Sunflower Girl

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.

Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.

In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him. 

Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings. 

He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs. 

So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you. 

Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue. 

It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.

But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate. 

Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.

Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.

If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.

You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.

He doesn’t stop you.

One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.

Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.

As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.

You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.

“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.

“Just a job.”

“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.

“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”

He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.

“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.

It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.

Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.

Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.

On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.

Then you finally get the call.

“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.

You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.

The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.

Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”

No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”

He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”

“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.

“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.

“Then don’t go. Stay here.”

His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.

But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?

Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re in love.”

The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.

“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”

Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”

“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”

Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”

A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”

“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”

“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”

You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”

“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”

Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.

He’s right. This changes everything.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”

“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.

You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”

“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”

For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.

“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”

You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”

“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”

You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.

“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”

Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”

Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.” 

You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”

“Forever.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”

“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”

Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”

“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”

“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”

A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”

“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”

You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”

Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”

The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.

“I mean—”

“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.

Sweet, slow, steady.

“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”

That, you can’t deny.

+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz

The pan in front of Bob sizzles to life as he drizzles the olive oil onto it. The oil spirals as he spreads it around, coating the pan evenly throughout. His stomach growls, demanding to be fed, but alas, Bob has to actually wait for his pancakes to be cooked before he could eat them, much to his hungry stomachs annoyance.

Bob was excited to surprise you with breakfast this morning. You had been out late last night, meeting the rest of the squad at the Hard Deck for some celebratory drinks for another successful mission at Top Gun and your plan to be home by ten turned into you not rolling into bed until half passed two after you dropped off a stumbling Mickey and Jake off to their respective apartments, Nat ducking out just in the nick of time so she wouldn't have to deal with those two.

Bob hoped to make it to you with your favorite breakfast, already imagining your curious face poking out under the covers when he'd walk in with a plate stacked high with that fluffy deliciousness and how you'd stretch, pulling him into an appreciative kiss before snatching the plate from him.

That hope died the moment your arms wrapped him up in a back hug, your head leaning against his shoulder as you yawned.

Bob groans, dramatically throwing his head back at the fact his plan for a romantic morning with you was ruined, “You were supposed to stay asleep.”

“Well good morning to you too, grumpy.”

Bob mumbles something about him not being grumpy, but you ignore him, burying your face deeper in his back, “Couldn’t really stay asleep when my personal space heater walked away and left me shivering in that cold tundra, now could I?”

“It is not a cold tundra in our room.”

“Fix the heater and it won’t be anymore.”

Bob stifles a laugh as he flips the now done pancake onto a plate. You always claimed to the love the cold until it reached below 65 in the house, “Promise I will. Right after breakfast.”

You hum, accepting his answer, “You’re lucky it wasn’t the AC that was broken. If that wasn’t fixed on day one, we would not be here right now.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. Some cold? Fine, okay. I’ve been fine the last few days that it's been broken. But… a few days without the AC? In San Diego, especially if it was during a heat wave? No thank you!”

Bob shakes his head as he chuckles, when you move to pull away, he brings his hand down from the pan to you, stopping you from detaching from his waist.

 “No stay.”

“You just grumbled at me a second ago for hugging you?”

“Correction, not for you hugging me, for you getting out of bed when I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed. There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, ready to say something witty when he adds, “Plus, you give the best hugs.”

“Well… since you said that so nicely, I guess I can stay.”

Bob does a quiet cheer. You lightly bite his shoulder and squeeze his waist a little harder, but it doesn’t faze him, he just chuckles as he flips another pancake, “Keep squeezing me while I flip these pancakes. It’s a great motivator.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep! The best.”

You stay there, hugging Bob from behind as he makes his way through the kitchen, stuck on him as he grabs cups from the cabinet and the syrup from the pantry, waddling behind him to keep up.

It’s a silly sight that would definitely get the squad to tease you both about being a sappy, lovey dovey couple acting like they were still in their honeymoon phase even though you’ve been dating for years, but it’s how you two worked. You could be wrinkled and grey and you’d still be sickeningly sweet on each other, too lost in one another to care otherwise.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!

It’s Dennis.

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

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

The screen lights up too bright.

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

That’s it. No explanation. No name.

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

Just sorry.

Just good night.

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

People have friends.

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

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

You know all of that.

Your body does not care.

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

Apparently not.

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

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

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

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

A friend.

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

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

Jake’s voice comes back too easily.

You were never around, June.

Your jaw tightens. Five years.

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

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

You cared more about the hospital than me.

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

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

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

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

Your boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

For one second, your face softens.

Then the soft thing gets tangled with the hurt.

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

Today, you just stare.

You type:

You: good morning

You look at it.

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

You don’t. Delivered.

Another buzz.

Frankie 🧸: You okay?

Of course.

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

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

You stare at that and then type:

You: I'm fine. 0700 case.

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

Frankie :🧸Eat something.

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

Another text.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

Then Shen.

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

You lean your head back.

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

Your phone buzzes again… Dennis.

Dennis 💕: Early case today?

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

Your thumb hovers.

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

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

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

Good.

You need the bite.

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

The surgical break room is mostly empty.

Mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes go to Yolanda. 

Then you.

Then the CT.

Then back to you.

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

You blink.

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

Work.

Good.

Work you can do.

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

Park stares at you.

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

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

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

But there is something underneath it.

Steady.

Awful.

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

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

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

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

You almost smile.

Almost.

Yolanda sees it.

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

For once, she lets it go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scrub tech’s shoulders shake.

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

His eyes narrow.

You sigh and focus back on the field.

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

By closure, your stomach growls audibly.

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

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

The circulator laughs.

You finish dressing the incision. Park steps back.

“Acceptable,” he says.

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

Today, you just nod.

His eyes narrow again.

You hate that he cares.

You hate that you need him to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at her.

For a second, you consider lying.

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

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

There it is.

The name in the room.

You hate how small it makes you feel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look away.

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

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

“Absolutely.”

For the first time all day, you actually smile.

Then your pager goes off.

You both look down.

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

Yolanda grins. “Gravity again.”

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

“Gravity remains undefeated,” you mutter.

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

Not to linger.

Not to see Dennis.

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

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

That’s all.

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

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

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

Room six smells like alcohol wipes and fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly.

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

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

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

An awkward beat stretches.

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

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

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

“Oh, Huckleberry.”

You do not turn around.

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis winces.

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

Trinity waits.

Dennis looks uncomfortable.

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

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

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

Dennis hesitates. Trinity’s eyes sharpen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trinity’s teasing disappears.

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

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

At 1630, you are upstairs when Park finds you.

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

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

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

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

Most attendings have footsteps. Park has judgment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know how.”

Park’s expression flickers. Almost sympathy.

Almost.

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

Then your pager buzzes.

Park glances down at it before you even do.

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

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

“You’re a nightmare.”

“Correct.”

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

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

She sees you immediately.

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

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

Room eight is bright and tense.

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

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

You ignore the tug in your chest.

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

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

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

You look at the X-ray.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You step into the hall to call Park.

He answers with, “Tell me.”

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

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

Dennis stands close but not too close.

Careful.

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

You swallow.

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

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

Dennis closes his eyes briefly.

You use the interruption like a door opening.

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

You pause.

Then nod once.

“After.”

You walk away before your face gives anything else up.

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

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

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

Frank nods once and walks toward you.

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

That is apparently the final straw.

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

It’s Frank’s face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take a deep breathe in. Then out.

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

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

He walks back inside anyway.

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

Good.

No.

Not good.

Maybe a little good.

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

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

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

Dennis goes very still.

You keep going before you lose nerve.

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

Your throat tightens.

Dennis doesn’t move.

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

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

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

You finally look up.

His eyes are glossy in the low ambulance bay light.

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

Dennis steps closer, slowly.

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

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

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

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

You stay quiet.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

You look at him.

He looks so sincere it’s almost painful.

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

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

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

Dennis huffs a tiny laugh.

You step closer.

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

You nod.

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

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

His chin rests near your temple.

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

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

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

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

He closes his mouth.

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

The rest of the shift is not magically fixed.

That would be too easy.

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

But things shift. Small things.

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

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

You nod.

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

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

Dennis’s apartment is quieter than you remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles like the sound of your voice matters.

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

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

Carefully.

Not like gossip.

Not like an excuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out barely human. He goes still.

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

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

His phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He glances at it.

Frank Langdon: Is she there?

Dennis very slowly reaches for the phone without disturbing you.

Dennis: Yeah. She fell asleep.

A second later:

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

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

He types back:

Dennis: I won’t.

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

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

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

He exhales.

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist:

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis 💕: That tracks.

You’re still smiling when another text drops down.

Frankie 🧸: Ten minutes. I’m outside.

You sit straight up.

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

You stare at the screen.

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

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

“Son of a bitch”

Your phone buzzes again.

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

You wince.

Then another notification.

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

You snort, half dressed, one sock on.

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

You grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank makes a noise.

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

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

Your throat tightens a little, and you hate that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis spots you a second later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods but doesn’t relax.

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

Your pager screams a second later.

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

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

The ED is somehow louder at noon.

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

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

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

You look through the glass.

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

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

You walk in.

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

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

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

“Yes.” “Here?” “My heart?”

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

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

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

There it is.

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

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

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

The reduction is controlled chaos.

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

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

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

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

The ankle shifts.

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

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

Victoria loses it.

Post-reduction films look better.

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

You step out of the room, stripping off gloves.

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

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

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

For a second, he’s quiet.

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

Dennis swallows.

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

Then panic hits.

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

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

Dennis ignores her. Mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you.

Then Dennis.

Then Victoria’s delighted face.

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

The afternoon becomes a series of almost-moments.

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

Then the ED pulls you back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That lands somewhere low in your stomach..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bump his shoulder with yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shift change starts to thicken the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barely. But you see it.

He hesitates.

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

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

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

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

Then leave before your face gives you away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner is messy and loud and exactly what you need.

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

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

You check your phone under the table.

Nothing.

Frank notices. Of course he does.

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

“June.”

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

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

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

Abby closes her eyes. You laugh despite yourself.

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

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

Halfway through, your phone buzzes.

Your heart jumps.

You check.

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

You deflate so fast Frank catches it from the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The drive home feels longer than it should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it immediately. 

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

You smile faintly.

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

A minute later Shen texts you.

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

You laugh out loud, alone in your bedroom.

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

You stare at that longer than you mean to.

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

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

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

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

At 10:47, you finally type.

Delete. Type again. Delete.

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

You: Good night x

The message sits there.

Delivered.

No dots.

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

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

Your phone lights up at 2300

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

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

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

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

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Frank — 3 missed calls Park — 2 missed calls Garcia — 4 texts Dennis — 2 texts

You bolt upright. “No.” You check the time. 07:15 “Oh, fuck.” You never oversleep. Not like this. Not on a workday. Not when Park is expecting you. Not when your service starts moving before the sun fully decides to be up.

And then it hits you all at once. You didn’t set an alarm. Because you were up texting Dennis until you passed out with your phone in your hand like a lovestruck idiot.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, already throwing the blankets off. “I’m going to die.” Your phone buzzes again in your palm.

Yo Yo💕: are you alive Yo Yo💕: Park came to the ED looking for you like an avenging demon Yo Yo💕: apparently he thought maybe you were lurking by Frank Yo Yo💕: if you died I need at least one day notice because I have things to say at your funeral

Another one.

Dennis: Morning.

And, sent twenty minutes later:

Dennis: I’m guessing you overslept and if so I hope Park hasn’t killed anyone.

You make a strangled sound that is not a laugh and definitely not crying but sort of lives in the overlap. You call Frank back while dragging on scrubs with one hand. He answers immediately. “June Bug.” “I know.” “Do you?” “I overslept.” “No kidding.”

You shove your arm through the wrong sleeve and nearly fall into your dresser. “Please be nice to me for thirty seconds.” Frank exhales through his nose, the older-brother irritation giving way to concern around the edges. “Are you okay?” “Yes. Just stupid.” “That tracks.” “Thank you.” “Park came down to the ER at seven looking for you,” Frank says. “Which, by the way, was horrifying.” You groan. “Why would he do that?” “Because he’s Park.”

Fair.

You pull your hair back in a vicious ponytail while trying to hop into your shoes. “How bad is he?” Frank pauses. “He looked like he wanted to use a bone saw recreationally.” You close your eyes. “Great.” “Robby says you owe him a thank-you for surviving the splash zone.” That gets your attention. “Robby was there?” “Everybody was there. Park stood at the main desk and said, and I quote, ‘Where is Orca.’”

You stop cold.

“He did not.” “He did.” “Oh my God.” Frank is definitely enjoying this now. “Dennis heard it.” You slap a hand over your face. “I have to go.” “I know. Abby says eat something.” “I don’t have time.” “That wasn’t advice.”

You groan again, grab a granola bar off the kitchen counter, and hang up while stuffing it into your bag.

You text Dennis as you’re locking the door.

You: alive. tragically You: overslept. park wants me dead

He answers before you even hit the elevator.

Dennis: That’s actually a relief. Dennis: I was trying to decide when it would be weird to call you myself.

That puts a stupid little warmth in your chest at the absolute worst possible time. You type while speed-walking to your car.

You: save the concern. i might still die

By the time you hit the hospital parking garage, it’s 07:39 and your pulse is trying to leave your body. You half jog through the employee entrance with your bag bouncing against your hip, coffee-less and offended, and make it to the OR workroom at 07:45 sharp.

Park is waiting. Of course he is. Navy blue scrubs. Arms folded. Expression blank in the most dangerous way possible. A chart tucked under one arm like it’s witnessing something. He watches you skid to a stop. You straighten, slightly out of breath. “Good morning.” Park says nothing. That is worse than yelling. You set your bag down slowly. “I overslept.” Still nothing.

“Which I understand is bad.” Park tilts his head. “Do you.” “Yes.” “Interesting, because your behavior this morning suggested the opposite.” You stare at the wall over his shoulder for one second and decide honesty is the only thing left. “I forgot to set an alarm.” “Because?”

You pause. Park’s brows lift. You hate him. You really do. Because he already knows there is an answer in that pause and now you either lie badly or tell the truth and neither one is survivable. “Because I fell asleep with my phone in my hand.”

Park looks at you for one long beat. Then says, “Embarrassing.” You nod. “Deeply.” He unfolds his arms. “Good. Since you’re apparently not mature enough for the OR today, I’m pulling you from every scheduled case.”

Your head jerks up. “What?” “No surgeries.” That lands like a physical blow. “Park—” “No.” You step toward him. “Come on.” “No.” “I’m here now.” “You were not here when I expected you.” “It was one mistake.” “It was a stupid mistake.” “That feels pointed.” “It should.” You actually feel your shoulders fall. “You’re serious.”

Park picks up the chart from the desk and hands it to you. “Round on all your post-ops. Every floor. Every wound check. Every drain. Every neurovascular exam. Then you’re mine for ED consults the rest of the day.” You stare at the list.

It’s endless. This is not a schedule. It’s punishment with tabs. “Park.” “Orca.” “You’re ruining my life.” He shrugs. “Builds character.” “That’s Frank’s line.” “I contain multitudes.” “No, you contain spite.” “Move.” And that’s that.

The whole day tilts sideways from there.

You spend the first two hours speed-walking surgical floors with a clipboard in one hand and your pager in the other, rounding on yesterday’s ankles, the postop hip, a washout with a questionable drain, the tibial plateau repair from Tuesday. Dressing checks. Compartment checks. Neurovascular exams. Pain control adjustments. Explaining to three different families why swelling after surgery is not, in fact, the same thing as the sky falling.

It isn’t terrible work. It’s good work. Necessary work. It just isn’t the OR. And because you know you’re being punished, every single minute of it feels slightly personal.

Garcia texts at 08:20.

Yo Yo💕: so how dead are you

You answer while walking into a stairwell.

You: he pulled me from surgery Yo Yo💕: OH NO Yo Yo💕: that’s actually brutal You: i’m on postop rounds until i rot

She sends back six crying-laughing emojis, then:

Yo Yo💕: this is what happens when you flirt with emergency medicine after midnight

You don’t answer that because unfortunately she’s a little right. Your pager goes off at 09:15. ED consult. Possible periprosthetic femur fracture. You close your eyes briefly and head downstairs. The second you step into the ER, Dana looks up from the charge desk and says, “Well. The dead rise.” “Good morning to you too.” “I heard Park came hunting.” “He did.” Jesse, in gray scrubs, swivels in his chair. “He asked for Orca.”

You freeze for half a beat.

Across the desk, Frank nearly chokes on his coffee laughing. “Shut up,” you mutter. Dana looks delighted. “No.” Dennis is standing a few feet down the station and when you glance over, his mouth twitches. He’s trying very hard to look sympathetic and not entertained. He’s failing a little. You point at him. “You too.”

That only makes it worse.

The consult is real enough to be annoying and not real enough to be interesting: elderly woman, fall at home, painful femur, prior hip implant intact, no obvious new fracture on plain films but enough tenderness that you order CT to be safe. Park is on speaker for thirty seconds and somehow manages to sound offended by both the imaging and your existence.

By the time you finish the note and step back into the hall, Dennis is waiting by the workstation pretending to review a chart. He glances up. “You survived.” “Barely.” His eyes flick over your face. “You look tired.” “I’m being punished.”

That gets a small smile out of him. “For oversleeping?” “For being young and stupid and apparently needing to learn a lesson.” He shifts a little closer, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry.” The sincerity in it catches you enough that some of the sharpness drains out of your shoulders. “It’s not your fault.” A beat. Then, quietly, “Still.”

Before you can answer, Park calls your extension from somewhere in the building. You look down at the screen, horrified. Dennis sees the expression and immediately steps back like he can feel the blast radius.

You answer. “What.” “Why are you lingering.” You look at the ceiling. “I’m literally finishing the consult.” “Then finish faster.” “You are a terrible mentor.” “And yet you’re still learning.” Click. Dennis is openly smiling now.

“I hate you,” you say. “That feels misplaced.” “Maybe. I’m still saying it.” He laughs under his breath, and you hate how much better that makes the morning. Then Frank appears from nowhere and steals the rest of whatever moment might’ve been there.

“You look awful,” he says. You gape. “Excuse you?” “You do. Abby would say you look peaked.” “Abby says that because she’s a kind person.” “She’d also say eat lunch.” “I hate that you’re both right.” Frank holds out half a wrapped granola bar from his pocket. You stare at it. “Is that yours.” He shrugs. “Emergency sibling provisions.” That softens you despite yourself. You take it. “Thanks.” He bumps your shoulder once. “Don’t get used to it.”

The day keeps moving.

Back upstairs, rounds bleed into calls from nurses, medication questions, one panicked intern on another service who doesn’t know what a normal postop drain output looks like, and two separate pages from Park that are just question marks because apparently words are too generous today.

At 11:40, he finally catches you in person outside the ortho workroom.

“ED in five.” You stare at him. “Did you just schedule me like a rideshare.” “You made yourself unreliable.” “One time.” He raises a brow. You press your lips together. “Fair.”

The next consult is more interesting: midshaft humerus fracture in a guy who got clipped by a forklift arm. Closed injury. Neurovascularly intact. Victoria is on the case with Mohan, and when you arrive she brightens instantly. “Hi. We got films and checked radial nerve motor and sensation already.”

You look at the chart, then at her. “Good.” Victoria glows like you handed her a Nobel Prize. Mohan, beside her, gives you the smallest smile. “We kept him NPO in case you thought he’d need more than a splint.” “Also good.”

That one is simple enough—coaptation splint, pain control, close follow-up, return precautions—and by now your movements are automatic even though your mind still keeps snagging on the lost surgeries upstairs.

Dennis passes through the hall once while you’re finishing the note. He doesn’t interrupt. Just gives you a look on the way by that says still alive? You give him one back that says barely. He smiles.

At 13:00, you finally inhale half a sandwich at the workstation upstairs while Garcia appears like a malicious fairy and steals two of your fries without asking. “You look tragic.” “You look loud.” She grins. “How’s prison?” “Post-op jail is spiritually corrosive.” Garcia leans against the counter. “Park’s only doing this because he likes you.” You look up slowly. “I hope something bad happens to your bangs.” “I don’t have bangs.” “Yet.”

She snorts. “Did Dennis text you?” You narrow your eyes. “Mind your business.” “Ah. So yes.” You throw a napkin at her face. The afternoon is a blur of little fires.

A postop patient with pain out of proportion that turns out to be anxiety and bad timing instead of compartment syndrome, thank God. A floor nurse convinced a surgical dressing is “draining too much” when it’s exactly what it should be. Park sending you down to the ED for a hand consult that isn’t yours and making you tell them that yourself because apparently humiliation is educational.

At 15:30, you run into Robby at the coffee kiosk while trying to buy something stronger than your own blood. He’s holding cup coffee and looking entirely too pleased to see you. “Oh,” he says. “The missing link between ortho and chaos.”

“I’m not in the mood, Robby.” He clocks your face in one glance. “Park got you?” “He took away my surgeries.” Robby smiles. “Damn. You’re really in the doghouse.” “I overslept.” “That’s rough.” “You’re enjoying this.” “A little.” You take your coffee and point at him. “I hope it tastes bad.” “It won’t. I have good taste.”

That at least gets a reluctant smile out of you.

Late afternoon drags you back to the ED again—hip dislocation post-fall in an older woman with a recent arthroplasty—and Park actually comes down in person for that one because the reduction is tricky and he clearly doesn’t trust the universe today. You stand opposite him while sedation starts, Jesse and Donnie helping position, Robby overseeing airway in that watchful, unflappable way of his.

“Try not to embarrass me,” Park says quietly as he gloves up. “Try not to strain anything at your age.” He looks at you flatly. “That was weak.” “Then stop being old.” The reduction goes smoothly under sedation. Satisfying clunk. Confirmed on portable film. Knee immobilizer after. Stable vitals.

As the room clears, Robby glances between the two of you and says, “Watching ortho flirt through insults is exhausting.” You and Park both look at him. Park says, “No.” You say, “Ew.” Robby lifts both brows. “Interesting that you answered together.” Then he leaves before either of you can respond, which is honestly his most annoying quality.

By early evening, the punishment has become less acute and more numbing. You’re tired. Your feet hurt. You would commit crimes for a real meal. But the edge of panic from the morning is gone, replaced by something more manageable.

At 18:10, after your last floor check, you end up back in the ER one final time for a consult on a nondisplaced olecranon fracture. Dana sees you first. “Still alive.” “Against all odds.” Frank, nearby, looks up from the desk. “You coming to dinner tonight or are we staging another welfare check?” You point at him. “Don’t start.” “Abby asked.” “Abby is the only reason you’re allowed to speak to me.” “That’s fair.”

Dennis is across the station with Trinity, but his gaze flicks to you as soon as you come into view. Not obvious enough for anyone else to call it out. Just enough that you feel it.

The consult is fast. Splint, follow-up, no emergent OR, thank God.

When you finish and come back toward the desk, the shift-change energy has started to bleed in. Night teams arriving. Day teams fraying. Shen appears with fresh caffeine like he’s manifesting out of iced coffee vapor. Parker Ellis comes in calm and steady, reading the room in one sweep like he always does. Abbot follows, tired eyes and dry mouth already halfway to a joke.

Shen takes one look at you. “Wow. Park really did eat your soul.” “Not all of it,” you say. Parker Ellis glances up from a chart. “That’s reassuring.” Abbot leans against the desk. “You look better than you probably feel.” You point at him. “See, Shen? That’s how grown-ups talk.” Shen puts a hand to his chest. “This is targeted harassment.”

Before the station can turn that into another whole thing, Frank steps in at your shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “Abby will be upset if you’re late for dinner again.” You blink. “She texted you?” “She called me and then Tanner yelled in the background.” That softens you instantly. “Okay.”

You shift your bag up onto your shoulder, already turning toward the exit, when your phone buzzes. Not Park. Dennis. You glance down at the screen.

Dennis: Did you survive the longest punishment shift in the history of medicine?

You smile before you can stop it. Frank sees. Of course he does. He narrows his eyes. “Why are you making that face.” “What face.” “The one from yesterday.” You start walking faster. “Walk, Langdon.” He follows with the resigned irritation of a man who knows he’s losing information in real time.

As you pass the desk, Dennis looks up. You don’t stop—Frank is literally beside you and your feet may actually fall off if you stand still—but you do meet his eyes. “Goodnight, Whitaker,” you say. His whole face eases. “Goodnight.”

Then Frank is steering you out the doors, muttering about punctuality and Abby’s lasagna and how if you oversleep again he’s taking your charger like you’re twelve.

And as exhausting as the day has been—as miserable and surgery-less and Park-shaped as it was—you leave the hospital feeling a little lighter than you should. Mostly because your phone is already warm in your hand. Mostly because you know he’ll text again. Dinner at Frank and Abby’s house runs long in the way it always does when nobody there is capable of doing anything quickly.

Penny falls asleep on Abby’s shoulder halfway through Bluey. Tanner insists on showing you his entire bin of plastic dinosaurs and telling you which ones are “nice guys” and which ones are “mean because they bite too much.” Frank spends most of the night pretending he is not watching you every time your phone lights up, which only makes Abby laugh harder at him. By the time you finally hug everyone goodbye and head back to your apartment, you are full of lasagna, toddler kisses, and the particular kind of exhaustion that settles in after a long hospital day softened by family.

You kick off your shoes the second you get inside. Bag on the chair. Keys in the bowl. Hair down. Your apartment is quiet in that lovely, blessed way that only happens after a house full of children and chaos. You change into soft sleep shorts and an old oversized T-shirt, wash your face, and pad into the kitchen for ice cream because you are an adult with a terrible sleep schedule and no one can stop you.

Your phone buzzes while you’re standing in front of the freezer.

Dennis: You make it home alive?

You smile before you can stop it.

You: barely You: frank tried to make me take home leftovers like i’m a freshman in college

His reply comes fast.

Dennis: That feels aggressive. Dennis: Abby too?

You scoop ice cream into a bowl one-handed.

You: Abby is an angel You: Frank is a raccoon with a mortgage

There’s a pause. Then:

Dennis: Can I call you?

You stare at the screen for one second, the spoon halfway to the carton. Then type back:

You: only if you can handle the fact that i’m eating ice cream in bed like a divorced dad

His FaceTime request comes in before you even finish climbing onto the mattress. You answer.

Dennis appears on the screen in a gray T-shirt, stretched out on his couch with one arm thrown over the back cushion and a lamp on somewhere behind him. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s something about seeing him outside the hospital again—without the ER around him, without other people, without fluorescent chaos between you—that makes your stomach flip in the most annoying way.

The second he sees you, his whole face softens. “Well,” he says, smiling. “That’s a very strong divorced dad setup.” You angle the phone down so he can see the bowl and the blanket over your legs. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard on it.” He laughs softly. “What flavor?”

You take a dramatic bite before answering. “Chocolate peanut butter. Because I have taste.” “Debatable.” You point your spoon at the screen. “Be careful, Whitaker.” He shifts a little on the couch, easier now that you’ve answered. “How was dinner?” And because it’s Dennis, because he asks like he actually wants to know and not just to fill silence, you tell him.

About Tanner insisting that the T. rex is misunderstood. About Penny falling asleep with one fist still wrapped in your shirt. About Abby making enough food to feed an army and Frank pretending he didn’t cry when Tanner hugged his leg after bath time because apparently fatherhood turned your older brother into an emotional hostage.

Dennis listens to all of it with that same warm, open expression he gets when he’s fully locked into you. “That sounds nice,” he says quietly when you finish. “It was.” You tuck one leg under yourself. “What about you? Did Trinity survive the evening?”

He snorts. “Barely. Garcia came over for a while, which somehow made it louder.” “Shocking.” “She complained about you for, I think, six minutes before she got distracted by noodles.” You lift a brow. “She complained about me?” He grins. “No. Trinity did.” “Better.” “Garcia defended your honor.” “As she should.” Dennis huffs a laugh. “She called herself a medieval knight.” You sigh happily. “That’s my girl.”

The conversation slips easy after that. Too easy. It goes from dinner to childhood pets to bad patient nicknames you’re definitely not supposed to repeat out loud, to Dennis telling you about one of his brothers trying to teach him how to drive a tractor at twelve and you laughing so hard you almost spill ice cream on your blanket.

He makes fun of your orthopedic brain rot, as he calls it. You make fun of emergency medicine for being mostly panic with better PR. He accuses you of liking Park more than you admit. You tell him Park has all the emotional warmth of a socket wrench. “Still,” Dennis says, smiling at the screen, “I think he’d kill somebody for you.” You point at him with your spoon. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said about Brenden Park.” “It’s true.” You lie back farther against the pillows, phone propped against your knees. “He stuck up for me the other day.”

Dennis’s expression shifts. Softer. More attentive. “Yeah?” You nod. “Patient tried the whole women-can’t-be-surgeons thing.” He grimaces immediately. “Jesus.” “Yeah. I was about to get snippy and Park stepped in before I could ruin my life.” That earns a quiet laugh out of him. “You probably would’ve survived.” “Professionally? Maybe not. “ ”Personally?” “Would’ve felt amazing.”

He smiles. Then, after a second, “I’m glad he did that.” Something about the way he says it—simple, sincere, no performance in it—makes your chest feel a little too full. You look down at the melting edge of your ice cream. “Yeah. Me too.” At some point the bowl empties and you keep talking anyway.

You move from your bed to the bathroom while brushing your teeth, propping the phone against the mirror. He teases you for your skincare routine. You accuse him of being from Nebraska and therefore not understanding luxury. He tells you he absolutely understands luxury; he just thinks twelve steps is a cry for help.

Then he disappears from the screen for a second and comes back with his own glass of water and a blanket, settling deeper into the couch. “How are we still talking?” you ask. He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “I like talking to you.” You go quiet for just a beat too long. Then recover by rolling your eyes. “Dangerous thing to admit.” “I know.”

There’s no TV on behind him. No noise in your apartment except the hum of the AC and the occasional scrape of your spoon against the empty bowl before you finally realize you’re still holding it and set it on the nightstand. The room gets darker without you noticing. The conversation turns softer without either of you really making it happen.

He asks what you wanted to be before doctor became the answer. You tell him there was a brief and deeply embarrassing marine-biologist phase at eight because you thought dolphins were spiritually aligned with you. “That explains why Park calls you Orca,” Dennis says immediately. You groan and hide your face in the pillow. “I’m hanging up.” “No, that was good.” “That was terrible.” He’s laughing now, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes you want to keep earning it.

You ask him what he was like as a kid. He says shy, quiet, always dirty from outside, usually in trouble for bringing home some injured animal that was not supposed to be indoors. That tracks so perfectly you actually have to pause and stare at him.

“Oh my God,” you say. “You were a baby golden retriever.” He looks offended. “That feels rude.” “It’s incredibly accurate.” “It was one rabbit.” “That you named.” He looks away, trying not to smile. “Maybe.”

The hours slide by so gently they stop feeling like time. At one point you check the corner of the screen and blink. “Wait.” Dennis lifts his brows. “What?” “It’s after one.” He grabs his own phone off the couch arm, glances at it, then laughs under his breath. “Oh.” “You have got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve been on here a while.” “You think?” He looks a little stunned by it too, which somehow makes it sweeter. Like he didn’t notice the time because he got as lost in this as you did. You pull the blanket higher over your chest and settle deeper into your pillows. “Good thing I don’t work tomorrow.”

“That is good for me too,” he says. “Why.” His mouth twitches. “Because I would’ve felt bad keeping you up.” You smile into the edge of your blanket. “You assume this is your fault.” “It absolutely is.” “That’s fair.”

It’s close to two by the time the conversation finally starts to wind down, not because either of you wants it to, but because your voice has gone softer with sleep and Dennis has yawned twice in the last five minutes while trying to pretend he didn’t. You’re lying fully on your side now, phone tilted on the pillow beside you. He’s slouched low on the couch with his head tipped back, looking warm and rumpled and unfairly easy to want.

There’s a quiet beat between you. Then Dennis shifts, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and says, almost casually, “So.” You narrow your eyes. “That’s always dangerous.” He smiles. “Maybe.” You wait. And then he says, “How about the coffee date at… let’s say eleven?”

It takes half a second for your tired brain to catch up. Then your eyes widen. And you bark out a laugh so sudden and loud he jumps a little on the screen. “You sly motherfucker.” Dennis’s whole face breaks open into that helpless, pleased smile you’re already getting too attached to. “Is that a yes?”

You grin, still half buried in your pillow. “I would love to.” He lets out a breath like he was more nervous than he wanted to sound. “Okay. Good.” “Was that your plan the whole time?” “No.” You give him a look. He breaks in under two seconds. “A little.” “You are unbelievable.”

“You’ve been talking to me for, apparently, six hours.” “That was before I knew you were plotting.” He laughs softly. “So eleven?” You nod, sleep-heavy and smiling. “Eleven.” The silence after that is different. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full of the fact that now it’s real. Tomorrow. Coffee. The thing you’ve both been circling around now finally set in actual time.

Dennis looks at you for one long second through the screen, his expression softening into something that feels almost too intimate for two in the morning and FaceTime and the glow of separate lamps in separate apartments.

“You should sleep, June Bug.” You groan lightly. “I know.” “Set an alarm this time.” You point at him from under the blanket. “Uncalled for.” He smiles. “Fair.” You let yourself look at him for one second longer than you should. Then another. “Goodnight, Whitaker.” “Goodnight.”

Neither of you hangs up right away. Of course you don’t. You both just stay there for a beat, smiling like idiots in the dark until finally you laugh and say, “Hang up.” “You hang up.” “Oh my God.” He grins. “You started it.” You roll your eyes, still smiling. “Goodnight for real.” “Night.”

This time the screen goes dark.

And alone in your quiet bedroom with your heart doing profoundly unhelpful things in your chest, you stare at the ceiling for a full minute before reaching over, setting three alarms for the morning, and grinning into your pillow like a complete fool.

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Frank is easy to spot.

He’s at the main desk in black scrubs, leaning one hip against the counter while Mel King talks to him with unusual focus. Mel always has a kind of careful intensity to her, but this is different. Softer somehow. She’s looking at your brother like he personally discovered oxygen.

Interesting. Very interesting. You slow just enough to take it in. Frank says something low. Mel’s mouth quirks in that small, rare way she smiles when she’s more comfortable than usual. And the way she’s looking at him—

Oh.

You make a mental note so fast it’s practically instinct. Clock that for later. Store it away. Blackmail potential: excellent.

Then Frank spots you before you can be any subtler about it.

“Well, look who finally remembered I exist,” he says, straightening. You walk over and hold out the Starbucks carrier. “Brought you a real coffee before you poisoned yourself with hospital sludge.” Frank takes the cup like it’s a religious offering. “June Bug.” “I know. I’m incredible.” Dana glances over. “You brought Frank Starbucks?” You look at her. “He has children, Dana. He deserves one luxury.”

Frank points at you with the cup. “See? Someone loves me.” Dana deadpans, “Let’s not get carried away.” Mel gives you a polite little nod. “Morning.” “Morning,” you say, then glance between her and Frank with exaggerated innocence. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything deeply personal.” Frank narrows his eyes immediately. “Don’t.” You smile sweetly. “I didn’t say anything.” “You’re doing a face.” “I have lots of faces.”

Mel, unfortunately for your brother, looks like she’s trying not to smile. Oh, this is going on the shelf for later.

You’re still enjoying that when you catch sight of Dennis a few feet away.

He’s near the side workstation with Robby, both of them in black scrubs, heads bent over an x-ray and a chart while Robby talks in that clipped, sarcastic cadence he uses when he’s teaching and insulting someone at the same time. Dennis looks up at exactly the wrong moment and sees you.

His face changes immediately. Small, quick, impossible to miss now that you know what to look for. You turn toward them before you can overthink it. Robby spots you first. “There’s the one Langdon I don’t mind before coffee.” Frank, behind you, calls out, “That is so rude.” “It’s also true,” Robby calls back. You grin and step up beside Dennis. “Morning.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say it back, but your phone starts vibrating in your pocket with a violence that only one person in the building seems capable of achieving. You pull it out, see Park lighting up the screen, and answer with immediate annoyance. “What.” Robby’s brows lift. Dennis tries not to smile.

Park’s voice comes through sharp and dry enough that both of them can hear it. “Orca. Where are you.” You close your eyes for half a second. “In the ER.” “Why.” “I’m dropping off coffee.” “That dumb and unnecessary. OR 5 in twelve. If I get there and you’re not scrubbed, I’m giving your reduction to Patel.” You stop walking. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Try me, Orca.”

Then he hangs up. Silence. You lower the phone slowly. Robby is staring. Dennis is staring too, but his looks more stunned and a little delighted, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh in front of Robby.

Robby folds his arms. “Orca?” From behind you, Frank makes a strangled noise into his coffee because apparently he has not heard this yet. You sigh. “He thinks he’s funny.” Dennis finally finds his voice. “He calls you Orca?” You point at the phone like it personally betrayed you. “He says I’m meaner than he is, so apparently I need a nickname of another mean aquatic animal or something.”

Robby’s mouth twitches. “That’s unhinged.” “Thank you.” Frank, still behind you, says, “I hate him.” “No, you don’t,” you mutter. “I could.” “You have the energy of a man who wants to but is too tired.” “That’s fair.”

Dennis is still smiling now, that quieter smile he gets when something genuinely catches him off guard. It does annoying things to your pulse. You point at him. “Don’t encourage it.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” Robby glances between the two of you once, file that away for later, and says, “Go upstairs before Park has a stress embolism.” You start backing toward the elevators. “On it.”

Then you turn, reach back blindly, and smack Frank on the back of the head with the flat of your hand. He yelps. “What was that for?” You keep walking. “For being annoying in advance.” “I hadn’t even done anything yet!” “Exactly. Preventative care.” Dana snorts from the desk. Jesse laughs outright. Mel looks deeply amused.

You lift a hand in goodbye without turning around and jog for the elevators while half the ER watches you go like they’ve just witnessed some private family soap opera with no commercial break.

Upstairs, Park is waiting outside OR 5 in black scrubs and a lead apron like a judgmental ghost. “You’re late.” “I’m not.” “You feel late.” “That’s not a real metric.” “It is if I say it is.”

The case is a displaced bimalleolar ankle fracture from a fall off a porch step, scheduled for ORIF after swelling finally cooperated. Straightforward by orthopedic standards, which means still delicate enough to ruin your whole morning if you get sloppy. Park lets you do more than he would with most residents, hovering in that specific way of his that feels like annoyance to outsiders and trust to anyone who’s worked with him long enough.

You reduce the fibula cleanly, hold alignment while imaging comes up, and listen to Park mutter, “Don’t be stupid,” in the same tone other attendings might use to say good job. By the time you’re closing, he says, “Acceptable.” Which, from Park, is embarrassingly close to affection.

You’re writing your op note just after noon when the ED consult pager goes off. Fall down stairs. Wrist fracture. Possible distal radius with deformity. Trinity Santos and Victoria Javadi’s patient. You stare at the pager for one long second. Then Park says, without looking up from his own charting, “That buzzing means move, Orca.”

You head downstairs with your jaw already a little tight.

The patient is a woman in her sixties who slipped on basement steps carrying laundry. She’s got the classic dinner-fork deformity of a dorsally displaced distal radius fracture, swelling already rising at the wrist. Victoria is at bedside in black scrubs, eager and trying very hard to look useful. Trinity is opposite her, chart in hand, expression neutral in a way that feels more deliberate than natural after yesterday.

You go straight to the patient first and introduce youself. “I’m going to take a look at your wrist.” Victoria is the one who answers your questions about mechanism, neurovascular checks, pain meds already given. She’s sharp, organized, and trying so hard that some of your irritation softens immediately. “Thank you, Javadi,” you say, reviewing the films. “You did good.”

Victoria brightens. “It’s a Colles pattern, right? Dorsal displacement, likely needs reduction?” “Exactly.” Then you look at Trinity. “Has she eaten today?” Trinity’s mouth tightens. “No. We kept her NPO in case you wanted sedation.” “Good.” That’s all you say to her. Short. Professional. Colder than you usually are, and you know it.

You explain the fracture to the patient, review the plan for hematoma block and reduction, and get set up. Victoria assists attentively, handing you what you need before you ask half the time. Trinity helps too, efficiently, but you barely look at her unless you have to.

The reduction goes well. Improved alignment on post-reduction films, sugar-tong splint in place, fingers warm and pink, sensation intact. You finish your note, give the patient follow-up instructions, and step into the hall. Behind you, low but not low enough, Trinity mutters, “Don’t have to be a bitch.”

You stop. For one split second you think maybe keep walking. Let it go. Don’t do this again.

But this time it lands differently. Not sharp anger. More like something hot and humiliating right under the skin because part of you knows you were short with her, and part of you knows exactly why, and part of you is tired of being made into the bad guy for bleeding where people keep poking.

You turn just enough that she knows you heard, but if you speak right now it’s going to be ugly. So you don’t. You walk out. Fast. Dennis notices, but Frank notices first. He’s just coming out of room nine when you pass, and he catches your face in one glance. “June Bug?”

You keep moving. That, more than anything, makes him follow. “What happened?” “Nothing.” “That’s not your nothing voice.” “Please don’t, Frank.” He does, at least publicly. But the look on his face says this is getting filed for later whether you like it or not.

The shift keeps moving because the Pitt never cares if your feelings got bruised at two in the afternoon. Dennis spends the next hour conflicted enough to be miserable. Because Trinity is his roommate. Because he knows she’s still carrying hurt from Frank, and some of that is fair.

Because he also knows you weren’t just being cruel for sport. He saw your face yesterday. He saw how fast you shut down today. And he likes you enough now that every weird little fracture line between people starts to feel like something he should somehow be able to fix. He can’t. That’s the worst part.

By three, Trinity is at the side desk venting to Garcia while they both chart, and Dennis is close enough to hear without meaning to. “I’m not saying she’s evil,” Trinity says, snapping a pen open. “I’m saying she acts like everyone’s supposed to tiptoe around Frank because he’s her brother.”

Garcia doesn’t even look up at first. “That’s not what she’s doing.” Trinity scoffs. “Really?” Now Garcia does look up. And when Garcia gets that still, even Trinity knows better than to mistake it for softness. “Yeah,” Garcia says. “Really. Just because she called you out for talking about her brother doesn’t make her a bitch.”

Trinity’s expression hardens. “I didn’t say she—” “You implied it plenty,” Garcia cuts in. “And continuing to talk about her does, actually, make you seem like a bitch.” The station goes quiet in that immediate, dangerous way it does when someone has finally said the thing everyone else was trying not to.

Garcia folds her arms. “She is my best friend. That comes first. And I’m not going to let you slander her because you’re still pissed and don’t actually know her.” Trinity says nothing for half a beat. Then, “Fine.” But it’s not fine. Everyone knows it. Dennis stares down at his chart, feeling about six different kinds of terrible.

Upstairs, you’re rounding on postop patients on the surgical floor when your phone buzzes.

Yoyo💕: if Santos says one more thing about you i’m putting her through drywall

A second later:

Yoyo 💕: not literally. probably. Yoyo💕 : anyway she’s being annoying and i defended your honor like a medieval knight

You actually smile in spite of yourself while standing outside a room waiting for a patient to finish with the bathroom.

You: you are deeply dramatic Yoyo 💕: yes Yoyo 💕 : also correct

You tuck the phone away and keep moving.

By late afternoon, Park drags you back down to the ED himself for another consult. “Pilon fracture,” he says. “Actually?” “We’ll see.”

The patient turns out to be a fifty-something man with an ankle injury after getting his foot caught under a riding mower trailer. The x-rays show a comminuted distal tibia fracture extending into the plafond. Not a disaster-disaster yet, but definitely a real operative problem. He’s sweaty, angry, and deeply unhappy to find that the first orthopedic surgeon at bedside is you.

You introduce yourself, start your exam, and he cuts you off almost immediately. “I’d rather talk to the real surgeon.” The room stills. You look at him. “I am the real surgeon.” He snorts. “Honey, no offense, but I’d like somebody who’s actually done this before.”

You feel your spine go cold. No offense. Your favorite.

You’re just opening your mouth—already halfway to something sharp, something professionally suicidal but emotionally satisfying—when Park steps in beside you. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. “This doctor,” he says, looking straight at the patient, “is on my service and more than qualified to assess your fracture. You can either answer her questions and get good care, or keep talking and delay your own treatment. Those are your options.”

The patient blinks.

Park keeps going. “And for the record, if you think competence is determined by whether the surgeon is male, I’m happy to prove how wrong you are with a very long wait.”

Silence.

Then the patient mutters, “Fine.”

You continue the exam with your face arranged into something polite enough to hold up in court. Swelling significant. Skin intact but tight. Distal pulses okay. Sensation intact. Needs temporary stabilization and likely staged management depending on soft tissues. You get through it without saying anything that would get you fired.

Barely.

Out in the hall, once the room door swings shut, you turn to Park. “That was weirdly kind.” He keeps walking. “Don’t make it a thing.” You fall into step beside him. “You defended me. In public.” “I defended orthopedics. You were incidental.” You grin despite yourself. “Softie.” Park gives you a flat look. “Don’t.” “You do love me.” “I absolutely do not.” “That sounded convincing.” He presses the elevator button with more force than necessary. “Orca, if you tell anyone I was nice, I’ll deny it under oath.” “I’m telling everybody.” “You’re insufferable.” “You hired me.”

The rest of the shift winds down the way hospital shifts always do: not gently, just slightly less violently. You get pulled into one more floor issue, then a quick postop wound check, then back down to the ED for final imaging review on the pilon fracture. By then night shift is bleeding in around the edges.

John Shen arrives first, iced Dunkin in hand like it’s a personality trait. “Why do all of you look haunted?” he asks the room at large.

“Because we work here,” Dana says. “Fair.” Dr. Parker Ellis comes in not long after, calm and competent in that senior-resident way that always makes the room feel a little steadier. Abbot follows, broader and more quietly grounded, giving off that same old-soldier, no-nonsense ease he always does at shift change.

Shen spots you near the desk and points his straw at your face. “You look less mean than usual. Character growth.” You fold your arms. “That’s offensive.” Abbot glances up from a chart. “No, it’s accurate.” Ellis, hearing only the tail end of it, says, “If she’s less mean than usual, somebody document it before it resolves.” You snort.

Dennis is across the desk pretending not to watch you laugh. Frank is beside the printer finishing sign-out and absolutely watching everything. Then your brother’s phone buzzes, he checks it, and his expression changes. He looks up sharply. “June Bug.”

You glance over. “What.” “Abby says if you’re late for dinner again, she’s feeding your portion to Tanner.” You gasp. “She would not.” Frank pockets his phone. “She absolutely would. Penny already asked where you are.” You groan. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “That’s your family.” You start gathering your things from the corner of the desk. “I hate all of you.” “No, you don’t,” Frank says. “Unfortunately, no.”

You’re halfway turned toward the exit when Dennis says your name. Not loud. Just enough. You look back. He’s a little flushed, a little too still, chart tucked under one arm like he’s bracing himself with it.

“Can I ask you something?” Shen, from farther down the desk, murmurs, “Oh, plot,” and Dana points at him without looking. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “Depends.”

Dennis glances at Frank once, then back at you, and does something that clearly took all day to work up to. “Can I get your number?” The whole desk goes just a little quieter. Not fully silent. This is still the Pitt. But enough. Dennis keeps going before he can lose the nerve. “So I don’t have to wait for an ortho consult to see you.”

There it is. Honest. A little awkward. Completely him. Your stomach flips hard enough to be annoying.

Behind you, Shen makes a tiny strangled noise like he’s trying not to cheer. Ellis looks up from her sign-out. Abbot’s mouth twitches. Dana suddenly becomes fascinated by a stack of papers she absolutely isn’t reading. Frank looks between you and Dennis with the expression of a man evaluating every possible consequence at once.

You make Dennis wait half a second longer than necessary because you are, at heart, still yourself. Then you hold out your phone. His relief is immediate and impossible to miss. He takes it, careful with his fingers around yours, and puts his number in, and texts himself. He hands your phone back. “Now you have mine too,” he says.

You glance at the screen, then up at him. “You planning to use it?” A faint blush climbs into his cheeks. “I was thinking maybe coffee.” Shen whispers, “Let’s go,” into his cup. Dana points again. “Not one word.”

Frank exhales slowly through his nose, then says, “Abby is going to love this.” You whip around. “You tell Abby nothing.” Frank looks innocent. “I didn’t say I’d tell her. I said she’d love it.” “That is the same thing in your hands.” He smiles, smug and deeply irritating. “Get in the car, June Bug, before Tanner stages a coup.”

You look back at Dennis one more time. “Text me, Whitaker.” His whole face softens. “Yeah. I will.” You nod once, tuck the phone into your pocket, and head toward the doors with Frank at your side. As soon as you’re out of easy earshot, he bumps your shoulder. “Coffee?”

“Don’t.” “He nice I guess.” “You say that like you’re reviewing a dog for adoption.” Frank laughs under his breath. “You smiled.” “I smile all the time.” “Not like that.” You cut him a look. “Drive.” He grins, pleased with himself in the way only older brothers can be, and holds the door open with a ridiculous flourish.

Behind you, inside the bright hum of the ER, Dennis Whitaker is still standing at the desk looking just dazed enough to be adorable while Shen says something that makes Abbot laugh and Ellis shakes her head like she’s watching a train wreck in slow motion. And for the first time all day, the thought of tomorrow feels a little lighter than it did this morning.

Dennis sits on the couch in his apartment staring at his phone like it personally insulted him. Not because anything is wrong with it. Because your number is in there now. Because you told him to text you. Because that should make this easy and somehow makes it worse.

Across the room, Trinity is in gray sweatpants and one of his old college T-shirts, pacing between the kitchen and the coffee table with the kind of sharp restless energy she gets when she’s pissed off and trying to turn it into conversation.

“It’s bullshit,” she says for what is at least the fourth time. “Garcia’s supposed to be on my side.” Dennis is only half listening. “Mm.” Trinity whips around. “No, Dennis, listen. I’m serious. She stood there and told me to knock it off like I was the problem.” He blinks at her from the couch. “Maybe because you were.”

That gets her full attention.

“What?” Dennis glances back down at his phone. “You were talking about June Bug.” Trinity folds her arms. “I was talking about Frank.” “Not really.” She stares at him. “Wow. You’re useless.” He hums, because that seems safest.

Trinity throws herself into the armchair like she’s been mortally wounded by a betrayal too complex for this apartment. “And another thing, Garcia is supposed to support me. That is literally the job description of a girlfriend.”

Dennis looks up. “Did Garcia say she’s your girlfriend?” Trinity narrows her eyes. “Don’t be technical right now.” “That feels like an important detail.” She throws a throw pillow at him. He catches it without effort and drops it onto the cushion beside him, gaze already drifting back to his phone.

Your contact is open.

No messages yet.

Which is stupid. You gave him your number less than two hours ago. You are presumably busy having a life. That’s how numbers work.

Still. He stares. Then unlocks the phone. Then locks it. Then unlocks it again.

Trinity watches this for exactly five seconds before saying, “Oh my God.” Dennis doesn’t look up. “What.” “You’re texting her.” He finally does look up. “I haven’t yet.” “But you’re going to.” He says nothing. That’s enough.

Trinity sits up straighter. “Dennis Whitaker.” “Please don’t do a tone.” “You have a crush on Frank Langdon’s little sister.” He rubs a hand over his face. “She’s not Frank Langdon’s little sister every second of every day.”

“That is biologically false, she’s your evil senior resident’s sister.” “It’s not the main point.” “It is if I have to live with the consequences.” Dennis gives her a long, flat look. “You are being dramatic.” Trinity’s expression turns smug. “You’re nervous.” “Maybe a little.” She grins. “Pathetic.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”

He looks back at the screen and finally, before he can talk himself out of it, types.

Dennis: Hi.

He immediately hates it. Too short. Too bare. Too stupid. Then three dots appear before he can spiral further. And somehow that’s worse.

At Frank and Abby’s house, family dinner is in full swing when your phone buzzes.

You’re on the living room rug in your sweats and a t-shirt, cross-legged with Penny in your lap and Tanner trying very hard to force three stuffed animals into a plastic dump truck that absolutely cannot hold them. Penny is two and fully in her tyrant princess era, which means she keeps demanding “Again!” every time you make one of the stuffed dogs bark in a stupid voice. Tanner, at four, is just old enough to have opinions and just young enough to say every one of them immediately.

“No, Auntie June,” he says gravely, pushing a stuffed dinosaur toward you. “He’s the dad.” “Oh,” you say seriously. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t realize he had a family.” “He has a truck,” Tanner explains, which apparently answers everything. From the kitchen, Abby laughs while she plates food. “You’re doing great, baby.”

Frank is at the island stealing bites of roasted potatoes off a tray and getting his wrist smacked every thirty seconds. “I haven’t eaten all day,” he protests. Abby doesn’t even look at him. “That’s not my fault.” “It is spiritually.” Your phone buzzes again against your thigh. You glance down.

Dennis: Hi.

That’s it. Just hi. And for some reason that one tiny word sends a stupid, helpless smile straight across your face.

Abby sees it immediately because of course she does. “Well.” You look up too fast. “What.” She leans on the counter, grin already spreading. “Nothing.” Frank looks over from the potatoes. “Why do you look like that?” “Like what?” “Like somebody just told you you’re pretty.” You gasp in fake offense. “Frank.” Tanner looks up from the dump truck. “You are pretty, Auntie June.”

Your hand goes to your chest. “Thank you, baby. See? Someone in this family respects me.” Frank points a potato at you. “I respect you.” “You tackle me for sport.” “That was family enrichment.”

Penny pats your cheek with alarming force. “June.” “Yes, Penny girl?” “Doggy kiss.” You obediently make the stuffed dog kiss her nose and she squeals.Then you text back.

You: Hi yourself.

Your phone buzzes almost instantly.

Dennis: I spent twenty minutes trying to think of something better than that. Dennis: Clearly I panicked.

You bite your lip to hide your smile.

You: That’s okay. I respect honesty under pressure. You: Mostly because I work with tramua cases.

Across the room, Frank narrows his eyes. “You’re doing it again.” You don’t look up. “Doing what?” “The smiling at your phone thing.” Abby looks delighted. “Let her live, Frank.” “I am letting her live,” he says. “I’m monitoring.” “You’re not my probation officer.” “No,” Frank says, “but I am your brother.” “That is not a credential.”

Your phone buzzes again.

Dennis: That feels disrespectful to emergency medicine. Dennis: We panic very professionally.

You laugh under your breath. Then another text thread lights up.

Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Saw a TikTok. False.

Under it, he’s sent some idiot video of a guy in backwards sunglasses and quarter-zip scrubs captioned: ortho surgeons leaving the gym to go fix one clavicle

You actually bark a laugh out loud. Frank straightens immediately. “What.” “Nothing.” “That was not a nothing laugh.” You try to answer both threads one-handed because Penny has now decided your arm is the correct place to sit forever.

You to Dennis: professionally is generous

Then to Park:

You: Brenden this is literally half your specialty You: you all look like fraternity recruitment got lost on the way to anatomy lab

His reply comes in seconds.

Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Wrong. Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Also this one’s insulting.

Another video appears: a joke about ortho hearing a ninety-year-old hip fracture consult and grabbing a jackhammer like a kid on Christmas morning.

You laugh even harder. Now Abby is fully grinning and Frank is openly suspicious. “What,” he says slowly, coming around the island. “Is on your phone?” You clutch it tighter. “Nothing that concerns you.” “That is the shadiest sentence you’ve ever said in my house.” “It’s not shady.” “You’re literally hiding the screen.”

Penny, who loves chaos because she is related to all of you, immediately points and says, “Phone!” Tanner abandons the dump truck and joins the campaign. “Show us!” “No,” you say, standing up too fast with Penny still on your hip. “Absolutely not.” Frank points at you. “June Bug.” “You’re not my dad.” “Correct. I’m worse.”

Then he lunges.

You yelp and dart sideways toward the hall, Penny shrieking in delighted betrayal as you scoop her tighter and run. Tanner starts laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Abby leans against the counter with both hands over her mouth like she knows exactly how this is going to end.

“Frank, no—”

Too late.

He catches you three steps into the hallway, wraps an arm around your waist, and the two of you go down in a heap onto the big rug just outside the living room while Penny squeals, Tanner dog-piles on because obviously he does, and Murphy the golden retriever comes skidding in from nowhere because apparently all family wrestling matches are his business now.

“Give me the phone,” Frank says through laughter. “Die.” “That’s not a no.” Tanner climbs onto your stomach like a tiny mercenary. “Get her, Dad!” “Traitor,” you accuse him. Penny pats your hair with sticky toddler hands. “June fall down.” “Yes, baby, I noticed.” Abby finally walks over, hands on her hips, laughing too hard to be authoritative. “Frank, stop tackling your sister.”

Frank, trying to peel the phone out of your grip, says, “I’ll stop when she stops acting suspicious.” “You are a grown man.” “I am a father. This is basically my job.” “You have the wrong children!”

Murphy, Frank’s dog sticks his nose directly into your face. Tanner is still half on top of you. Penny has abandoned all loyalty and is now yelling, “Again!” And in the middle of all of it, Frank wins. He gets the phone. “Ha—” he starts, then looks at the screen.

And stops.

You freeze. Abby leans in. “Well?” Frank blinks down at the text thread. Then scrolls once. Then looks at you in confusion. “This is… Park?” You go still for one heartbeat. Then two. Then you burst out laughing so hard you almost can’t breathe. Frank lowers the phone slowly. “You were hiding Park?”

Abby actually doubles over. Tanner looks between all the adults like this is the best television of his life. Penny says, “Again!” because she has no grasp of nuance, only vibes. You reach up and snatch the phone back against your chest. “I was hiding for the bit.” Frank is still trying to process. “You were acting like that because Park is sending you orthopedic memes?”

“Yes!” He stares. “Why.” “Because it’s funny.” “It’s weird.” “He’s weird.” Abby wipes under her eyes. “That is true.” Frank sits back on his heels, looking deeply unsettled. “He sent you the frat-bro one?” You point accusingly. “Exactly. See? You get it.” He narrows his eyes. “I do not get it.”

“You got tackled for nothing,” Abby says cheerfully. “I did not tackle her for nothing,” Frank protests. “She was laughing like a criminal.” You kiss Penny’s forehead, then Tanner’s, still grinning. “I’m going home before this family commits another felony.” Penny immediately clings tighter. “No.” Your face softens at once. “I know, baby.”

Tanner crawls into your lap from the other side, all warm little kid limbs and serious eyes. “Come back tomorrow?” “If your mom invites me.” Abby, from the doorway, says, “Always.” You stand, balancing Penny one last second before handing her back to Abby, then scoop Tanner into a hug and kiss his whole face until he squeals in outrage and laughter. You do the same to Penny, who smacks a sticky hand against your cheek and says, “June kiss.”

Frank watches the whole thing with that quiet, softened expression he gets around his kids and around you when he forgets to be irritating. You hug Abby first, quick and warm. “Thanks for dinner.” “Anytime, baby.” Then you hug Frank too, because despite everything he is still your brother and he still smells like decent coffee and black pepper cologne and home.

“Don’t tackle me next time,” you mutter into his shoulder. “No promises.” “Unwell.” “Accurate.” You head out still texting Dennis before you’ve even buckled into your car.

You: update: frank tackled me in the hallway over orthopedic memes

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Dennis: That sentence is completely insane. Dennis: Are you okay? You: physically yes You: emotionally I’ve been victimized

By the time you get back to your apartment, shoes kicked off by the door and bag dumped onto the chair, you’re still smiling at your phone like an idiot. You change into soft shorts and an old T-shirt with one hand while texting with the other, toothbrush in your mouth for half of it and absolutely no dignity left to preserve.

Dennis is still on his couch, Trinity now ranting about something else entirely in the background while he mostly tunes her out and keeps the phone angled toward himself.

Dennis: I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on the idea that Park sends TikToks You: unfortunately he’s online Dennis: that feels dangerous You: it is You: today he sent one about ortho hearing “90 year old hip fracture” and grabbing a jackhammer like it’s christmas Dennis: Please tell me that isn’t true You: Dennis be serious

He laughs quietly to himself, enough that Trinity glares over the back of the couch. “What is that face?” she asks. “No face.” “You’re doing a face.” He ignores her and keeps typing.

Dennis: I had a good time today

Then, a second later:

Dennis: Even though the part I actually saw you was maybe thirty seconds.

You sit down on the edge of your bed and stare at that one for a second too long. Your whole apartment is quiet around you now. No kids laughing. No Frank threatening to steal your phone. Just the soft hum of the AC and the glow of your bedroom lamp and that stupid warm feeling climbing steadily up your chest.

You type back more carefully this time.

You: I had a good time too You: even if most of it was just me getting harassed by my brother and my attending

His answer comes quickly.

Dennis: I can’t compete with that level of chaos You: no one can Dennis: maybe coffee still gives me a fighting chance though

You smile into the darkened room

You: maybe

The conversation keeps going after that in that easy, drifting way that makes time disappear.

About Nebraska. About Abby’s cooking. About how Park is objectively too online for a man with that little emotional range. About Trinity stealing Dennis’s cereal. About the difference between ER chaos and OR chaos. About how Penny says your name like it has only one syllable and how Tanner apparently believes every stuffed animal needs a truck.

At some point you end up tucked fully under your blankets, lights off, phone held above your face while sleep starts creeping in around the edges.

Dennis is still texting. So are you. Until your replies get slower. Softer. Shorter.

Dennis: You should sleep.

You blink at that one for a second before answering.

You: rude Dennis: you’re falling asleep mid-sentence You: no im not Dennis: you forgot punctuation three texts ago You: thats style

He sends back a laughing emoji, then:

Dennis: Goodnight, June Bug.

And that one gets you. Not because it’s flashy. Not because it’s especially smooth. Because it feels warm. Familiar already in a way that should maybe scare you more than it does. Your eyes are half closed when you answer.

You: goodnight whitaker

Phone still in your hand, smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth, you drift off before the screen fully fades to black.

Little bit of a long one. Wanted to show the readers relationship with Frank's family. My apologies <3

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

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

He probably doesn't.

You hate that you care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You already know who it is before you check.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do that again,” you say.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you hear Trinity.

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

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

Trinity keeps going.

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

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

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

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

The station goes dead quiet.

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

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

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

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

The rest of the afternoon gets worse in quiet ways.

You avoid the ER.

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

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

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

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

You say nothing, which is answer enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, finally, gets you left alone.

Mostly.

The rest of the shift crawls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Across the desk, Dennis stops.

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

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

Slowly, but he comes.

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

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

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

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

You look at him for a long second.

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

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

Dennis listens without interrupting.

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

You’re quiet for a beat. Then another.

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

You almost smile.

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

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

Almost.

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

But not done either.

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

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

He looks over automatically.

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

“Goodnight, June Bug,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you walk in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That alone tells the ER a lot.

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

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

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

Which somehow makes him like you more.

The afternoon slams the department.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That breaks the ice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perlah and Princess look delighted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets another round of laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you walk in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That alone tells the ER a lot.

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

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

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

Which somehow makes him like you more.

The afternoon slams the department.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That breaks the ice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perlah and Princess look delighted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets another round of laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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