AWOL

santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?

When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.

See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.

So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.

Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.

So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.

In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”

Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”

Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”

He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”

“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”

Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”

He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”

“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”

His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”

Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”

“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”

She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”

Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.

Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.

As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.

“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”

“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”

“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”

You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”

Then Lagndon’s scent flares.

Intentionally.

Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.

You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”

Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”

Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”

“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”

“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”

“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”

Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”

You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”

Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”

“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”

You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.

Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”

“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”

“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”

Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”

Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”

Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”

Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”

After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”

To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”

Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”

Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”

Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”

Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”

Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.

Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”

“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”

You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”

Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”

“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”

“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”

As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”

“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”

You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.

Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”

Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.

Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”

Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”

“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”

Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”

He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”

She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”

Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”

You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”

“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”

Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.

Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”

“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”

But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”

“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”

“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”

“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”

“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”

“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”

As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”

Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”

“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”

Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”

“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”

You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.

Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.

You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”

Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”

“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face  as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”

When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”

Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”

Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”

“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”

Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”

There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”

Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”

Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”

He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”

Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.

You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))

While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”

“Shit, seriously?”

Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”

“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”

Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.

“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”

Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.

Your heart climbs into your throat.

Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”

You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.

“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”

Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”

“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”

Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”

After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.

“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”

“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”

Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”

You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”

He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”

“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”

You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”

Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”

“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.

He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”

“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”

He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”

You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”

Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”

“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”

His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”

“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”

With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”

“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”

“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”

He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”

You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”

That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.

you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’ denny: i think that’s good!! yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible trin: omegas are fucking useless trin: you should send something slutty you: no i definitely shouldnt you: what should i say instead?? trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY trin: SEND A SLICK PIC you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU you: not like literally right now!!! trin: WHY NOT you: BECAUSE yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe you: not you too denny: yeah you guys don’t get it denny: this is about forever not just sex you: that’s what im saying trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking yoyo: exactly trin: exactly denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy” you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight trin: nonono come on cherry trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point you: you really think so? trin: yeah i do yoyo: agreed yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it denny: just be your nice pretty self :)) you: you’re so cute den ily denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७ you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა you: ₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner trin: lmo (love my omegas) you: im taken yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap you: GOODNIGHT

You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.

So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.

you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you. dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies. dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy. you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey? dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece. you: me too!! dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces? you: ill bring them to pitt vultures

Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.

With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.

denny: you sent that to park??????? you: do you think it’s too much? trin: OH MY GOD trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!! denny: not too much! im just surprised <33 denny: you look super cute yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man trin: careful garcia ill get jealous trin: im so proud of you slut denny: are you gonna bring some to work?? trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY trin: but yeah actually you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!

While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.

Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.

dr. park: Call me. dr. park: Now.