Keyshi

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Something gnaws at the back of Brendon’s skull, like a metaphorical breeze that he can’t quite seem to shake, irking him into a constant state of annoyance.

He’s getting irritable again, that much is clear from all the whispers and glances his interns, residents and nurses have been giving him all week. Hell, even Robinavitch has been more curt than usual, not lingering to engage with him outside of the strictly medical. It’s not like they were buddies to begin with, but the two extra words they give each other at consults are definitely missing.

Brendon knows what it is, that itching under his skin, that weight to his heartbeat, that cold deep within his bones.

He has tried to ignore it before and it had worked for the majority of his life. Contact sports, exercise, hell, even the rigorousness of med school had done wonders to dull the ache into a barely there whisper in the back of his mind. The need had just become a want, a little tingle that he could pretend didn’t exist.

But he can’t ignore it anymore, not since his last partner.

The breakup had been mutual, her moving away to another city and him letting her go because what kind of selfish monster would be he if he didn’t. But ever since then, the gust had turned into a storm, roaring and unashamed to freeze everything in its path.

Brendon threw his entire focus on work, on the medicine, on routine, structure but none of it has been enough to fix the heaviness of his heart.

He groans as he finally settles into the plush cushion of his office chair, the leather just the right amount of cool after being left alone in the air conditioned room all morning.

Six hour surgery, practically in and out, right when he clocked in and just a little after lunch. He should be proud, should be feeling the weight of hunger and exhaustion and accomplishment. But instead all he can feel is the weight of…emptiness.

He knows it’ll end in heartache once more, just pure dissatisfaction, but he can’t seem to stop himself as he pulls out his phone and opens that stupid private app that Robinavitch had so kindly recommended.

No new matches.

Great.

He’s not looking for much, nothing that he would consider unreasonable. Sure, he’s probably gone through every single profile on it in the few months since his separation, meeting a few of the ones who matched for initial compatibility assessment coffees, but none of them had stuck. They all felt like a chore, like he was adding more to their lives than they were to his. He felt awful about it for a while, tried to rationalize it, convince himself that it’s his role to provide for them so what he wants doesn’t matter as much. But that only made the times they’d made it into the bedroom that much more exhausting. It felt like a performance, detached and devoid of all emotional connection.

Needless to say, Brendon Park remains alone and the ache is slowly eating away at him.

His pager goes off as he stares into the distance, his brain giving him whiplash as he snaps back into the unfortunate reality of where he is, who he is and just all he isn’t. He groans, audibly, taking advantage of the empty room, the silence, the lack of prying eyes, and eventually pushes himself back on his already aching feet.

The walk down to the ED is quick and sharp, all business and forward momentum. People part like water as he swims through the hustle and bustle of the hospital, only slowing down in the elevator before resuming his swiftness the second the stainless steel doors open.

He catches the tired eyes of the head nurse above her glasses, giving her a subdued and respectful nod of his head as she intercepts him. His eyebrow twitches in confusion as she falls into step beside him, practically herding him into central eight.

"What've you got?"

Dana sighs, seemingly over whatever drama this patient has put her through.

"Just a really bad sprain from what I can tell but she insisted."

That makes Park stop cold. Her lip quirks into a soft smirk, somehow understanding something before he could even catch up to it, a hint of mischief breaking through her exhaustion.

"Oh yeah," she grins. "Asked for you by name too."

He pushes past her then, curiosity killing the big mean shark or however the saying goes.

And to say that he's surprised would be an understatement, his predatory gaze going from cold and calculating to one of shock, wiped swiftly by a softness that no one has ever seen from him.

"Sugar plum?"

"Nutcracker man!" your voice is like a shot of whiskey in a cold winter's night. 

"What are you doing here?" Here at the hospital, here in Pittsburg, here, right in front of him, close enough to reach out and—

"Steven insisted I come over and ask for you by name," you huff, ever the indignant child. "I told him it was just a sprain but he got mad at me."

His lips instantly quirk into a full smile, completely ignoring the nurse in the room and Santos's bulging eyes.

"Cut your brother some slack, some habits die hard."

You roll your eyes. "Easy for you to say, your sisters are lovely."

That gets a chuckle out of him, easy and hearty, and he can practically see Santos almost falling out of her chair in shock.

"They're just as bad as you and you know it."

You smile brightly at that, innocent eyes with a devilish smirk that almost stops his heart.

“I don’t actually, I’m an angel.”

His lips instantly quirk into a full smile. Yeah right.

You chuckle softly at his reaction as he moves from the front of the bed towards you. Strong, confident hands hover over your elevated leg, as if trying to hold himself back from the temptation that is finally laying his hands on you, of confirming that you are real and not just another figment of his imagination.

He gets over himself quickly as Santos finally clears her throat, presenting the case before the room drowns in the downpour of your familiarity. He swallows thickly, willing his hands to just do their damn job, urging muscle memory to carry him through.

As Santos drones on, he can feel the searing fire of your stare, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly as he picks up the ice pack over your purpling ankle, the way goosebumps emerge as he picks up your leg and gently conducts the same mobility, tenderness and pain examination that the intern in triage must’ve.

“…and that’s why I don’t babysit for anyone. Kids are a safety hazard.”

You chuckle lightheartedly. “It’s my own fault, I shouldn’t have trusted a three year old to tidy up. I should’ve looked where I was going.”

“You’re looking after Tyler?” The words escape him before he can think twice about it.

“Yeah, I’m living with them actually,” you murmur, shifting as he sets your foot back down on the pillow. “While I…” you trail off, a little embarrassed as you look around the room at the three other pairs of eyes still glued to your interaction with Park like he’s grown an extra head.

He stiffens, his light hand over your calf tightening ever so slightly as he clears his throat. “Well you’re right, it’s just a sprain but I’d still like to be sure so I’m going to order x-rays and we’ll go from there.”

You nod, watching him intently as he icily glares around the room, snapping everyone back into action. When the fishes have scattered and it's only the two of you in the room, he pulls back his teeth and settles on the stool Santos was just occupying.

“It’s really good to see you again,” you tell him, shyly playing with your necklace.

He’s smitten by the habit, one he knows well.

“Me too,” he keeps his voice steady and even. “Whatever happened to…”

He doesn’t mean to pry, but he simply can’t help it. He needs to know, his heart practically doing somersaults in his chest.

You sigh, ripping your gaze from his haunting blue eyes and making yourself as little as you can before speaking. “Broke up.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“And your masters program?”

That gets you to look back at him, a tame yet excited smile curling your lips, causing a prideful shiver to course through Brendon’s body.

“Graduated with honors last year,” you beam.

“Atta girl, I’m proud of you,” he pats your thigh without thinking about it, the contact comfortable and familiar. He catches the way your breathing hitches, doesn’t mention it, sliding his touch to rest on the bed instead.

“What about you?” You recover quickly. “Whatever happened with that woman from Steven’s birthday party?”

Oh right, you'd met her. He visibly cringes and you instantly feel bad.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be, it’s okay,” the panic in your voice makes him violently ill, quickly returning his touch to your thigh to soothe you. “Didn’t work out.”

“Oh…I’m sorry Brendon, she doesn’t know what she missed out on.”

Your compliment is genuine, he knows it, he feels it, and it instantly puts him at ease. He gives you a soft, sorrowful smile. 

“So what’s next?” He changes the subject, deflection always being easier to handle than truth.

You shrug. “Get x-rays done, prove to my brother that I’m fine and I shouldn’t have had to deal with medical bills, probably order takeout when I get discharged—”

Brendon chuckles, cutting off your rambling even if he doesn’t want to. “I meant with life, sugar plum.”

Your eyes widen in embarrassment, the panic that he’d seen in them earlier when he mentioned your ex returning tenfold.

It’s his turn to apologize, mouth instantly opening to try and fix it, when his pager goes off, cutting through the comfort you’d created for him instantly. Suddenly, the cold returns, the bright lights remind him of the headache, the loudness of the ED seep into his bones.

“Go,” you tell him. “Go be a hot, competent surgeon doctor man.”

He rolls his eyes, his eyes lingering on the sincerity of your voice. There had been a time when those words would’ve ended with your brother teasing the two of you relentlessly. But you never take it back. Even if the words don't mean anything more than the truth, Brendon could always count on you to remind him of the simple facts of life.

He is competent. He is a surgeon doctor man. He is hot. 

Wait—

Before he can wrap his head around the word, around the meaning behind it, he’s being pulled away, this time by a 911. He gives your thigh one last squeeze, not really aware he’s doing but the warmth of your skin lingers against his palm all the way back upstairs into OR 3 and it relaxes him.

Complications with one of Garcia’s surgeries keep him distracted for the next four hours, the comforting practice of being just another set of hands that has no thoughts or feelings or yearnings aside from the medicine in front of him doing wonders to clench his thirst.

It’s late when he finally settles back into his body. The ache, the hunger, the exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave. He knows it was coming but actually realizing just how much he’s neglected himself in the hustle of the day always leaves him feeling worse about himself.

He cleans up as much as he can, changing into civilian clothes before he returns to his office to gather his things and get the fuck out of the sterile building.

His phone glares at him from where it’s been left, neglected and alone, for the majority of the day. He doesn’t panic, though. There’s no one waiting for him on the other end of the annoying device anyway. He taps the screen, however, a stupid habit that he too has fallen victim to like the entire human population.

One text from his sister in their family group chat. One weather notification. Two missed calls and a few texts from your brother.

The short interaction rushes back to him instantly, his body blossoming with the promise of something warm once more. He picks up the small device, returning your brother’s call instantly.

“Hey brother,” Steven’s voice is cheerful, even if Brendon knows better.

“Hey, long time no call.”

Steven chuckles at that, the lingering guilt from both parties only partially alleviated.

“Yeah, who’s fault is that?”

“Definitely mine,” Brendon concedes with a chuckle. “To what do I owe all this attention then?”

“Just wanted to thank you for taking care of my sister today.”

Brendon can’t help the smile that spreads at the mention of you, at the reminder that you’re actually real to other people too.

“Of course, man, she’s family,” he lets the feelings settle deep in his chest, resting against his desk before continuing. “How’s she doing?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, she’s still at the hospital.”

The feeling expands, twisting into one of rage and shame.

“It’s been hours.”

“I know…but she just told me they’re discharging her.”

Brendon sighs, silently damning the entire healthcare system.

“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”

“Thanks man,” Steven sighs in gratefulness. “Oh and bring a pizza over please.”

Brendon rolls his eyes at his friend’s lack of shame. “Of course. Still just cheese for Tyler?”

“You know it.”

With that, Brendon practically rushes back down to the ED, his hair fluffy from the sweat breaking apart his gel cast, the casual henley and dark wash denim combo making him unrecognizable to the staff as he walks through, giving Abbot a curt nod in acknowledgement before he enters the room you’d been in earlier.

Your eyes light up as you see him. “Hey stranger.”

“That’s doctor stranger to you.”

It makes you giggle and he’s certain his cheeks bloom pink at that.

“You taking me home?”

He nods once, walking over to the computer and scanning his ID so that he can take a final look at your chart. You gather your things slowly, watching how the man you’d seen a few hours ago has drastically transformed into the man you’ve known for the past seven years. 

You’d met Brendon at your high school graduation, your brother having come back home from college with his roommate for the summer. You’d spent the entire two months before you left for college yourself convinced that the two of them were together together, the way they brought out the best in each other endearing.

It was when you’d caught them both at the same house party your friends had dragged you to, his tongue practically down the girl that had been a bitch to you all throughout high school’s throat that you realized that you had been deadly wrong. Jealousy bubbled in your stomach, ugly and upsetting, so much so that you had given him the silent treatment for a whole day before he finally had enough of it.

Brendon Park wasn’t yours, not even platonically, and yet, he couldn’t help but become one of the closest people to you that summer. You told him, the truth somehow spilling out of you in a way that had never happened before. And he’d apologized. The fucker said sorry and promised to never do it again. Needless to say, you’d ignored your feelings until college flings and serious boyfriends buried them deep within you.

Seeing him now is…a lot. You’ve always cared for him, always respected his opinion, his council, his everything. He’s Brendon for fuck’s sake. Accomplished, loyal, respectful, chivalrous, perfect golden boy Brendon. Your bother’s best friend. And the secret subject of your unbridled desires.

“Anything interesting?” You ask, desperate to break yourself from your thoughts.

“No break, healthy fibula…” he drones on, clinical and sterile, his deep knowledge of bones endearing at this point. He turns to catch your teasing smile and his cheeks blush the most adorable red as he realizes he’s been info dumping on you. “Everything looks good.”

“Thank you Brendon.”

He turns back to the computer, logging on his final notes for your medical history in an attempt to stop looking like a damn fool in front of you. Your smiles mean nothing more than what they are—comfort and familiarity. You’re a ray of sunshine to everyone that happens to be standing in your direction. He’s not the exception, he’s simply a part of the rule.

His phone vibrates from the depth of his pocket. Probably another text from your brother asking him to hurry the fuck up, impatience a running trait in your family. He pulls out his phone, his eyes slowly drifting to the notification. A flurry of emotions run through him as the next few moments play out. 

At first, embarrassment when he notices it’s a notification from the app, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he hides it from view, who knows what you’d think about him if you only knew what it was.

Next, hope, dizzying and contagious as he reads the notification. One new profile found. The match strikes, an ember sparks. He’s almost giddy now, eager to get the evening over with so he can give the notification all of his attention.

And finally, he’s certain he’s going into cardiac arrest as he, because he’s a man and has the self-restraint of one, even if he prides himself on being everything but an eager motherfucker, taps on the notification and he’s instantly met with your beautiful face as the profile opens up.

Brendon can’t breathe anymore.

He manages a strangled excuse and darts into the private bathroom, his entire world both crumbling all around him with each exhale and being rebuilt into a utopia with every inhale. But it’s not enough, air is not enough anymore and he knows it. No, not when he knows.

There’s too much running through him that the only thing he can think of is how if he got this notification then you definitely did too. Panic and shame and every ugly emotion that reminds him just how wrong this is beats him up. Through trembling fingers he turns off the discoverability of his profile, praying to every god he’s ever learned about that you’ll never, ever get the full knowledge of just how deranged Brendon’s fears have convinced him he is.

Then comes the guilt. He should not know this about you. This is such a precious thing, vulnerable and honest, too honest, and he cannot help but feel like he’s betrayed your trust in some way. You’re Steven’s sister, curious and unapologetic, the girl who picked daisies and made flower crowns, the girl who spiked their ice tea with your dad’s whiskey, the girl who teased him relentlessly when he showed up with his first serious girlfriend to Christmas the first time your families met, the girl who baked him his favorite cake when he graduated from med school, the girl that tells him the truth and isn’t afraid to hurt him because you both have a mutual understanding that goes beyond acquaintances.

It’s because of this that the little ember nudges, whispering something much deadlier in his ear. Knowledge is power, so much so that the pull towards it becomes dizzying. What if you could be—

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

That is never going to happen.

No.

Nuh-uh.

He has half a mind to throw his phone in the trash and himself along with it. He can never allow himself to think of you that way, not again. He’s a heartbreaker, it’s what he’s always done. Overprotective, overbearing, possessive and cruel. He could never tie you down, could never ask you to fulfill those sick and twisted fantasies that he so desperately needs in order to feel whole.

No, he’ll damn himself to an eternity of solitude before he puts you in a position where you could actually be exactly what he’s looking for, because he knows that what he wants is not something that either of you can come back from, and he respects you too much to put you in a position where the relationship that you’re looking for can jeopardize the one you’ve got with your brother, with your family, with your friends and loved ones.

He will not do that to you. He will get his shit together, pretend he never saw what he saw, help you to his car, drive to Tony’s Pizzeria and get a half cheese, half pepperoni pizza, a huge homemade orange soda bottle for the four of you to share, spend an hour with your brother and nephew and then disappear from your life forever. It doesn’t matter that you’re here, it doesn't matter that you’re just as perfect as ever, treating him as if no time has passed, as if nothing has happened, as if his absence never happened.

He takes one last steadying breath, locking his phone, and stepping out onto the floor.

But then his eyes lock with yours and whatever plan he so masterfully concocted throws itself away in favor of this, that all encompassing feeling that blooms behind his heart and spreads all over his chest the second he comes into your spotlight.

It’s weirdly comfortable to be in Brendon’s car, the radio turned low yet steady, the confidence of his movements as he navigates night life traffic a little too sexy. The silence that lingers between the two of you isn’t uncomfortable, it’s simply…air.

You wince lightly as you settle further into the expensive leather, reveling in the comfort that is Brendon Park now being a big shot surgeon with doctor money. You chuckle at the thought, effectively breaking his constant stare forward, as if his only task right now is to drive as though he’s carrying precious cargo in his car.

He can’t help himself when he asks, “what’s so funny?”

You catch his softened gaze, a dopey smile still lingering. “You.”

The single word does something to him, constricting his heart until he forces himself to tear his eyes from yours as if they’ve hurt him.

“I knew you’d make it, you’ve always been determined,” you sigh. “I guess it’s just nice to see it for real now.”

He chuckles right back at you. “I could say the same thing to you.”

You scoff, self-deprecating. “Yeah right, I’m unemployed, living with my brother and his son because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life and person I thought I was going to spend it with broke up with me cause I was ‘too much work’.”

The car screeches to a halt in the middle of the road, causing you to jolt against the seatbelt across your chest.

“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” his voice cuts through the adrenaline pumping through your heart. “You will never speak about yourself in that way, do I make myself clear?”

It’s only after he says it that realization dawns on him like a bucket of ice water being poured over his body. He watches the way your body reacts to the authority in his voice, the way you shiver slightly, the way your expression drops into submission, pupils dilating, your legs rubbing together instinctively.

“I’m sorry Bren,” your voice is barely a whisper but he hears it nonetheless.

“It’s okay,” he settles back against his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “I’m sorry you’re going through so much, but that’s no excuse to talk down on yourself. You’d rip me a new one if I did the same thing, wouldn’t you?”

That pulls a smile back on your face. “Oh I’d do much, much worse.”

“See? So why would I allow the same?”

You nod, biting down on your lower lip ever so slightly as he starts the car again, both your hearts beating a million times a minute. You liked that, his rough voice, the way he instantly cut through all the noise in your head, reminding you that you’re more than all the self-destructive thoughts.

Your brain turns off so slowly you’re unable to spot it. You can hear him call your name, ask you a question, but all you register is that delicious baritone to his voice, how it reverberates against your ribs and makes you feel safe. As if understanding exactly what’s going on, he sighs deeply, wrapping his big, surgeon hand over your thigh. You barely register as he starts the car again, the comforting rumbling of the vehicle beneath you slowly lulling you to sleep as your body comes down from that adrenaline spike. You stare at him through hooded eyes, the warmth from his hand as the only anchor keeping you tethered in the ocean of your feelings.

A twisted thought turns in your heart, making you sick. Panic bubbles. You jolt into awareness, abrasive and shocking, and you’re certain he can feel the spike in your pulse from the death grip he’s got on your leg. You did not just drop in front of Brendon Park.

“You okay?” He asks, because of course he does, he’s always been attentive and kind and respectful.

You nod, far too quickly, but you pretend like nothing’s wrong, retreating so far into yourself until you can believe like it isn’t. You feel like a stranger in your own body as he parks the car, comes around to get your crutches and open your door, as the two of you go inside and greet every single person working tonight, as you busy yourself helping to marry the ketchups while your order gets made.

You can feel him watching you intensely, even if the kid working the register is still talking his ear off about last night’s hockey game. He replies half-heartedly, pays with his black amex which you only slightly tease him about, and let him carry everything back to the car while you settle back in the front seat.

You don’t say another word to him, not as he drives up your brother’s driveway, as he stands beside you while you unlock the door, as Steven brings him into a warm hug and Tyler runs up to uncle Brendon like a rocket ship.

No, you’re cold and distant, detached from everything going on around it and it breaks Brendon’s heart a little. He can’t stop chastising himself, over and over again, watching as you nibble at your food, as your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, as you avoid eye contact with him profusely throughout his stay.

Eventually, it’s time for Tyler’s nighttime routine and since you’re currently incapacitated, doctor’s orders, Steven wrangles the three year old by himself, making Brendon promise to wait for him so they can drink a few beers and catch up after.

The second that Steven leaves the room, Brendon decides he’s had enough.

He finds you aggressively washing the dishes you used for dinner by hand, mind off somewhere far away from him, from this, from now.

“Sugar plum?” He sees your body tense instantly, a shiver running through it that makes him cringe internally. 

He takes a deep breath. You need him right now and he’s gotta be the bigger man and actually right his wrongs.

“Turn it off.”

You shiver again, legs rubbing together again, this time definitely intentional. You don’t dare face him, don’t dare breathe because if you do, you’re afraid it’ll choke out of you like a broken moan.

“Be a good girl and do as you’re told.”

That does you in. A clear command, fully open and honest, cutting through the noise in your head and letting you know you’re not crazy. Your shaky hand turns off the tab, the room falling back into an uneasy silence.

“I’m sorry if I startled you in the car,” he starts, voice even and apologetic. “It wasn’t my intention, I should’ve known better.”

Your brow scrunches in confusion but you don’t think much of it. Maybe you truly are that easy to read and your ex had been right, your disinterest in your “vanilla” relationship so evident in every action you took over the past three months that the only course of action was for him to cheat on you.

I can't give you what you need.

His words echo in your mind as a shaky sigh escapes your lips, your soapy hand coming up to slam over your mouth before he can hear the truth behind it, the rawness that he’s awakened. You’re not his responsibility, he should not have to deal with—

You don’t even know when it happens, all you do is feel his strong arms wrapping around you, turning your body so that you can hide your face against his chest as you can’t hold back the sobs anymore.

He shushes you gently, never crossing the platonic boundary your relationship has already established, and that only makes you that much more emotional. You don’t really remember how long you cry, all you know is that by the time the tears subside, there’s a wet patch right below his heart and his mouth flutters gentle praises in your ear, so close that his breathing makes you tickle.

You push him back slightly, getting your bearings straight enough to start feeling embarrassed that he just witnessed that.

“Hey, none of that,” he says, certain. “You’re okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You avoid his piercing gaze as you wipe your face clean, one of the hands around your waist grabbing the hem of his shirt and wiping after your fingers.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you then, the absurdity of the moment not lost on you as a singular thought persists—Brendon Park would make an amazing dom.

“Thank you Bren.”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo.”

“Ew, rude,” you scrunch your nose in mock offense, finally looking up at him.

He almost folds, your puffy eyes, slightly red nose, the way you hold onto him like you trust him, like he’s safe…any weaker man would’ve folded instantly. And fuck it if he doesn’t want to be weak.

“What? City girl suddenly too good for a silly nickname?”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull back from his embrace fully now but he doesn’t let you.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me—”

Your breathing hitches, something shifts, your pupils dilate slightly.

Brendon clears his throat, letting you go then, aggressively shoving his hands inside his jean pockets. You blink up at him, the cloud slowly dissipating as you come back into your body. 

It’s beautiful. So raw and vulnerable he doesn’t even think about his movements, he only does them, holding out his arms so that you can hold yourself up on them, something steady and grounding. And to his pure delight, you do, your grip not tentative or shy but fully trusting in him.

After a long, drawn out minute, the house returns with full force, Steven joking after a giggling Tyler down the hall, the hum of the fridge behind him, the clock ticking in the other room. You hum, shifting your weight around uncomfortably.

“You should go to bed,” he tells you, a gentle command that has you instantly nodding, as if only because he’s said it you’re now aware of just how tired you are.

You nod, brain so fuzzy you don’t think it’ll be able to handle words right about now.

Brendon can’t help but smile, a barely there smirk that desperately wants to turn into more but he fears if it does then you’ll know everything.

“Want you to take a shower, elevate your foot and text me if you need anything else, alright?”

“Yes sir.”

His heart lurches. He knows you’re only saying it teasingly but still, the ache almost topples him over, throws him off balance. You pull away slowly, taking your warmth with you, returning his soul to the ice age it has cultivated. He stares at you go, body turned to stone until he hears Steven coming back down the hall towards him.

He snaps out of it then, putting on his best Brendon Park, college friend mask on and indulging the single parent in a much needed hour of beers and ranting. By the time he’s sat back in his car, he can’t seem to push himself to leave. He sits there, staring out into the dark street before him, head buzzing with thoughts and feelings that threaten to consume him.

And somehow, through all the noise, his phone dings.

You: In bed now. Feet elevated. Thank you so much for today, you didn’t have to be so kind but I’m glad that you were.

You: And also…thank you for…that too.

You added a picture, your foot, wrapped like the nurses had taught you, propped up on a mountain of pillows. The ember expands in his heart, ignites that desperate yearning again, and he’s finally able to get himself to drive away, but not before replying—

Brendon: My pleasure, sweetheart.