse me?”

“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”

Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.

“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.

Your sister was the absolute last resort when you suddenly needed somewhere to stay.

The college housing situation you last minute arranged had fallen through, your parents sold your childhood home randomly in the fall to travel after retirement, and most of your friends were already triple bunking up with eachother by the time you started to get desperate.

You and Tammi couldn’t be more different and after a childhood full of arguing, hair pulling, and tense silences whenever you were in a room together, you pretty much resorted to only speaking on holidays.

Tammi thought you were boring and afraid of change, she’d go on and on about you wasting your youth and having no ‘shine.’ You thought, to put it frankly, she was an imbecile. You couldn’t stand her immaturity and lack of structure that left you often feeling like the older sister despite before over ten years her junior.

It didn’t help her case that she had an absolute bore of a husband.

Sammy was nice enough in the handful of conversations you’d had with him during visits back home, Tammi somewhere off demanding things of your parents or complaining about the niche aspects of holiday decorations.

He’d make awkward small talk with you while holding a beer that was growing warmer and warmer the longer he nursed it, asking you how school was going and scratching the back of his neck when you gave a dry response.

The most interesting thing about him was the one time you’d walked in on him smoking weed in the garage, his eyes widening as he hurriedly waved the smoke away from his face and told you it wasn’t what it looked like.

You’d told him you weren’t stupid and asked him for a hit, hand already extended with the same bored look on your face as always.

You both never talked about it and you wished you could have said you were surprised when a few years later he was suddenly in the police force but it seemed like a very obvious thing to do for a man as boring as Sammy Bryant.

Now that you were staying with the not so happy couple, he actually provided a good amount of entertainment even though it was a bit hard to watch.

They’d fight over just about everything, from dinner sides to him coming home a few hours late and being too exhausted to help out around the house. He’d get the same embarrassed look on his face everytime he saw you watching them curiously, either because he was the one stuck married to her or because he felt guilty your stay was a far shot from peaceful.

You weren’t sure when your small fascination with him started.

Sammy was of course easy on the eyes, especially when he would come home after a long day with his hair curlier than usual from exertion and his hands tugging at his tie and shirt buttons. You hadn’t ever missed the fact he was attractive but it seemed a lot more apparent now that you were seeing him more than annual visits.

And he was gentle, one of the sweeter men you had met in your lifetime. He was endlessly patient with Tammi even when she was acting in a way that would drive any normal person insane, devoted to his job and the troubled youth he encountered, and even warm to Richter who had his own share of canine problems.

You found him fascinating when he’d come home in the middle of dinner and greet her with a stiff kiss, starting to talk about his day with enthusiasm and then trailing off unfinished when he noticed she wasn’t paying attention.

Sometimes he’d catch your eye and you’d give him a sorry glance but most nights he silently finished his meal while staring at his plate.

Currently you’d been standing in the doorway of the kitchen for a few minutes, watching the muscles in his tense back as he scrubbed the dishes and occasionally muttered under his breath.

Him and Tammi had fought again, one of the screaming matches that seemed a bit heavier than the usual bickering.

“I’ve got it.” He jolted a little at the sound of your voice barely audible over the running water, stopping his movements and glancing over at you. “Seriously, you must be exhausted. I’ll finish up.”

He hesitated like he wanted to protest but the fatigue was obvious on his face, only having had walked through the door less than half an hour ago. Dinner had ended abruptly with Tammi in a fit of tears as she screamed about her broken camera and he screamed back about her getting a real job instead of spending all of his money.

You weren’t sure if he had even eaten anything before he was shoving his chair back and aggressively clearing the plates.

“You sure?” He sighed it out and ran a hand over his face, looking a lot less angry now as he slowly gained that familiar embarrassed look.

You gave him a reassuring nod and gestured for him to leave the kitchen, your eyes staying locked together in a silent exchange for a few seconds before he was pursing his lips and doing exactly that.

It became a bit of a routine after that, the two of you cleaning up together after dinner. Most of the time it was quiet between you but occasionally you talked about his day or rambled about your part time job downtown and the variety of ridiculous customers.

Tammi didn’t seem to notice the small bond forming between you considering she most likely wasn’t even aware you had a dishwasher in the house. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen her clean a single thing despite her messy tendencies.

However she did apparently notice your choice of wardrobe now that the summer weather had kicked into high gear.

“It’s a pair of shorts Tammi.” Your voice was detached and unbothered as you fiddled with Richters collar, attaching the leash to the metal ring and ignoring your sister as she scoffed.

“Barely. My husband lives here too you know.” She spat back in that shrill voice of hers and now you fixed your gaze on her with a sharp glare.

“He’s not even home and it’s almost 100 degrees outside, what the hell do you expect me to wear?” Your voice was louder now as you moved towards the door, a typical sister argument if it wasn’t for the slight truth behind her annoyance.

Despite your denial, you did find yourself dressing a bit more provocative when you knew Sammy would be around.

Maybe it was a bit cruel of you but you liked how awkward he got when you walked past him in a tight tank top without a bra underneath, or bent down to unplug the vacuum in a tiny pair of sleep shorts. His gaze was always on the ceiling when you checked his reaction, neck a little flushed as he cleared his throat and made some excuse to leave the room.

You saw the way he kissed your sister good night, both of them stiff and without any type of chemistry or heat. They barely touched and looked almost disgusted when they had to be in close proximity, no noises from their bedroom at night that would indicate either of them having a good time.

Sammy looked more heated when you were simply doing laundry together.

You didn’t blame him even though you could tell he blamed himself, an almost pained look on his face whenever you gave him a flirty smile or giggled a little too girlishly. He wasn’t the type of man to let his eyes wander in a marriage, even one as unhappy as his was.

It didn’t help that you were his wife’s younger sister, much younger.

You were storming out of the house as Tammi continued to try and lecture you about your clothing, lightly tugged along by an excited Richter. He pulled a little harder than normal when he spotted the car in the driveway, Sammy getting out right as you were passing by.

“Hey.” He greeted gently, approaching just enough to bend down and pet Richter on the head. His eyes slowly drifted up to your face, not before trailing over your bare legs and thighs. “You guys heading out?”

“Your wife is driving us both insane.” You said flatly and he laughed a little, shaking his head in disagreement. Sammy was never one to talk down on your sister, even after a huge blowout argument he still would try and convince you she just was having a hard time lately. “How was your day?”

He kissed his teeth at the question, eyes drifting off as he squinted against the bright sun. “Could’ve been better.”

You nodded sympathetically and gestured back towards the house with a thumb over your shoulder.

“Good luck in there then.” You said softly, half joking but genuinely feeling a little guilty knowing your sister was already in a terrible mood.

He clenched his jaw a little like he was just as aware as you were that a fight would unfold in no time, nodding his head in parting as he disappeared inside.

You took your time walking Richter around the neighborhood in circles, hoping that Tammi would be in bed avoiding household chores by the time you got back there. Both because you couldn’t take anymore bitching from her and because you were selfishly hoping to catch Sammy alone.

Fate was clearly not on your side because you walked back in to a rare sight, the two of them curled up on the couch beside each other as they watched a movie.

You could remember being in high school and seeing them like this, sitting together by a Christmas tree or kissing happily on Thanksgiving. There’d been no sign of it since you moved in and you felt a little surprised at the pure bitterness you felt in your stomach, a little rough as you tossed Richters leash on top of the shoe rack and shooed him away.

Tammi complained when you purposefully passed by them, blocking the TV momentarily with an emotionless look on your face.

You weren’t sure why it bothered you so bad.

Sure you thought Sammy was attractive and you liked getting under his skin, the complimentary nature of his stuttering when you blinked up at him or took a deep breath if you brushed by him closely. It was flattering and an ego boost for him to so obviously struggle around you but that shouldn’t leave you feel so sick at the sight of him resting his head on your sister’s shoulder.

His wife’s shoulder.

Your movements were a little rougher than necessary as you cleaned up the kitchen and you didn’t hear his footsteps over the clanking of the plates.

You stiffened when he was suddenly next to you, unbuttoning the wrist of his sleeves so he could roll them up to his elbows and help you wash up. He was silent for the first few minutes and then he cleared his throat, your eyes going to the side of his face.

“She feels bad that you fought.” He muttered and you glanced back at the living room, unable to see your sister sitting on the couch now and assuming she had retreated back to their room.

“Bet she does.” Your voice was cold and sarcastic which made him sigh in that disappointed paternal way that apparently made you shiver. “Did she tell you what it was about?”

You’d stopped with the dishes now to fully face him and he was putting a noticeable amount of effort into avoiding looking at you, letting you know she had in fact told him before he even hummed in confirmation. You scoffed bitterly and nodded slowly in disbelief at how obvious it was that she had said something to him about your clothing.

“Really Sammy? You’re not even going to look at me now?” Your voice dropped into a low whisper that made you feel like you had done something wrong.

Your intentions may had been a little misguided but you’d never actually crossed any type of line. His gaze and your subtle flirting could easily pass as just being friendly and a little awkward, you’d never done something as simple as felt his skin against yours before even in an accidental graze.

You’d never once actually flirted with him or said something that could have a hidden innuendo. The tension was simple enough it could have been entirely in your head even though you started to doubt that when he finally looked at you, clearly a little conflicted.

“Maybe you could just throw a shirt on sometimes.” He said it so softly that you almost felt bad, a little awkward stammer stunting a few words from leaving his mouth.

“It’s not my fault if you look at my tits Sammy.” Your words were harsher than you meant them to be and definitely a little counterproductive towards your possible end goal of actually catching his attention but you could practically hear your sister’s voice in his suggestion.

You were nearly certain she had whined and complained to him about you and how uncomfortable it was making her, begging him to talk to you and put up some boundaries.

He fully flushed at the statement and his eyebrows furrowed, taking an instinctive step back and resting a hand on the counter as he stared at you.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” He practically whispered and now it was your turn to sigh.

“Do you even care about how unfair this is?” You took a step closer to him under the guise of keeping the conversation private and he stared down at you with a level of knowing that almost made you embarrassed by how obvious you apparently were. “Isn’t this my house too?”

He said your name so softly that you felt a little dizzy, a little hot all over from him scolding you for some reason.

“You know how she gets.” He whispers like it’s a secret the two of you share and now you’re frowning, hating most of all when he tries to defend her to you like you don’t know her better than anyone for the worst reasons.

“Yeah she’s ridiculous, borderline crazy.” You say back and it’s a little less quiet which makes him send a panicked look towards the hallway that leads to their room. “She treats both of us like shit Sammy.”

“She’s go-“ He starts and stops the second you send him a sharp look, not needing to hear the same spiel about her and the hard times she’s apparently going through for the dozenth time this week.

He huffs out a defeated breath but thankfully doesn’t try to continue and make excuses for her that you both don’t actually believe. It’s followed by a moment of tense silence before you turn and head down to the guest room, feeling so bothered by your first slight argument that your chest burns.

Sammy doesn’t bring it up again even though Tammi clearly gets more and more annoyed by you, not just the fact that your clothes have since gotten shorter and tighter since the fight but now she’s started to nitpick just about everything she could think of.

Going for long walks with Richter just didn’t cut it for you anymore which is exactly how you found yourself sitting at the counter of some random dive bar you’d pass on your way back from work.

It wasn’t that late yet so there was only a dozen or so people sat with drinks, either having been there for most the day already or just getting off a shift and seeking solace the same way you were.

You felt almost like life was playing a cruel trick on you when the door opened behind you and a loud group came in, already a bit annoyed at the volume before you glanced over and saw the familiar uniforms now standing next to you.

There was a group of about six officers, most of them rowdy and shoving at eachother with overlapping jabs you couldn’t make out under the layers.

And in the middle of them was Sammy.

He was currently being nudged at by one of the guys who was clearly mocking him about something, a boyish grin on his face as he waved the man away playfully. He looked different like this, so much lighter than he seemed at dinner or after an argument with Tammi.

You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of your gaze on him or just natural instinct to scan his surroundings but his eyes were landing on you and the smile on his face was gone, replaced with a sort of deer in headlights look that almost made you laugh.

It took about four seconds for the others to notice where his attention had gone to and it clearly peaked their interest, seeing an opportunity to make the situation completely humiliating for him.

“Sammy.” You couldn’t stop yourself from saying his name in a light greeting, tipping the top of your beer bottle at him and slightly angling your body in his direction.

“Why aren’t you at home?” His response didn’t help his case at all with the other officers, curious smirks on their faces as one grabbed his shoulders from behind and shook him lightly.

The question was a bit nonsensical considering it wasn’t that late at night yet but the area you were in definitely wasn’t the safest and you’d never really been the type to go out, typically heading back home as soon as you were done with work or class.

“You didn’t tell us your wife was a total smoke show Bryant.” The guy behind him was loud and obnoxious but you smiled at the comment, fully turned in their direction now with your back leaned against the bar top.

He was either new or didn’t know Sammy very well considering he’d definitely brought Tammi around before but you figured her appearances probably dwindled in recent years once their marriage got rocky.

“She’s Tammi’s sister.” He mumbled but it was barely registered by the others who were going between snickering at his awkwardness and trailing their eyes up and down your frame.

“Ah younger model.” One of the others snickered and Sammy tensed completely now, jaw tensing when you audibly laughed.

“New and improved.” You were clearly laying it on thick, twirling your hair with your finger and arching your back in a way that practically shoved your tiny tank top covered chest in their direction. Your tone was flirtatious and far more seductive than necessary, maybe not noticeable to the rowdy officers but definitely to Sammy who had never heard you like that.

He was moving faster than you could process it, gripping your forearm and lightly tugging you off the stool as you made a sound of protest.

“Let’s go.” He gruffed and you had no choice but to follow after him, the whistles and hoots of his coworkers getting more and more distant behind you.

You yanked your arm away from him as soon as you were outside, feeling a burning sensation where he had been touching you.

“What the hell is your problem?” You hissed and he spun around to face you, expression just as irritated as it was when he fought with your sister which left a weird feeling in your gut.

“Why are you saying shit like that?” He spat back and your eyebrows furrowed, not buying that he was really that upset about your slight dig towards Tammi.

You were quiet as you contemplated the real reason he might be this agitated by the brief interaction, taking a few steps forward that made him clench his jaw and gulp as that familiar nervousness started to replace his anger.

“Don’t be like that Sammy.” You said it softly, that tone of voice you used when you were trying to fluster him. It was already effective enough in the kitchen doing dishes but even more deadly now, standing outside a bar in that outfit. “Are you mad they can look and you can’t?”

He didn’t reply, his eyes locked on your face intensely like he was physically restraining himself from letting his gaze wander, and you knew you had gotten it right.

“I won’t tell her.” You say quietly now and shift even closer, a bit distracted by the rare sight of him in full uniform and the way the shirt stretches around his biceps.

“Come on.” He says and it sounds exhausted, taking a few steps away. “Get in the car.”

You sigh but follow him without any resistance, disappointment that your first actually incriminating line hadn’t gotten much reaction from him. His lack of reaction was a win within itself though considering how pained he looked from trying to keep himself in check.

He drove in silence back to the house, parking in front of it when you arrived instead of in the driveway. You could see all the lights turned off except for their bedroom, blinds completely drawn where Tammi was undoubtedly obsessively editing her photos or searching for new camera equipment she’d force him to buy.

“I have to go back to the station for some paperwork.” He mumbled in explanation for the distant parking and you stared at him for a second.

He was keeping his gaze focused on the wheel in front of him, only glancing over when he felt your eyes on him. It was almost instinctually, the way it dipped down to your chest before flickering back up to your face with pure guilt.

You wanted to laugh but you almost felt pity for him and his inability to keep anything hidden.

“Sammy.” Your voice was half pleading and half tempting, your body shifting until you were facing him fully. “Go ahead and look.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours for a few breaths, clearly conflicted with himself. You felt a wave of heat at how obvious he was with his desire, regardless if it had anything to do with you or just the fact you were a young and attractive body in front of him when he was so obviously starved of intimacy.

Then he was finally caving and staring down at your chest, covered by the tank top mostly but still a noticeable amount of cleavage and smooth bare skin for him to gawk at.

You didn’t want to lose his attention now that you finally had it and you weren’t really thinking straight when you reached up to your shoulders to pull the straps down, ignoring the way he said your name in warning and tugging the tank top so it bunched up at your ribs.

He inhaled sharply at the sight of you in your bra, eyes darting all around your torso for a second like he couldn’t decide if he should still look or find something else to focus on.

His hands were twitching in his lap, curling into a fist and balling up the fabric of his pants.

“More?” You asked softly and now you were toying with the final straps on your shoulders, eyes curious as you obsessed over watching him and his reactions. He was almost embarrassing to observe, so clearly overwhelmed and torn by the sight of you.

You smiled when his head was nodding eagerly after a moment of contemplation, maybe too desperate to think straight or just having realized you’d already crossed a line.

Sammy wasn’t going to touch you, you knew that for a fact, atleast not yet. But he clearly had given up on pretending he didn’t want to look at you.

Your hands were steady unlike his still fidgeting anxiously, undoing your bra with an easy motion before you were taking it off completely and letting it rest on the middle console. His eyes went to it briefly, almost touching his forearm, before they were immediately locked back on your now bare chest.

You stared at him as his breath hitched.

He almost looked like he was going to cry when you were letting your palms glide over your ribs, teasing your skin until he seemed like he was going to lose his mind before you were cupping your breast and pushing them together.

“Do you like that?” You whispered softly and the sound of your voice, flirty and coaxing seemed to almost break him.

He groaned audibly and ran a shaky hand over his face, slapping it against the top of the steering wheel after as he adjusted his posture before looking back at you closely.

“Yeah.” He croaked it out with noticeable effort and you hoped the satisfaction you felt wasn’t as obvious on your face, practically beaming at the admission. “Keep going.”

You hummed in response and did exactly as he said, rubbing and groping your own chest as you stared at him closely. He seemed almost transfixed by the sight of it, your soft flesh being pushed and pulled by your hands and your hard nipples peeking through your fingers.

“Wish you’d touch me Sammy.” Your voice was definitely breathier now as you felt a familiar stirring in your gut from your own stimulation, a low groan leaving him when your words registered. “You don’t have to say anything. Just watch me touch myself.”

He stayed silent like you expected, clearly having decided that speaking to you would only make this situation worse than it was, but he kept his gaze locked on you and the way you were playing with your nipples and skin.

This went on for a few tension filled minutes before his radio was crackling to life with some combination of words you couldn’t register. You frowned as he noticeably stiffened and finally looked away from you, taking a deep calming breath.

“Please go inside.” He whispered, back to pointedly staring at the steering wheel and avoiding the sight of you. “Please.”

It was nearly begging and you had a feeling if you pushed just a bit further he would fold, halfway considering it before you were nodding and grabbing your bra off of the middle console.

Sammy was pulling off with a squeal as soon as you were at the front door, having waited and watched until you were off the sidewalk.

—

He practically acted like you didn’t exist after the encounter, no longer helping you with dishes or lingering around after dinner to have small talk with you about his day.

You’d expected it but it still stung the same.

He hadn’t taken advantage of you, if anything it was the opposite, but you still felt almost sick with shame and rejection. It drove you nearly insane to see him with Tammi now that you knew what it felt like to be under his wanting gaze, an obsession of sorts brewing dangerously under your surface as you went about your days like nothing had happened.

You waited to try your luck again until one of the rare days Sammy was home and your sister wasn’t. She had mentioned to you this morning that she had a dinner with a ‘model’ before talking your ear off about the photoshoot subject but you’d stopped listening as soon as she said she’d be gone for a few hours.

Sammy was somewhere in the living room when you had gone into the shower, making it one of your shortest of all time. You stayed in there just long enough to let the room get steamed up, your wet hair sticking to your shoulders and your bare skinned adorned with nothing but a small towel and water droplets.

You waited for a second after shutting off the shower head, listening closely to see if you could hear him in the living room. You smiled when you heard him clearing his throat and muttering something to Richter.

“Sammy?” You called out in an exaggerated helpless tone. You repeated it louder a few times until the sound of his quick footsteps coming down the hallway and you grin with excitement.

“You okay?” He asked softly, first half of the question muffled behind the door and the second clearer as you swung it open.

His gaze immediately raked over your towel covered frame, the bottom of it barely covering the swell of tour ass. He had a knowing look on his face when his eyes finally met yours again, worsening when you gave him a sweet smile.

“My clothes were too close to the shower and got wet.” You frowned at him in an exaggerated manner and he sighed loudly, glancing behind you to see the piles of clothes that looked suspiciously dry. “It’s too cold to walk all the way to my room like this, could you grab me something to wear?”

He said your name slowly in warning, fingers tapping against the wooden doorframe like he was considering calling you out on how obvious you were currently being. But Sammy was too sweet to do such a thing and you knew it, using his kindness as a clear weakness.

“Please Sammy.” Your pout was even more pronounced and you leaned in close enough for him to inhale sharply, leaning back immediately until he was nodding and heading down the hallway. “Thank you.”

He ignored your call after him and you waited patiently for him to return, leaning against the doorway in the tiny towel and trying to ignore the slight shiver that ran over you for the sake of your plan.

He came back with a stern look like he had mentally prepared himself to be unaffected by you and pushed a handful of clothes in your direction. You took it and laughed after a quick glance over.

“No underwear?” Your head cocked and his face fell, genuinely having forgotten in his determination to do anything but think about your drawer full of lacy panties. “That’s okay.”

There was no hesitance to the way you dropped the towel, letting it pool in a ball at your feet. His shoulders deflated and he instinctively stared at your chest before drifting down the smooth plane of your stomach and finally between your thighs.

He couldn’t see much considering you were both standing close enough together that he’d have to very intentionally strain his neck downwards to really look but you were fully naked in front of him and that fact was enough to make his head spin.

It was only a few seconds of bare skin before you were pulling the shirt he had grabbed over your head but it was long enough for the image to burn in his mind.

“More comfortable this way anyways.” You said softly as you smiled up at him and brushed past, letting your chest rub against his arm as you went to your room.

—

It turned out that driving Sammy Bryant to insanity was a highly entertaining hobby to have developed. He was so easy to fluster even after seeing all of you that day in the bathroom, still getting all red in the face whenever you got too close or touched his hand while passing salt at dinner.

Tammi had been relatively calm lately, the fights she picked daily consisting more of brief bickering than actual screaming matches. You figured it had something to do with that so called model she had dinner with the other night but that was also keeping her out of the house more often so you weren’t going to mention it.

You liked being alone with Sammy and for more reasons than your own selfish teasing. It gave you a genuine warmth to cook dinner for him, cleaning up side by side and sometimes watching movies when he could stomach being around you for long periods of time.

He would never sit next to you of course, maintaining a respectful distance and excusing himself awkwardly to bed the second you said something flirty or a romcom got too steamy.

Sammy Bryant was sadly a good guy.

So you really were left with no choice but to cross the line for him, knowing he’d never do it himself.

You’d been watching a movie silently like you were so often these days when you grew too impatient to continue trying to toe that stupid fucking line with him. You stood up and went to block his view of the TV, his gaze questioning and then panicked when you climbed into his lap.

“What are you doing?” He halfway gasped out and you kneaded your hands into his shoulders.

“Don’t play dumb Sammy.” You sigh softly as you settle onto him, knees on both sides of his thighs as you straddle his lap. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“We can’t do this.” He rushes out but he makes no move to remove you, maybe too scared to touch you at all.

You frown and lean forward so your chests are pressing together before placing a light kiss on his jaw. He practically melts right away, unsurprisingly easy despite how much he was pretending to not want you the same way you wanted him.

Your mouth is hot and wet on his skin and only gets more feverish when he’s finally letting his big hands rest on you, one on the small of your back and the other tangling in your hair like he’s preparing to stop you if you go too far.

“Does that feel good Sammy?” You whisper against his neck and he makes a sound from deep in his chest. You suck on his jaw lightly and his hands clench on you, eyes closing at the sensation. “Let me make you feel good.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out in agreement, a desperate pant as he nods. “Please.”

Your mouth is on his as soon as the word leaves him and it’s messy right from the start, moving together roughly as he slightly sits up off the couch to press into you. It’s depraved and dirty, the tension boiling over into a crash of teeth knocking and tongues colliding desperately. Sammy kisses you like he’d been thinking of it for far longer than you might have realized and you return it tenfold, gripping his shoulders tightly.

He hums and grabs your jaw to keep you steady as you lick into each other’s mouths, tilting your head just enough to allow him to get deeper as he eagerly tastes you. You hadn’t expected him to be this dirty considering how stale every interaction with Tammi seemed.

You’re desperate to get your shirt off and he waste no time, caught up in the heat of what’s happening and both of you dazed from how fast things escalated. His hand is roughly cupping one of your breast and he’s bringing his hot mouth down to it, wrapped around your hard nipple as you whine loudly and grab his hair.

“Oh fuck Sammy.” You gasp, back arching to push yourself further into him as he feverishly licks and sucks your heated skin. “There we go baby, I knew you wanted me like this.”

“Stop talking.” He grunts as he comes up for air just long enough to pull you into another bruising kiss, tongues immediately tangling again.

You’re rocking in his lap now and he’s groaning so much he can barely keep up with your mouth, more so just you licking into him while he completely loses control of himself now that he’s finally allowed himself to have you.

“Oh my god.” He grunts out, clearly pained from the desire filling him, his eyes lock down on his lap where you’re currently rolling your hips against the obvious tent in his pants. “What the fuck am I doing?”

“Letting yourself have what you want for once.” You’re whispering in his ear as you rock against him, panting slightly into his neck as you cling to his shoulders. He groans and lets his hands grip your hips roughly to help you move.

“Oh god.” He nearly whimpers as you speed up, getting sloppy and desperate as his own hips leave the couch to try and thrust up against you. You gasp at the feeling and nod to encourage him to continue.

“Fuck Sammy.” You whine and he grips you harder at the sound. “Wish you could fuck me like this, I’d ride you right now.”

“N-no.” He groans and you’re suddenly very aware of the cold metal band around his finger digging into your skin. “We can’t.”

“But I’m so tight.” You tease, going back to kissing him between panted temptations while what you actually mean is heard silently by both of you, tighter than Tammi, better than Tammi. “I’d make you feel so good.”

He curses under his breath as he bucks up to meet your pace again and you nearly collapse against his chest as you fall silent and let yourself atleast enjoy the feeling of humping against him like this.

You’re both losing it, whining and groaning as you make out sloppily and his hands rub up and down your bare back, occasionally snaking to the front to desperately grab at your chest and any part of your body he can touch.

“Oh my god.” He grunts out and you know exactly what the pained sound means, encouraging him with kisses to the neck and a nod of your head.

“There we go Sammy, come on baby please.” You gasp as you keep moving on top of him, the heat filling you almost making you dizzy as you exert yourself to please him. “Want you to cum for me.”

He’s gripping you so hard it’s painful as he rushes forward to kiss you again and shut you up, both of you moaning and panting into each others mouths as he finishes in his pants, still thrusting up against you until your whines get high pitched and you’re following right after him.

There’s a moment of softness after it’s over where you relax against his chest and continue to kiss each other, less heated now but still deep and passionate as you taste him eagerly.

It’s almost sweet, his hands much gentler now as he rubs your back and yours hold his face softly.

You kiss for a long time and your heart senses the end before it actually happens, just a split second of hesitance from him making your chest tighten up. He pulls away and his face is full of guilt, nearing so close to disgusted that you almost want to cry even though you know it’s not directed towards you.

He’s fully hating himself for what happened because Sammy is a good man. So good that it’s hard to blame him when he’s gently pushing you off of his lap and onto the couch before he’s standing up and retreating back to his room.

—

He’s flat out avoiding you now and not even bothering to hide it.

His hours at work nearly double and suddenly he’s always too tired to eat dinner with you and your sister or not feeling good, a headache or a back ache or anything that warrants him getting to hide out in their room as much as possible.

Tammi rants to you one of the nights he doesn’t come home until far past normal, telling you how she thinks he’s depressed and that he needs a creative outlet or a hobby.

You want to tell her that she’s an idiot and that if he was depressed he’d need real help and not a fucking paintbrush, but you settle for humming in vague acknowledgement.

You’re only half paying attention when she mentions the fact they’re trying for a baby, head snapping up to stare at where she’s currently sitting at the table and scrolling on her laptop.

“What?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it too and she narrows her eyes at you. “A baby? I mean… are you sure that’s a good idea Tammi?”

You tell yourself you’d have the same reaction regardless of what happened between you and Sammy, the knowledge of your sister being a terrible candidate for a mother existing long before you even took a second look at him.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She asked just as tensely, another sister disagreement already building at the mere suggestion you disagree with her.

“You just said Sammy might be depressed.” You reason even though it doesn’t even feel right to say.

Sammy would be an amazing father regardless of how he was feeling emotionally, you could just tell by how patient and gentle he was with just about everything and everyone around him. Including you before you’d pushed him too far, holding out for much longer than anyone else might have with your advances.

And even now he still wasn’t cruel to you although the distance was worse in your opinion.

“It was his idea.” She shrugs as she says it like it doesn’t send a pang directly to your heart.

It takes all of your effort to not show how affected you are on your face.

Sammy can’t avoid you when he comes home, you made sure of it. Tammi had fallen asleep hours ago and Richter was resting in his kennel, dishes done and house spotless without a single excuse for him to ignore you standing in the kitchen.

He’d have to really be an asshole and purposefully walk right pass you when you’re so clearly waiting for him and it’s just not in his nature so he slows down with a sigh, lingering there as he waits for you to or do whatever thing you’ve decided on torturing him with today.

“You’re having a baby?” Your voice is quiet and sounds more hurt than you expected it to, a little too accusatory. It was meant to be a question but the delivery barely landed and his eyebrows furrowed immediately.

“What?” He surprisingly takes a few steps closer in confusion, setting down his jacket on the chair. “What are you talking about? Did Tammi say that?”

You sigh and shake your head, realizing how what you said could be misunderstood as a very poor announcement of something he wasn’t supposed to know.

“No I just meant.. she said you were trying.” You try and explain but it comes out awkward and a little lost.

He takes a long pause as he just looks at you and you hate that it’s the first time he’s really paying attention to you in days and it’s with so much pity. The pity is ten times worse than any anger or distaste he might be able to muster.

“We talked about it yeah. Months ago, before you even moved in.” His voice is soft and reassuring even though you both know that it makes no sense in this scenario. He doesn’t owe you anything, not an explanation and certainly not loyalty.

You nod but your lips are pursed tightly and you feel a weird scratching feeling in your throat, suddenly very aware of the fact you want to cry.

You have no idea when your twisted attraction for Sammy turned into something else entirely. It had been a fun game for you to occupy yourself with while you were stuck in a suburban hell but somewhere along the ride you had gotten lost in the domestic nights you shared.

“Hey.” And then there was that, the sweetness of his voice as he moved closer to you.

It was rare he ever initiated contact, barely staying in a room with you lately, but his caring nature clearly made him drop some of his walls because he was cupping your cheek gently.

“Don’t do that please. I don’t want you to be upset.” He’s still whispering but it feels incredibly invasion, like he’d seen right through you far easier than you preferred.

You weren’t sure what drove you to it but you almost couldn’t help yourself, leaning forward on your tiptoes and pressing your lips against his.

He kissed you back immediately almost out of instinct after last time before he was sighing and pushing you back lightly, shaking his head and clenching his jaw.

“We can’t.” He said sternly but his hand was still on your face, thumb lightly rubbing your cheek. “You know we can’t.”

It would have hurt more if it wasn’t for the expression he had as he stared down at you, gentle and so clearly wanting. You nodded in reluctant understanding but he was surprising you again when he made a low noise and dipped his head to kiss you again, clearly pushing past the mental block he was facing.

You eagerly kissed him back, similar to the last one you had shared full of sweetness and undeniable passion.

Your mouths moved together perfectly, chemistry obvious between you as your tongues tangled in sync and you halfway deflated in relief at the ever growing familiar taste of him.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles against your mouth and you try to quiet him with more kisses, a few being allowed before he’s continuing to speak. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you Sammy.” You attempt to reassure even though you know it most likely falls on deaf ears. “It’s okay to want something.”

“Not this.” He immediately disagrees but still pecks your mouth a few more times, the final time being a long press. “I can’t want this.”

You’re both silent for a second as you frown softly, your hands on his biceps as you rub softly.

“But you do?” It’s more vulnerable than you mean for it to be but now you’re plagued with the thoughts of him and Tammi having a baby, sealing their lives together forever and shifting his priorities and attention far away from you and whatever this was.

You needed to hear him say, not just assume from the desperate longing look in his eyes whenever he glanced at you.

“Yeah.” He whispered the confirmation down at you with little to no hesitance and you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding so deeply. “I want you.”

Sammy only had a few more seconds to spare before Tammi’s voice was coming down the hallway, questioning and beckoning him to bed while your stomach clenched painfully. He glanced down at your lips again like he was considering kissing you goodnight before he seemingly decided against it, giving you a pitying look before he was leaving.

—

He stopped ignoring you after that but you had decided that was almost worse.

You craved him all the time and it was a little less embarrassing now that he was hiding his own wants less. His hands were constantly finding you when Tammi wasn’t paying attention, grazing the small of your back or tucking your hair behind your ears with an overwhelming gentleness.

And then there was the kissing.

It happened less often than you would have liked but still almost every time he could, initiating most of the time. You’d be doing the laundry and suddenly pressed against the machine with his mouth on yours or getting a quick stolen peck when he passed by you in the living room before going to work.

You could almost pretend that he was your husband instead of your sisters.

You had the same domestic fantasy when you were walking into the police station, Richter in front of you slightly pulling you along as you tried to reel him in to the best of your ability. He was excited for the same reasons you were, spotting Sammy at his desk and nearly yanking your arm off.

“Hey you guys.” Sammy’s voice was soft when he spotted you both, rolling his chair slightly away from the desk so he could greet Richter with some playful pets. His eyes went to you next and you were glad to see him smiling, halfway worried he was going to be upset you showed up unannounced. “You okay?”

“Ask him.” You smiled back and gestured down towards the excited dog, pulling out the small baggie you’d been stashing when Sammy raised his eyebrows in question. “He found this on our walk, almost tripped me in the process of getting it out of a bush.”

You’re holding the plastic with your fingertips to avoid touching it too much and Sammy laughs in slight disbelief at the baggie filled with white powder, nodding his head slowly with a low whistle.

“I figured I should bring it to you instead of throwing it away at the park.” You continued to explain and he was standing now, pulling a plastic glove out of one of his drawers and taking it from you.

“You figured right, thank you sweetheart.” He said lightly and you both tensed up at the pet name, definitely accidental judging by the embarrassed look on his face.

You blinked at him for an awkward second before clearing your throat and glancing around the station.

“You have a second?”

His eyes darkened just enough for it to be noticeable before he was nodding and gesturing for you to follow him. You left Richter behind with some of the officers who had been fawning over him since he walked in.

Sammy was on you practically as soon as you turned a corner into a quiet hallway, mouth pressed against yours as you giggled softly into the kiss.

“Shouldn’t we go somewhere more private?” You asked him softly, your hands flat on his chest and rubbing softly while his went to the small of your back. He ignored you for a second in favor of kissing you again before he was huffing out a breath and nodding, taking your hand in his and leading you further down.

It was a small room with a few printers that looked old or broken, some leaning shelves full of stacks of paper and a noticeable lack of windows.

You kissed him desperately now that you were free to, hand holding his jaw as he guided you back against the door with his own grip on your waist. His mouth was hot and desperate on yours in a way that made your stomach clench with anticipation after waiting for him to want you like this for so long.

“Been thinking about you all day.” He confessed against your lips and you beamed up at him, letting the hand that was on his face move up to his hair.

“Yeah?” You whispered softly as pecked his jaw which drew a low hum out of him. “What about?”

You were kissing again like that was an answer within itself, his tongue slipping into your mouth and sending waves of warmth through your body. You matched it eagerly, tangling them together and using your free hand to try and tug his tie off.

He made another sound, this one of disapproval and grabbed your wrist lightly to stop you as he sighed and pulled away from your mouth. You frowned but were slightly satiated when he rested his head on your shoulder like he was physically exhausted from denying you.

It was quiet for a minute or two and you wondered if he was coming to a similar realization to that one you’d recently accepted.

This was more than lust and stupidly now.

Your hands were gently rubbing him, in his curls and across his back while his grip flexed on your hips. You could hear the sounds of other officers and detectives outside the door, a whole life he lived and belonged in while you were guided to the storage closet.

“You called me sweetheart.” You said softly just to break the silence, not even realizing the pet name he had accidentally used earlier had stuck in your head until you spoke.

His head lifted off your shoulder so his eyes could be locked on yours, they were so ridiculously fond and gentle it made you a little dizzy, a big change from the nervous and guarded look he had a few weeks ago.

“Yeah it just came out.” He spoke quietly, leaning forward as he did so you felt his breath on your lips before he was kissing you again. “Is that okay? Is it something you like?”

“Yes.” You breathed back immediately, deepening the frustratingly slow kisses for a few seconds before pulling back again. “I like it a lot.”

Sammy wasn’t shy with the pet names after that, using them almost constantly now that he knew you liked them. He used them so habitually that you felt a little anxious anytime Tammi was in the room and he was speaking to you, wondering when the time would come that he slipped up out of instinct.

Things were good between you for weeks even though there was the selfish part of you that was always wanting more and more. He still had that same guilt in his eyes, especially when you got a little more heated than just kissing in passing.

But he wasn’t denying himself of you any more and you were completely greedy.

You felt no shame about what you were doing, it didn’t keep you up at night thinking about how you were betraying your sister. That’s where you and him were different, where he was a good man still despite the growing affair.

The need for more was never satisfied just by kissing him, even if it was the type of kissing that left you with shaky legs and damp underwear. He’d let you say filthy things to him, running his hands all over your body and being a little too nervous to talk dirty back to you. You liked the redness of his neck when you whispered sweet sins to him

He even pushed aside his shame to let you blow him in the front of his patrol car, stopping by on a lunch break when you texted him that you had a terrible shift.

He’d looked so concerned when you pulled up that you almost felt bad for the hunger that hit you seeing him in uniform. He had barely gotten down the street before you were leaning over the middle console and gently kissing at his neck, trying his best to ignore you before he was turning into an empty parking lot.

It was the same as always with your mouths hot on each other, tongues tangling and him tugging you out of your seat until you were sitting on his lap and whining against his lips.

You could feel him getting hard under you and you were so desperate you could barely breathe, mouth watering as you begged him to at least let you see it, even let you just jerk him off before he went back to work.

“No baby no.” He had protested against your mouth even though he was visibly shuddering at the suggestions and groaning everytime you shifted your hips ontop of him. It didn’t take long before he was gently moving you back over and letting you take his belt off.

Things got much harder for you after that, getting to see his length and taste him on your tongue and down your throat without having him completely. It was driving you genuinely insane enough to the point you would have jumped his bones right in front of Tammi.

He was currently making it much worse by walking in the kitchen with the tired look on his face you liked so much and his big hands tugging off his tie.

“Is she asleep?” His voice is low and you nod, lip pulled between your teeth as you rest your back on the kitchen sink drawers and watch him approach you slowly. Your hands are behind you and curling around the edge of the counter with anticipation. “Hey baby.”

It’s soft, far softer than the things you’re currently imagining and you lean closer to him when he presses against you and cups your face to give you a greeting kiss.

Like you’re his wife.

“How was your day?” You hum back, more than happy to play the part.

“Long.” He says back and you can feel the words vibrating your mouth, answering him and his stressed out tone with a deeper kiss.

He doesn’t hesitate before reciprocating it, hand leaving your face in favor of spanning across your lower back and tugging you closer. Your head tilts naturally to allow the kiss to escalate even more and you almost feel guilty for the depraved things you’re thinking about.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” He mumbles against your lips and you pout a little at the gentle question, not knowing how exactly he could tell your mind was occupied.

“Nothing’s wrong.” You say back and he gives you a slightly firm look, clearly not buying your answer. You sigh and peck his lips before taking a second to consider how you want to word it. “You’re being mean to me.”

He fondly laughs a little in surprise at your statement, rubbing your back softly as you blink up at him. Your hands go to his loose tie to help remove it fully, working on the top few buttons next.

“I’m not being mean.” He denies with amusement, eyeing you as you maneuver with his clothes. You don’t stop at the top three buttons and his eyebrows raises. “I give you what you want.”

“Not everything.” You disagree easily and he knows what you’re talking about, he must know by now what you really need so desperately from him.

“It’s hard baby.” He whispers and kisses you again like it’ll soothe you enough for you to drop it. You don’t at all, the opposite in fact when you let your palm leave his shirt and go down to the minimal space between your bodies to tug at his belt buckle.

You’re not trying to undo it but simply pulling him forward and indicating what you really are wanting.

“You know we shouldn’t.” He sighs in a whisper but he looks conflicted and still a little fond of you and your antics, no matter how whiny.

“Can I at least blow you again?” You pout up at him like it’s such a simple request and his breath catches in his throat. “I did so good, didn’t I?”

“Of course you did sweetheart.” He agrees easily, bending down to kiss you again and softly tucking your hair behind your ears. He’s so sweet that it makes you a little angry, wishing so bad he’d just take what you knew he wanted from you. “You’re always so good for me.”

You’ve gotten halfway down his shirt now with the buttons before you stop, leaning forward to press your lips against his chest briefly before you’re blinking up at him again. A warmth fills you at the praise even though you’re well aware of how good you make him feel.

“Say it.” You whisper and he knows exactly what you mean, the same phrase you’d requested from him numerous times by now with no shame. His head tilts as he sighs, wanting to tell you no but knowing by the look on your face it’s a terrible idea.

“You’re better than her.” He says back, barely audible but still sincere. He’s looks a little pained to say it but it makes you breathe out in relief and nod your head in quick agreement. “You make me feel so good babygirl.”

Your mouths are pressed back together and it’s filthy immediately now, tongues tangling and his hands moving off your back and down to knead your ass under the small skirt you’re wearing.

It’s heating up quickly again, getting dizzier and dizzier the longer it goes on.

He’s groaning loudly at one point and pulling away from the kiss to roughly turn you around. You gasp at the movement and the way he crowds up behind you, his chest pressed against your back as you halfway bend over the counter.

You whimper loudly when you feel how hard he is against your ass and bend over even more so you can rub yourself back on him. He groans and immediately goes to roughly grab your hip with one hand, the other one smoothing over your cheek before he’s pressing a finger into your mouth. You suck happily on it as he experimentally ruts his hips forward.

“Gotta be quiet princess.” He urges as he slips another finger in and you moan obediently around them, arching your back as he rubs himself against you and fills your mouth.

Your tongue is eagerly licking all over his fingers as you suck desperately and he is clearly affected considering the way he’s humping you a bit desperately. His soft noises are driving you crazy and so is the mental image of how the two of you look, his big frame leaning over you and trapping you against the counter just to dry hump you like a teenager.

“God you feel so good.” He grunts and you audibly whine, eyes closing in bliss as you try your best to push backwards and meet his grinding. “You’re so pretty sweetheart.”

“I need you.” You’d grabbed his wrist to take his saliva covered fingers out, kissing against them as you speak through near sobs. “Please Sammy I can’t do this anymore.”

“Let me taste you first.” He says in the lowest voice you’d ever heard him speak in. You shake your head in protest immediately but he ignores you, free hand coming down to slightly lift your skirt and rub across the wet slit of fabric between your legs. “Fuck baby you’re soaked.”

“N-no more waiting.” You nearly sob as you continue to shake your head to really sell your point. “I need it so bad.”

It’s silent for a few seconds like he’s trying one last time to search for the self restraint to hold back but it’s clear what you want and you know he needs it just as bad as you do. You’d let him get between your legs with that tongue of his another time, any time he wanted, but right now you were desperate to be filled by him.

Sammy has you pressed against the kitchen counter tighter, your stomach digging into the top of it now as he bends you back over fully and roughly tugs the skirt up so it’s sitting in a messy pile around your hips.

He doesn’t bother taking it off, pulling your panties down your legs and grunting when he sees you all exposed for the first time.

“Do you want me to stretch you out?” He asks it lowly and the sound of his voice is nearly enough for you as is, a high pitched whine leaving you as you lay your face down on the counter and close your eyes. “Want me to take my time with you?”

“No no.” You pant out immediately and arch backwards again, knowing how depraved the sight of you must look. You feel his thumb rubbing through your soaking wet slit experimentally, a low sound from his chest coming from behind you.

The metal clasps of his belt being undone comes next and now you really feel like you’re about to cry, straining your neck to try and look over your shoulder to get another look at the thick length you’d be obsessing over since he was pushing it down your throat not too long ago.

He stopped you with a slightly rough hand to the back of your head, pushing your face back down against the cold counter just as he shifted even closer and rubbed up against you.

You could feel him now, bare and aching against your core as he teased it up and down softly. You knew you must have been soaking him from how wet you were, no doubt his intention to make the stretch easier for you.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks from behind you and now the low rasp is gone again, sounding more like his typical nervous cadence that you’re so fond of. “We can’t go back from this.”

“Don’t want to go back.” You say immediately and you’re shocked by how much you don’t recognize your own voice layered in this much desperation. “Want you to fuck me.”

He chuckles a little at the unashamed answer you give and bends down to press a gentle kiss to the side of your temple, your heart racing at the gesture even though you’re a bit distracted by less domestic fantasies. His weight leaning against your back almost makes you want him that much more and you impatiently rock your hips backwards against him.

He stills you with rough hands on your bare hips before he’s sucking in a shaky breath, the life changing feeling of the throbbing blunt head of his length pressing against you making you whine out desperately in anticipation.

“This what you wanted huh?” He groans as he pushes into you slowly and you whine happily, face flat on the counter as your eyes close from the pain of the stretch. “Wanted to be fucked like a whore baby?”

“Yes yes.” You cry in agreement as you clench around him, barely past the tip and already feeling like he’s filling you. “I’m a whore Sammy, wanted you so bad.”

His hand lands roughly on the exposed skin of your ass and you yelp, instinctively trying to move back away from the pain and instead taking a few more inches of him all at once. Your pained gasp is followed by a moan and he curses behind you.

“Slow babygirl slow.” He grunts, that softer side of him you like so much still showing despite his need having caused him to get rougher initially. “Don’t wanna hurt you princess.”

“Could never hurt me.” You gasp as you try and move further back against him, he grips your hips roughly to stop you and you whine in protest. “Please Sammy please, want you to fuck me.”

“I’m gonna fuck you baby.” He soothes the best he can but you’re too desperate to focus on what he’s saying. “You’re just so tight.”

You try your best to be patient but it’s nearly impossible, whining and squirming nonstop as he rubs your clit with his thumb and kisses against the back of your neck to try his best to get you to relax so he doesn’t stretch you uncomfortably. You’re glad he didn’t work you open first with his fingers, the pain so good you let the tears in your eyes fall endlessly.

Finally he’s bottoming out inside of you and groaning lowly, his forehead resting on your back for a second as he tries to collect himself enough to properly fuck you.

“Sammy please baby.” You gasp in a sob and you feel him tense up at the wrecked sound of your voice. “Fuck me hard.”

That seems to be the trigger that he needs to go from a soft conflicted husband to somebody fucking a tight young thing, a low grunt leaving him as he stands back up fully and grabs your sides.

Sammy is almost animalistic as he thrusts into you, kitchen full of his grunts and your high pitched whines as he fills you over and over again. The stretch is the perfect blend of pain and pleasure and you can barely catch your breath from his relentless place.

Your stomach is digging against the counter roughly and you’re barely able to catch your breath or think as he roughly fucks into you, filled up so deep you can feel him in your stomach.

“Oh my god oh my god.” You’re sobbing as he fucks you and his big hand comes forward to cover your mouth roughly, slightly lifting you off the counter to make sure you’re kept quiet.

“Gotta shut the fuck up if you want to be fucked baby.” He says it softly in your ear but it’s completely filthy and a big change from how gentle he normally is when he speaks to you. You’re most definitely crossed eyed by now from pleasure as you dumbly nod and listen to your muffled moan under his palm. “Fuck you feel so good. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

It’s completely filthy and all you could have imagined for when he finally lost control, ramming into you over and over as he continues to speak the dirty confessions in your ear. Your stomach clenches dangerously early as he tells you how good and pretty you are, how he wants to fuck you everyday, how hard you get him just from a kiss.

“S-Sammy oh my god.” You sob out as he lifts you further off the counter, one of his rough hands smoothing over the front of your stomach and pushing down at the soft skin there like he’s trying to feel himself deep inside of you.

“I know princess I know.” He practically coos, kissing your neck sweetly while he continues to fuck you like an animal. “Does it feel too good baby? You like getting stretched like this by me?”

You can’t even bring yourself to respond, the filth coming from him and the feeling of him inside of you completely taking away your ability to think or communicate. You’re just whining and sobbing softly as he gropes you all over and brings you the type of pleasure you didn’t even know was real.

He falls silent too and you can tell by the stutter of his hips every few thrust that he’s getting close too, grunts getting lower and more desperate as he kisses against your skin.

“Want you to cum inside.” You beg him once you finally manage to get your voice back, high pitched and breathy. “Please Sammy please I want your baby.”

He curses audibly at that, a little too loud for the otherwise quiet kitchen and then you’re slammed back against the counter and fully bent over again as he speeds back up.

You’re finishing as soon as you’re back in the position and he’s able to get as deep as you imagine possible, a loud cry leaving you that is only halfway silenced as he remembers to clap a hand over your mouth too late. You can’t be bothered to care about that right now considering he’s filling you up only a few seconds after, groaning lowly while his hips stutter through his climaxed.

You’re both silent for a few seconds after, panting and catching your breath as you lay against the counter with shaky legs and he practically drapes himself over your back again.

A beat passes before he’s standing with a tired sigh and rubbing your back softly as he pulls out. You squirm uncomfortable at both the emptiness and the ache from the pace he’d been going, his hand still massaging you lightly as he shushes you gently and leans over to the sink to wet a washcloth.

It’s cold as he cleans between your legs quietly and presses light kisses to your body the entire time.

“Are you okay?” He asks you gently as he adjusts your skirt and helps you stand up, turning you around and making a surprised noise when you’re throwing your arms around his neck for a tight hug.

His hands rest on the small of your back as you hug, rocking back and forth with you for a minute or two. You pull back and help him with his belt, his eyes locked on your satisfied but tired face fondly as you close it for him so sweetly with your little shaky hands.

You finally kiss him once you’re done and it’s sweet again now, like you’re two people genuinely in love and not in laws who just railed each other a few rooms over from your sister and his wife.