Archive of Our Own

✷✷✷✷

Brendon did not, contrary to what most people might have assumed, mind working on the Fourth of July.

The hospital had gone analog for the day as a result of a potential cyberthreat, which was less than ideal in 2026, but he preferred absurdity with a defined task to the alternative of sitting in his house with nowhere particular to direct his attention. Holiday shifts were often useful that way. They stripped the day down to function. Fewer performative pleasantries—not that he bothered with those, anyway. More fractures, more stupid injuries, more people discovering that fireworks and alcohol made an inefficient combination.

He had just booked an OR for a leg replantation, and that alone was enough to improve his mood by several measurable degrees. Most orthopedic surgeons preferred destruction in its simpler forms: break, stabilize, repair. Brendon enjoyed that too, but replantations required a more elevated kind of thinking. Precision under pressure. Anatomy restored against poor odds. An extremity returned to the body with no guarantee the body would accept it.

He took the stairs to the OR floor two at a time, pushed through the door from the stairwell, and had just enough time to register motion before something slammed into him.

He stopped short. The impact registered as a brief transfer of force against his chest. The other body rebounded immediately, light enough that the collision displaced her far more than it did him. She stumbled backward two, almost three steps.

“What the f—” he began, reflex more than intention, but the word died there.

She had looked up.

She was small.

Not fragile, he didn’t think. There was a difference. But small enough that he guessed the top of her head would rest somewhere near his sternum if she stood close enough. The observation came uninvited and was catalogued without conclusion.

He reached out—not quickly, but with enough intention to be effective—and caught her by the arm before she could misstep again. She steadied under his grip.

“Shoot, I’m so sorry—” she said immediately, words overlapping themselves. Her gaze dropped, scanning, and fixed on his badge. “—Dr. Park. I’ll watch where I’m going better. I just—”

He let her continue.

Not because the explanation mattered. It didn’t. Collisions in transitional spaces were predictable outcomes of inattention. What held his attention instead was the fact that he did not recognize her.

That, in itself, was not unusual. Brendon did not make a habit of learning names outside of necessity. If he was not operating with someone regularly, teaching them, or correcting their work, they existed at the periphery of his awareness. A random nurse would fall squarely into that category.

Still.

He was certain he had not seen her before.

He took her in with the same unhurried precision he applied to operating.

Two braids, parted cleanly. Loose curls escaping at the temple, softening what would otherwise be a more structured presentation. A short-sleeved shirt beneath her scrub top printed with small blue flowers that somehow made her look even softer than she already did.

Her face was open in a way that suggested she had not yet learned to conceal reaction as a matter of course. Maybe naïveté. She certainly seemed young enough to still have that youthful hope about her. He wondered how long it would last.

In her other hand: papers. Labs, most likely. She held them a fraction too tightly, fingers pressing in as if she didn’t entirely trust her own grip. Combined with how young she looked, If he was a betting man, Brendon would put good money on her being new. 

Emergency department, he concluded. She was moving in that direction, and he had just come from it. The ED was, in his experience, a necessary disorder. Loud, inefficient, prone to improvisation where structure would have served better. He avoided it when possible. Though it did, occasionally, produce cases worth his time.

He tightened his grip on her arm, not enough to startle, just enough to redirect her attention back to him, then released her.

“It’s fine…” he said.

She blinked, as if recalibrating.

“Emma,” she said, almost quickly. “My name. It’s Emma.”

He could have just read her badge like she did his, but why bother when she offered it so prettily. 

He held her gaze for a moment longer than was required to complete the exchange.

“It’s fine, Emma.”

He would have handled anyone else differently. Corrected them. Briefly, efficiently, and without concern for reception. The deviation registered immediately as a variable without an identified cause.

He did not like unidentified variables.

“Dr. Park!”

The call cut cleanly through the moment. He looked up and found Leon at the end of the hallway near OR 6, was waving with an enthusiasm that bordered on incompetence.

Brendon shifted his attention back to Emma and stepped aside, holding the door open.

“You should get those where they’re going,” he said, nodding once toward the papers in her hand.

She glanced down at them, a fraction delayed, as though she had briefly forgotten their existence. “Oh—right. Yes. Sorry again, Dr. Park. And thank you.”

She moved past him.

At this distance, the top of her head aligned almost exactly with the center of his chest, just as he had assessed. 

He watched her descend the stairs until she disappeared beyond the landing.

He closed the door.

Leon was still standing outside OR 6, holding a paper chart like an artifact from a less efficient era. Brendon approached, his focus already narrowing back toward the case.

“Is our patient prepped and under?”

“Not yet,” Leon said.

Brendon looked at him.

“Then why the fuck,” he said, voice level, “are you beckoning me like a dog?”

Leon’s posture adjusted immediately. It was his second week on Brendon’s service as a surgical resident and his technical work, so far, had been borderline acceptable. His instincts outside the operating theatre were less developed.

“Sorry, sir. They’re bringing her in now.”

Brendon took the chart from his hand, scanning only enough to confirm what he already knew.

“Distinguish between urgency and anticipation,” he said. “They are not interchangeable.”

He moved toward the OR doors.

The room would be ready. The case would proceed. Muscle memory and discipline would carry the next several hours of surgery.

And yet—

As he scrubbed in, sponge running in precise, practiced patterns over his hands and arms, he found his attention returning, briefly, to the interruption in the stairwell.

Not the collision. That was inconsequential.

The anomaly was his own response.

He had noticed her.

More than that—he had allowed the noticing to persist.

He turned the faucet off with his knee.

Brendon felt…curious. 

And he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Brendon’s life was, by design, straightforward.

Not simple, but controlled. Predictable. Governed by repetition he had selected and refined over time. His house remained clean. Surfaces clear. Nothing extraneous. He exercised daily, ate with intention, stayed current on research, operated, taught, corrected. He called his niece twice a month, without fail. Even his indulgences were structured—contained to specific places, specific nights, specific expectations. Efficient. Finite.

There was very little in his life that he had not already accounted for.

Which made the deviation noticeable.

In the two weeks following the stairwell, he found himself scanning the emergency department each time he was called for a consult. Not overtly. Not enough for anyone to comment, not that anyone would dare.

He saw her occasionally.

Each time, she was incrementally different. Not in any way that would draw attention from someone less observant, but enough for him. The tension in her movements diminished. Her expressions filtered more quickly. The way she moved through space suggested increasing familiarity—fewer hesitations, fewer excess adjustments.

The little doe was learning. Adapting. Growing into her spots.

✷✷✷✷

He was not disappointed when he walked into Trauma Room 2 and found she wasn’t there.

He wasn’t.

The Not Emma nurse handed him gloves as he circled the room for his observation.

The patient lay supine, left leg externally rotated at an unnatural angle, the tibia exposed through a tear in the skin that was relatively clean. There was blood, but not enough to obscure the field. No significant debris embedded in the wound. Whoever had first managed it had done just enough correctly to keep it workable, though not enough to call it good. Brendon stepped in without announcing himself, eyes already tracing the line of the fracture, the degree of displacement, the tension in the surrounding tissue. Force injury, not crush. Better prognosis.

At the foot of the bed stood the mousey child doctor who hadn’t known what saline was, which was less than ideal. But luckily there was a grownup in the room: Garcia. 

She was positioned correctly, hands steady, attention where it needed to be. Competent. Brendon adjusted his internal expectations accordingly.

“X-Ray?” he asked, eyes still on the exposed bone.

He looked over at the portable X-Ray machine. Transverse fracture across the mid-shaft tibia, proximal fragment shifted anteriorly about a centimeter. The fibula showed a corresponding break at the same level—distributed force, which was favorable. No comminution. Soft tissue swelling was moderate but not severe; the injury was recent enough that peak swelling hadn't set in yet. This was a fracture he could work with.

Garcia added, without prompting, “Abdomen, chest, pelvis are clear.”

Brendon gave a short nod. Stable, then. Or stable enough. Less likely he’d die on his table of something other than what Brendon would be treating him for.

He stepped closer, reassessing the margins. Clean. Favorable. 

“We’ll stabilize and fixate upstairs,” he said, voice even, already moving on to the next step. “I’ll book the OR. Send him up when you’re done here.”

He straightened, pulling off his gloves as he stepped back. His gaze flicked once more over the leg, committing the angles to memory.

Garcia caught his eye. He gave her a single nod.

Then he turned and left the room, already redirecting his focus toward the OR, toward what the case would require once it was properly his.

It would be a clean way to close out the shift.

More than that—it might even be interesting.

✷✷✷✷

The surgery proceeded without complication, which was, in its own way, satisfying. Clean reduction, stable fixation, closure without resistance. By the time Brendon finished post-op rounds, his mind had already filed it away—completed, successful. His mood settled into something approaching neutral-positive—a state he recognizes as acceptable.

Being able to get off relatively on time was another positive, despite the fact that it was pissing down rain when he left.

He crossed the covered walkway into Garage A, then up to his assigned spot near the elevator on the second floor. He opened the rear door to his black velvet Bentayga, set his bag inside with habitual precision, and closed it behind him. 

He started the engine, pulled forward, scanned his badge. The gate lifted.

The sky had already collapsed into darkness, the storm dragging evening down with it. The wipers engaged automatically as he pulled out of the lot. 

He reached the edge of campus and slowed, checking for traffic through the distortion of rain—

—and saw her.

Two braids. The same frame, though altered now—shoulders drawn inward, arms tight to her body, trying and failing to conserve heat. She stood beneath a flickering streetlamp beside the bus stop sign, the light stuttering uselessly against the rain. She was soaked through. Scrubs darkened, clinging to her lithe frame. No umbrella.

There was no reason for him to intervene. They didn’t know each other. Not in any meaningful way. A brief exchange in a stairwell did not justify involvement. She might not even remember him. From her perspective, he would be a stranger—a large, older man in a car pulling up unprompted in the dark, in the rain. There were variables there he couldn’t control. Unknowns in how she would react, how she would interpret it.

He didn’t like unknowns.

He also didn’t like the image of her standing there, soaked through, waiting in the rain.

The irritation came quickly—not at her, but at the situation. At himself.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

He signaled left.

The decision made before he fully thought it through; he turned, pulling alongside the curb, and engaged his hazards.

She reacted exactly as she should have.

A step back from the curb. Her grip tightened on her bag. Her other hand moved toward her pocket—likely readying herself for something defensive if necessary.

Good, he thought, distantly. 

He lowered the passenger-side window and leaned slightly so she could see him clearly.

“Are you okay?”

The question was imprecise. He knew it as soon as it left him. She was visibly shivering. Of course she wasn’t okay.

She didn’t answer.

He corrected.

“Brendon Park,” he said. “Surgery.”

There was a brief pause, then recognition.

“I remember,” she said. “I’m waiting for the bus.”

“I can see that.”

He considered his next words—what to say and how they might land. How to make the offer without introducing more uncertainty than he was removing.

“It’s pouring out here,” he said, nodding toward the rain. “Let me give you a ride.”

She hesitated.

He expected that. He watched the process without interrupting it—her glance at her watch, the quick scan of the street, the calculation of time versus risk. Sensible. Measured.

Then she nodded.

He unlocked the door.

She opened it carefully, still unsure, and slid into the passenger seat. Her bag stayed in her lap, held close. He raised the window immediately, sealing the car again, and turned the heat up.

“I’m going to turn on your seat warmer,” he said, gesturing toward the button. “Turn it down if it’s too much.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice tight with cold.

She was drenched. Completely. Water had soaked through every layer, the fabric clinging in a way that he shouldn’t be paying attention to. He reached for his phone, unlocked it, and handed it to her.

“Put in your address.”

She did, fingers slightly unsteady, then handed it back. He glanced at the destination and set the route. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t comment that it wasn’t a safe neighborhood for someone like her to live in.

She sat angled slightly inward, shoulders drawn in, conserving heat where she could.

He sighed once, then reached back and pulled the hoodie over his head. The fabric was dry, still holding residual warmth. He held it out to her.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said. “Put this on.”

She looked at him—surprise unfiltered, eyes wider than before—then took it.

“Thank you,” she said again, quieter.

She pulled it on. It swallowed her frame immediately, the sleeves extending past her hands. She pushed them back once, then again when they still covered her wrists.

He was sure that it would be a dress on her if she were standing. The thought pleased him more than he cared to admit. 

“Seatbelt,” he said.

She complied immediately.

“Good.”

He turned off the hazards and pulled back into traffic.

From the corner of his vision, he saw her lift the collar slightly, tucking her face into it, drawing in a slow breath.

Something in his chest shifted. Not sharply. Not enough to disrupt anything. Just… noticeable.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Emma,” he said after a moment. “How can you care for your patients when you don’t care for yourself?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“You remember my name?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“I don’t make a habit of offering rides to people I don’t recognize.” Or, anyone, he didn’t say.

“Oh,” she said. “Right.”

“I just didn’t realize it was going to rain,” She continued. “And I missed my bus.”

“Keep a jacket in your locker. Or an umbrella. Preferably both, actually.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I will.”

The car fell quiet after that. Brendon was aware of it in the same way he was aware of a slight imbalance in a reduction—nothing urgent, but present enough to note. She sat angled inward, shoulders still drawn tight, the sleeves of his hoodie bunched around her hands. Water continued to drip from the ends of her braids, darkening the fabric pooled in her lap. He couldn’t tell if the tension in her posture came from the cold or from him.

He realised, distantly, that he did not often concern himself with that distinction.

“I’m sorry for getting your car all wet.”

The words were quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the engine. He stopped at a red light and glanced over. She was looking down, not at him, seemingly watching droplets gather and fall from her chin to her hands.

“It’s just a car, Emma,” he said.

“An expensive one,” she murmured.

He almost dismissed it out of habit, but the way she said it—small, like she meant it—made something in him pause. He didn’t care about the car. Not in this context. Not at all. 

He studied her for a second longer than necessary. This wasn’t the version of her he’d seen in passing—the one who moved quickly through the ED, who held herself together with that fragile, unpracticed composure. This was something else. 

He repeated his earlier question, “Are you okay?”

She looked at him then. “Honestly?”

“No, Emma. Lie to me,” he said, dry.

It earned him a small, reluctant smile.

The light turned green. He shifted his attention back to the road, easing the car forward.

“I lost a patient today,” she said.

Nothing uncommon there, he guessed. She worked in the ED. Loss was part of the job, an inevitability rather than an exception. He could have said as much. He didn’t.

“It was a kid,” she continued. “Five years old.”

Oh. That changed it.

Brendon’s grip on the wheel adjusted. He didn’t see many pediatric cases himself, not regularly, but he remembered the first one from when he was a resident over ten years ago. You never forget your first. 

He heard her sniffle. Saw the quick movement of her hand as she wiped at her nose.

He wasn’t sure what to hope for: that she was just sick or crying. He did not know how to handle a crying nurse in his car. He focused on the road.

“It just sucks,” she said, like she was trying to make it smaller than it was.

“It does,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

There wasn’t much else to offer. It did suck. 

He glanced down at the navigation and signaled for a right turn. The streets shifted as they drove. Buildings older, less maintained. Lights dimmer. He attempted not to worry about someone so sweet living in a neighborhood so sour.

“Does it ever get easier?” she asked.

He considered the question.

“Honestly?” he said.

She huffed a quiet breath. “No, Dr. Park. Lie to me.”

He let out a short laugh before he could stop it. It surprised him.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t get easier.”

He paused, then added, more measured, “But you get used to the hurt, I guess. You learn how to carry it without letting it interfere with what’s in front of you.”

That was the closest he got to advice.

He turned onto her street. She pointed toward a building ahead—if it could be called that generously. The facade was peeling in long strips, paint worn down to older layers beneath. The front steps were uneven, the railing slightly bent inward. A narrow, four-story walk-up with windows that didn’t quite align.

He pulled up to the curb and put the car in park, hazards clicking on.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned toward her. “Let’s get you inside. Have your keys ready?”

She hesitated, then reached into her bag, pulling out a key ring with a small blue puffball attached. “Thank you for the ride, but you don’t have to walk me up.”

He looked at her in a way he hoped conveyed it wasn’t up for negotiation.

She didn’t push it.

He reached over slowly, giving her time to track the movement, and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt further over her head, shielding her from what little protection it could offer. Then he grabbed his own keys and phone, slipped them into his pocket, and stepped out into the rain.

It hit immediately—cold, heavy, soaking through in seconds.

He rounded the front of the car and opened her door before she could. She stepped out, and he shut it behind her, already moving toward the entrance. He locked the car on the way, not breaking stride.

They huddled under the shallow awning, both of them wet now, though he paid it no attention. She fumbled briefly with her keys before finding the right one and letting them inside.

The building smelled faintly of damp and something musky. The stairwell ahead was narrow, the lighting dim.

“I’m three floors up,” she said. “There’s no elevator.”

He nodded once and started for the stairs.

She followed, her little legs making quick steps trying to keep pace. He slowed down.

“I meant that you don’t have to walk me all the way up,” she said from behind him. “I’m fine now.”

“I’m already here,” he replied.

That was the end of it.

They climbed the remaining flights in silence until they reached 3C. She stopped, shifting her bag on her shoulder, fingers brushing absently against the blue puffball before she turned to him.

“Thank you again,” she said. “For the ride. And the jacket. And walking me up.”

“It’s no problem, Emma.”

And it wasn’t. That was the part he didn’t understand.

She nodded, the hood slipping forward over her face. She pushed it back slightly, then found the right key and turned it in the lock.

“Goodnight, Dr. Park.”

“Brendon,” he corrected.

She smiled. “Goodnight, Brendon.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

The door opened just enough for him to catch a glimpse inside. Small. Clean. Surprisingly tidy for someone her age. A bed neatly made with a pale blue comforter, what appeared to be a small lamb stuffed animal propped carefully against the pillows.

He looked away before he could notice anything else.

She slipped inside, gave him one last soft smile, and closed the door. He stayed where he was until he heard the lock click into place.

Only then did he turn.

He took the stairs quickly on the way down, stepping back out into the rain and crossing to his car with less regard for how soaked he was becoming. Inside, he shut the door, the quiet returning immediately.

He reached for the hand sanitizer in the center console, applied it, set it back.

Then he sat there for a moment longer than necessary.

He thought about her. About the way her voice had shifted when she talked about the kid. About the way she had pulled his hoodie closer around herself. About the neatness of that apartment and the mess of the building. The little lamb.

He drove home through the rain, and the thoughts followed him until they were the last thing on his mind before he fell asleep.

It was becoming a problem. 

That much he knew. Not with his work—he’d never let anything interfere with his job. His cases were still clean, his timing exact, his expectations met or exceeded in real time. But the intrusion existed in the margins. Between tasks. In the seconds where nothing immediate demanded his attention, his mind returned to her with a consistency he hadn’t authorized.

He recognized it as a lapse in control.

It was inappropriate. That much was clear. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-four, twenty-five at most. He was sixteen years older than her, if not more. He had never been interested in younger women. If anything, he’d judged men who were. 

Christ, his niece, Janey, was seventeen. 

Emma was closer in age to her than to him.

He recognized the shape of himself in men he'd never respected.

He also knew that it had not changed anything. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

✷✷✷✷

It had been a little over a month since they met, and Brendon needed to get her out of his system.

So, he decided to go out and find some woman to fuck six ways to Sunday to get his little lamb out of his head and from under his skin.

He had the next day off, so the deviation from his routine wouldn’t be too intrusive. After finishing his post-op notes, he showered in the locker room—thorough, scrubbing away the layered smell of antiseptic and latex that clung from just stepping foot into PTMC. He changed into dark jeans and a wine-colored button-down. A measured spray of Tom Ford Noir at his throat and wrists, then he left the hospital and walked the few blocks to Pearson’s.

He nodded once to Aaron at the bar and ordered. “Michter’s. Neat.”

It would be his only drink. He didn’t compromise control when he intended to leave with someone.

The glass was set in front of him. He paid, took it, turned slightly on the stool, and let his gaze move across the room.

There were options. There were always options.

A woman at the far end of the bar, alone but not idle. Another at a table with friends, her attention already drifting toward him. Both closer to his own age. Either of them would get the job done. 

None of them, her.

He took a slow sip, letting the burn settle, and shifted his focus again.

Then—

curls.

He stilled, just slightly.

Across the room, near the corner, standing at a high-top table. Denim skirt, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. White, cotton top, thin with lace trim. Her hair was down for the first time he’d seen. It fell loose over her shoulders, the curls softer-looking than he expected, partially pulled back with a pale blue ribbon.

Emma.

He looked to her right.

A man stood too close. Maybe mid-to-late twenties. Leaning in, his hand resting near hers on the table, fingers brushing intermittently against her arm in a way that suggested familiarity.

Emma didn’t pull away.

She was smiling. Openly. Easily.

Brendon felt the shift in his chest—sharp, unwelcome.

That smile—

He looked away from the thought before it could finish forming.

They were clearly on a date. Or something close enough to it. Which made this—her presence here, with someone else—the exact opposite of what he had come for.

Someone slid into the stool beside him, said something he didn’t register. He ignored it, his attention fixed across the room.

Emma laughed softly, and leaned in to say something to the man. Then she straightened, said something else, and stepped away from the table, heading toward the back hallway where he knew the restrooms were.

She left her drink behind.

Brendon’s jaw tightened.

Didn’t she know better?

He watched her disappear down the hallway, then shifted his focus back to the table.

The man looked around.

Once. Twice.

Brendon’s attention sharpened instantly.

The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic bag, and emptied its contents into Emma’s drink. Stirred it with the straw, dissolving its contents.

For a second, Brendon didn’t move.

Then the anger hit—fast, clean, absolute.

He was already halfway off the stool before he stopped himself. The impulse to cross the room and put the man through the floor was immediate and deserved. He forced it down, contained it, redirected.

He would not be going to prison today. 

He turned sharply. “Aaron.”

There was enough in his voice that Aaron looked over immediately.

Brendon pointed. No hesitation. “That guy. He just put something in her drink.”

Aaron's expression hardened. “You sure?”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Aaron. Yes!”

Brendon watched as Aaron crossed the room, took both drinks, and told the man to leave. The man protested—briefly—until Aaron said something quieter, sharper. Likely threatening to call the cops if he didn’t get out right then.

The man left.

Brendon stayed where he was, fury boiling beneath the surface of his skin.

Aaron returned a minute later, dumping the drinks down the sink and putting the glasses off to the side where they couldn’t be reached. “Thanks for the heads up, Shark.”

Brendon gave a short nod, his attention already shifting back toward the hallway.

Emma hadn’t come out yet.

When she finally reappeared, she walked back to the table, glanced around, her expression furrowing slightly in confusion when the man wasn’t there.

Brendon didn’t think.

He finished the bourbon in one swallow, set the glass down, and stood.

She was still looking around when he stepped up beside her, keeping his hands in his pockets to avoid the impulse to reach for her.

She turned.

Surprise flickered across her face—quick, unguarded—then softened immediately into recognition.

“Oh—hi, Dr. Park,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t see you there. Actually—did you happen to see the guy I was with? Brown hair, about…” she lifted her hand, indicating a height that fell above hers, but well below Brendon’s.

He looked down at her.

There were several ways he could answer that. Most of them involved telling her exactly what had happened. What almost had.

“Yes,” he said. “Looked like he had to go.”

Her shoulders dropped, just slightly. “Oh.”

There was a beat.

He should leave.

He should go home. Leave this poor girl alone. Furiously jerk off in the shower and go to bed unsatisfied, once again.

He was too close. He could see the shimmer of makeup at the corner of her eyes, the way it caught the low light. He’d never had a preference for eye color before, but something about the warmness of the brown in hers made him question everything he thought he knew about himself.

He should go.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, instead.

She looked at him like she couldn’t quite follow how they had gotten there, her expression briefly caught between confusion and careful politeness. He understood the feeling. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d come to ask the question either.

For a second, he almost took it back. Then—

“I didn’t get to eat much today, actually. So, yeah,” she said after a moment, the answer tentative, like there might have been a correct response she was trying not to miss.

“There’s a decent pizza place a couple blocks from here,” he said.

Her brows pulled together. “Okay?”

Then it clicked. He saw it happen—the realization. Her face shifted, confusion smoothing out, replaced by a small, bright “oh.”

“Oh!” she said, a small smile forming. “Do you—um. Do you want to show me where it is?”

He let out a breath, relieved she’d bridged the gap for him.

“Yes,” he said.

A beat.

“Do you have a jacket or anything you need to grab?”

She lifted her purse slightly. “No, just this.”

He tipped his head toward the door.

Outside, the August air had cooled off just enough to be comfortable. He stepped out after her, letting the door fall shut behind him, and turned down the sidewalk without looking back to check if she followed. He could hear her footsteps fall into pace beside him anyway.

He had no business doing this.

That thought stayed with him for the first minute. Then the next. It didn’t go anywhere, just sat there, running parallel to everything else. He’d come out to solve a problem, not contribute to his existing one. Find someone, take her home, be done with it. 

Instead, he was walking down the street with Emma, spending more time with the biggest distraction he’s had in years.

“So… how was your day?” she asked,.

He glanced down at her. She was already looking at him, like she expected an actual answer.

“Simple,” he said. “Ankle reconstruction. Tommy John. Knee osteotomy. ACL repair.”

He paused for a moment before remembering that a normal person would return the question.

“Yours?”

“It was good,” she said, brightening almost immediately. “Busy, as always. We had a case of organophosphate poisoning come in, which I’d never seen before. A first for a lot of people, apparently. Which I guess made sense, but still—”

Her hands moved when she talked in a way that would have typically irritated him. He found it endearing.

“Now I know: atropine first, right away, because calms your nervous system down, and then pralidoxime to reactivate the enzyme that breaks down acetylcholine, so—”

Brendon was never a big talker, or a listener, to be honest. But he found he rather liked listening to her. 

She kept going—about how quickly the team had to move, how different it felt from the more common cases, how much she was learning in real time. The words came faster the more she spoke. There was a clarity to it, even in the enthusiasm. She was clearly eager to learn.

She was in the middle of explaining something else—about recognizing early signs of sepsis that didn’t present the way textbooks suggested—when he slowed, then stopped.

She took another step before realizing he wasn’t beside her anymore, then turned.

“Oh,” she said, looking up at the sign. “That was close.”

He opened the door.

She slipped past him. “Thank you.”

Inside, it was quiet—just a couple tables filled, low conversation, the hum of the fridge behind the counter. She moved off to the side, tilting her head up to read the menu.

“So what’s good here?”

“Pizza. Calzones.”

She hummed, arms crossing loosely, thumb tapping against her arm as she scanned the options. Then she looked over at him.

“What are you gonna get?”

The only thing he ever ordered here: “Pepperoni.”

She turned back to the menu. “Hmm… I think I’ll do the same.”

He nodded and stepped forward, guiding them to the counter. “Large pepperoni, water, and—”

He glanced at her.

“Oh—Diet Coke, please,” she said quickly.

“And a Diet Coke.”

The kid behind the counter rang it up without looking up. “Ten minutes.”

Brendon tapped his card, already reaching for the drinks when they were handed over. He turned and led them toward a table near the front windows. Slightly removed from the others and with a clear line of sight to the door.

He set the drinks down and pulled out her chair.

She flushed faintly. “Thank you.”

She followed, sitting down and then setting her purse on the chair beside her. 

He sat across from her, back to the window, eyes instinctively sweeping the room once before settling.

On her.

She was already looking at him with those big doe eyes.

“You were saying…” he offered.

That was all it took.

She picked it back up mid-thought, barely needing a breath, like she’d only paused to make sure he was still with her. Words came quicker now, less filtered, the structure loosening the more she talked. She circled back to the organophosphate case, filling in details she hadn’t gotten to on the walk.

Her hands moved when she talked. Not wildly, not enough to draw attention, but enough that he could track the rhythm of her thinking. She leaned in when she got to a part she found interesting, pulled back when she second-guessed herself, glanced at him every so often like she needed confirmation she wasn’t losing him.

He hummed and nodded in the right places, reassuring her she had his full attention.

And while she did, he watched.

Not in any overt way, but his attention was fixed. It had been a long time since he’d listened to anyone other than Janey talk like this without wanting to bash his head in until they stopped.

The kid dropping off their pizza interrupted her mid-sentence, sliding the tray and a stack of paper plates onto the table.

Brendon felt the irritation immediately, but it passed just as quickly when he saw the way her attention snapped to the pizza.

“Thank you,” she said to the kid, already leaning in, eyes scanning the slices like she was evaluating something important.

She looked up at Brendon. “Do you have a preference, or can I just take whichever one? I like the ones with the crust bubbles.”

He waved a hand. “Take whichever you want.”

She smiled, quick and easy, and reached for the slice with the largest bubble, tearing it free and sliding it onto her plate like she’d already decided before she asked.

He watched her for a second longer than necessary, then reached for his own, picking one with the flattest crust for no reason at all. 

She took a bite.

A small sound escaped her, soft and unguarded, and she closed her eyes for half a second as she chewed.

“Mm,” she said once she swallowed. “This is good.”

If he’d been eating already, he would have choked.

Instead, he picked up his slice and said, “I wouldn’t have taken you somewhere that wasn’t.”

He took a large bite, more for the sake of having something to do than anything else.

She watched him for a second, then tilted her head slightly.

“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you even eat pizza.”

He finished chewing, glanced at her. “Oh?”

“Well—” she gestured vaguely at him, then immediately faltered. “I mean—look at you. Wait, not like that—just—” she winced, correcting herself in real time, “You’re so… fit, you just don’t seem like someone who eats junk food.”

He let her fumble, inwardly pleased with the knowledge that she at least found him physically attractive.

“I don’t. Usually,” he said. “But when I do, Tony’s is a solid choice. And it’s close to the hospital.”

She looked past him, out the window, as if she was only just noticing where they were. PTMC sat at the corner of the next block, its familiar structure cutting into the skyline.

“Oh,” she said. “I think I remember Donnie mentioning this place.”

Brendon’s attention sharpened.

“Donnie?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Is that the guy you were with?”

She blinked at him. “Hm? No. Donnie’s an NP in the Pitt.” A beat. “The guy tonight was Jason.”

Her shoulders dipped slightly as she said it, likely remembering what she thought had happened.

“We met online. It was our first date,” she added, quieter now.

She looked down at her pizza, taking another bite, though her focus clearly wasn’t on it anymore.

“I guess there won’t be a second,” she said after a moment, then, quieter, “I’m not really sure what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The words came out sharper than he intended.

She looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He reached for a napkin instead, wiping his hands slower than necessary. His jaw tightened.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Dr. Park?” she said, uncertain.

“Brendon,” he corrected, not looking at her. “We’re not at work; you can call me Brendon.”

He exhaled, then met her eyes.

“I saw him put something in your drink while you were in the restroom,” he said. “Had him kicked out.”

Her jaw dropped.

“And that’s not your fault,” he added, voice firm. “But I need you to take your drink with you next time. Never leave it unattended with someone you don’t trust with your life.”

She had gone very still.

Her hand loosened around the edge of her plate, her slice settling back down.

“He seemed so nice,” she said quietly.

Brendon leaned back slightly in his chair, jaw set.

“They usually do.”

He didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t a version of this conversation that ended cleanly.

For a second, he thought about Janey—what he would tell her, how he would say it. Then he stopped himself. Emma wasn’t a kid. She didn’t need to be handled like one.

He nudged her shoe lightly with his under the table.

“Hey,” he said.

She looked up.

“You said you didn’t get to eat much today.” He nodded toward her plate. “Eat before it gets cold.”

It wasn’t comfort. Not exactly.

But it was what he had.

They finished the meal in relative silence.

Ordinarily, that would have suited him just fine. He preferred quiet. Preferred not having to fill space for the sake of it. But now the quiet felt… wrong. And he was responsible for it.

He ate slower than he needed to, stretching out his last slice while she worked through hers. Not obvious about it. Just enough that she didn’t feel rushed. He tried to keep his eyes on the table more than on her, giving her space to settle back into herself, though he wasn’t sure she would.

When she finally set her slice down and said she was full, he nodded toward the box.

“Take the rest with you.”

She shook her head immediately. “No, that’s okay, you—”

“Take it,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firm enough to end it.

She hesitated, then gave in. “Okay. Thank you.”

She gathered her things, slipping her phone out of her purse as she stood. “I guess I should get going,” she said, glancing down at the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the bus—”

He scoffed before she finished.

“Don’t bother,” he said, already standing, folding the pizza box shut and picking it up. “We’re a block from the hospital. My car’s right there. I’ll take you.”

She sighed, but there was a small smile tucked into it. “Okay.”

They cleared the table, tossed what little trash there was, and stepped back out into the night. The air had cooled further, the street quieter now. He walked beside her without speaking, the pizza box balanced easily in one hand.

Garage A came into view quickly.

Up on the second floor, he unlocked the car, opened the passenger door, and waited until she climbed in before circling around to the driver’s side. He set the pizza in the back seat, then slid behind the wheel, scrolling through Maps’ history to pull up her address before tossing it up on the nav.

He pulled out of the garage and onto the street, the low hum of the engine filling the space between them.

After a minute, he reached for his phone, opened Spotify, and held it out to her.

“Put something on if you want.”

She looked at him, a little surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t a huge fan of digital media, but he’d bet she was, and he selfishly wanted to feel her light again.

She took it, scrolling for a moment before settling on some indie-type song he didn’t know. She didn’t turn it up much. Just enough to sit under everything else. He caught her humming along under her breath, almost unconsciously.

He wondered if she could sing.

The drive passed quickly. He pulled into a spot outside her building this time, rather than parking by the curb. 

He killed the engine, pocketed his keys and phone, and stepped out.

By the time he reached her side, she was already halfway out of the car. He opened the door the rest of the way anyway. She thanked him, and he nodded, reaching into the back seat for the pizza before locking the car.

They crossed the short stretch of pavement together, he waited as she unlocked the door, and they slipped inside the building.

At the base of the stairs, she paused, glancing up at him.

“Should I bother telling you that you don’t have to walk me up?”

“No.”

She let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Oh-kay.”

He followed her up the stairs, keeping a step behind this time, adjusting his pace without thinking when hers slowed. The hallway on the third floor was dim, the overhead light flickering faintly as they stepped out onto it.

She stopped at her door, turning to face him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked. “It’s not very Shark-ish of you.”

He looked up at the ceiling, as if begging a god he didn’t believe in to provide him with an answer to her question, since he had no fucking clue.

No answer. Shocker.

“Honestly?” he said.

She smiled—small, familiar now. “No, Brendon. Lie to me.”

His gaze dropped back to her, and he barked out a short laugh before he could stop it.

“Lie to me,” he echoed under his breath, shaking his head.

His little lamb had some teeth.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

It was the only honest answer he had.

She nodded like she hadn’t expected anything else.

She studied him for a second, like she was trying to find something in his face, then said, “Thank you. For earlier. With—”

“Yeah,” he cut in, not wanting to hear his name again. “Of course.”

“And for the pizza,” she added, softer now. “And everything else.”

He should have told her goodnight, let her go inside, left before he lingered long enough to make it worse. He should have gone home then, taken his darkness with him.

“I think you can stop thanking me at this point,” he said instead, dragging it out just slightly.

She smiled.

“I will,” she said, “when you stop doing things I need to thank you for.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, a smile almost pulling at his mouth.

And because he clearly had no sense of self-preservation left, he noticed when her eyes dropped, just briefly, to his lips.

He shifted his weight, nodding toward the door.

“Get some rest, Emma.”

She took the cue.

She turned back to the door, the blue puffball on her keys brushing against her wrist as she found the right one. The lock clicked, the door opening just enough for her to step inside.

He handed her the pizza box.

“You too, Brendon,” she said.

Then she slipped in, and the door closed between them.

At this point, it was more delusion than anything else.

He told himself, every time he ended up down there, that he wasn’t looking for her. That there was no reason to expect to see her. The ED ran on its own chaos, he knew.

And still—he noticed when she wasn’t there.

He caught himself lingering longer than necessary when consults brought him down. Pausing in doorways. Letting his eyes track the room once, twice, under the pretense of assessment. He didn’t take cases beneath him—he had standards, and he kept them—but the thought occurred, more often than he liked, that he could.

He saw her, briefly, that afternoon. A flash of blue under her scrub top, the end of a braid as she turned a corner. Gone before he could confirm it was even her.

Then he was pulled into something that demanded his full attention—a case of man versus wrought iron fence, in which the fence had nearly won. By the time he finished extracting the post from the man’s spine, and closed, and dictated, and checked on him again, the day had run past its allotted time.

He left later than he should have. Tired. Irritated in a low, steady way that had him snapping at Leon harder than he probably deserved.

So he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad luck when he saw her again, standing at the bus stop just off campus. It took him a second longer than it should have to process it.

She was wrapped in his hoodie.

It swallowed her. Sleeves rolled up past her wrists, the hem falling low over her thighs, her chin tucked into the collar.

He swore under his breath, already signaling.

He pulled up to the curb, hazards clicking on. She stepped back immediately—good girl—and then, after a second, leaned forward, recognition settling in.

He rolled the window down, unlocked the door, and tipped his head toward the passenger seat.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Hi,” she said as she climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Hi.”

He waited until she’d buckled before shifting back into gear, easing into traffic without thinking about the route. He didn’t need the navigation anymore.

“I bet you had an interesting day,” she said, settling into the seat. “With the impaled guy. Did he turn out okay?”

He glanced at her briefly, then back to the road.

“He’s alive,” he said. “We’ll see tomorrow how ‘okay’ that actually is.”

She hummed, like she was filing that away.

He reached for his phone and handed it to her without looking.

“Put something on.”

She took it, tapping the screen once before pausing. “It’s locked. I’ll just wait—”

“Five-two-six-two.”

A beat.

“…Oh-kay,” she said, a hint of amusement threading through it.

He let the silence stretch while she scrolled. Then music filled the car—lighter this time, brighter, something more pop-y than before. He didn’t recognize it.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “I should probably be more careful about accepting rides from one of my bosses. But I really didn’t want to take the bus today.”

He glanced over at her.

“I’m not your boss.”

She tipped her head. “You’re an attending surgeon.”

“Emma, surgeons—or doctors for that matter—are not your bosses. They’re your coworkers. Dana and Lena are your bosses. And Robby, I suppose, but only on account of him being the head of the ED. You’re not letting those doctors walk all over you, down there, are you?”

She went quiet.

He caught the light turning red ahead and slowed, bringing the car to a stop. When he looked over, she was already looking at him.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me in one go,” she said.

He held her gaze for a second, then looked back out through the windshield.

“I prefer listening to you.”

It came out easier than it should have.

“Well,” she said, a small smile in her voice, “that’s convenient; I like talking.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“And no,” she went on, “everyone’s pretty nice. Dr. Santos can be a little sharp sometimes, but I think she means well.”

He didn’t know who that was, but he sure as shit was going to find out now. He checked out that Donnie guy she mentioned—turns out he had a wife and new kid he’s blabbing about to everyone. 

The light turned green.

“Tell me about your day,” he said.

She did.

She talked about cases, about things she was learning, about mistakes she hadn’t made and ones she had almost made and caught in time.

By the time they pulled up to her building, the edge of his irritation had worn down into something else. Quieter.

He parked, cut the engine, and got out before she could reach for the handle. By the time he opened her door, she was already turning toward him.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping out.

He nodded, falling into step beside her as they crossed to the building.

Inside, up the stairs—he didn’t give her the opportunity to tell him not to follow. She didn’t protest.

At her door, he stopped a step behind her while she played with the blue puffball as it swung from the keyring.

Don’t say it.

“Do you take the bus every day?” he asked.

Fuck.

“Pretty much,” she said with a small shrug. “Sometimes I Uber if I’m running late. But I try not to; it’s expensive.”

He nodded once, thinking.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

She looked up at him, surprised. “What?”

“When our shifts line up,” he clarified. “I’ll take you home.”

She blinked at him. “Are you sure?”

He held her gaze.

“Do I seem like a man who does anything he doesn’t want to do?”

Her mouth tipped at the corner. “No.”

“Then say yes.”

She hesitated, just for a second.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.”

She turned back to the door, fitting the key into the lock.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Day shift?”

“Mhm.”

“Come up to my office when you’re done,” he said. “If I’m tied up, I’ll have someone page you.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

The door clicked open. She stepped inside, then turned back, one hand still on the edge of it.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “See you tomorrow.”

She smiled once more, then disappeared into her apartment.

He stayed where he was until he heard the lock turn.

Then he turned, headed back down the stairs, and out into the night.

By the time he got back into his car, one thought had settled in with uncomfortable clarity.

He was so fucked.

✷✷✷✷

It should’ve been a fairly uneventful day, he had three of his own surgeries, and was supervising two others. It was a straightforward surgery. Primary osteoarthritis. Standard total knee. Good candidate, straightforward anatomy on imaging, no prior surgeries to complicate the field.

Brendon was scrubbed in and standing across from Dr. Leon, who, as a third year surgical resident, was the primary on this case. 

“Midline incision. Medial parapatellar approach.” Leon narrated his steps as he made them. 

The scalpel moved. Straight. Confident. Brendon watched the depth as tissue parted cleanly. No unnecessary trauma.

“Patella everted,” Leon continued, adjusting his retraction. “Exposing distal femur.”

Brendon’s eyes tracked the exposure. Adequate. 

“Landmarks,” he asked.

“Medial epicondyle. Lateral epicondyle. Whiteside’s line.”

The saw came in. Leon aligned, cut. The angle was good.

They moved methodically. Femur prepared. Trial components placed, removed. Tibial plateau next.

“Tibial cut,” Leon said. “Protecting posterior structures.”

“Which ones.”

“The popliteal artery. Tibial nerve. Common peroneal nerve.”

Brendon’s gaze settled deeper now, following the plane Leon created. This was where it mattered. The space narrowed. Margin for error collapsed into millimeters.

Leon placed the retractor.

Good position.

He adjusted his grip on the saw.

Also good.

Leon began the cut.

For a moment, everything aligned. Pressure, angle, restraint.

Then—

A shift.

Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. The saw dipped a fraction too far posterior. The retractor shifted under tension. Not enough.

Too much.

Brendon saw it before the field changed.

“Stop.”

Leon didn’t. Not immediately. Half a second. Maybe less.

Long enough.

The color in the field deepened. Blood welled where it shouldn’t.

Leon froze.

Not a flinch. Not a correction. Just—stillness. Hands hovering where they shouldn’t be, eyes fixed on the blood as it gathered, as if recognition alone might reverse it.

Brendon gave him a beat.

“What are you going to do?”

Nothing.

Leon’s breathing changed first—shallower, faster behind the mask. His grip tightened on the instrument, but he didn’t move. Didn’t commit.

The field darkened.

Brendon’s jaw set.

“Come on, Dr. Leon,” he said, voice low, cutting.

Leon swallowed. “I—”

“You what,” Brendon snapped, finally looking up at him. “Christ. Get in there and take care of your mess.”

Silence.

“Move.”

Leon didn’t.

That was it.

Brendon held his hand out to his scrub nurse, Eileen, who was already handing him the suction.

“Out of the way.”

He displaced Leon and in two clean passes and the anatomy clarified—enough.

“There,” he said.

Popliteal vessel. Small tear. 

“Clamp.”

He took the tool from Eileen, isolating the vessel with practiced ease, controlling the bleed before it could obscure anything further. His hands were precise, economical—no wasted motion, no hesitation.

“This is what happens,” he said, not looking at Leon, “when you’re imprecise cutting past a plane .”

He adjusted his angle, repairing the tear with movements so controlled they bordered on indifferent. At least Brendon didn’t have to deal with the shitty techno or rap that ortho surgeons typically blasted in their ORs. He preferred classical, himself, and that’s what his residents had to use so long as he was supervising. They could play their own crap when they were attendings.

“You don’t get points for confidence,” he went on. “You get outcomes. Remember that.”

The repair held.

He watched it for a second. No further bleed. Flow intact.

Brendon stepped back half an inch, opening the field again without relinquishing it entirely.

“Now,” he said. “Try again.”

Leon didn’t move at first.

Brendon glanced at him, expression flat.

“Or I can finish it for you,” he added.

That did it.

Leon adjusted his grip, reapproached the field—slower now, more careful, every movement checked before it happened.

Brendon stayed where he was, close enough to intervene, eyes tracking every decision.

✷✷✷✷

It wasn’t that he was in a bad mood, but Leon’s mistake ended up causing a snowball effect on his schedule. Time lost in one room bled into the next. Cases stacked tighter than they should have. By six, Brendon already knew he wasn’t leaving when he’d planned to.

He was midway through an Achilles tendon repair when he said, without looking up, “Clark, page Emma Nolan in the ED. Tell her I’ll be running late. She can wait in my office.”

Nothing.

He paused, just long enough to notice the absence of movement, and lifted his gaze.

Clark stood where he should have been moving, watching him.

Brendon didn’t raise his voice.

“That’s all,” he said.

Clark blinked once, then nodded quickly and left.

Brendon dropped his attention back to the field.

He finished, closed, dictated, and moved on.

By the time he stepped into his office, it was only half an hour past the end of her shift, but she wasn’t there.

He stopped just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room like she might materialize if he looked hard enough. The chair in front of his desk was empty. No sign she’d been there at all.

His mouth tightened, just slightly.

He gathered his things, sat, waited.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

He checked his watch. Useless.

Another five, and he was starting to get worried.

He stood.

✷✷✷✷

The ED was still moving when he stepped off the stairs. Just like always. Noise layered over noise, bodies moving in every direction without any clear pattern.

He paused at the Hub, scanning.

Dana looked up first.

“Dr. Park,” she said, tone edged with something between amusement and suspicion. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Is Emma still here?”

Dana’s brows lifted a fraction. She studied him for a second longer than necessary, then said, “Finishing up with a patient.”

“She should be off.”

Dana scoffed. “You know how it gets down here.”

He did.

It didn’t improve his opinion of it.

Before she could say anything else, Emma rounded the corner, bag slung over her shoulder, already mid-step toward the exit. She saw him and brightened immediately.

“Hi, Dr. Park.”

Then, over her shoulder, “Bye, Dana.”

Dana hummed something noncommittal as Emma reached him.

He nodded once. “Ready?”

She fell into step beside him without question.

✷✷✷✷

He opened the car door for her. Waited until she was inside before circling around. Let her choose the music without comment. Asked about her day and listened while she talked, the way he was learning she always did—quick, bright, hands moving even when she tried to keep them still.

By the time they reached her building, the earlier edge had worn down, replaced with a strange sense of calm that he was quickly coming to associate with her.

He walked her up just as he had before.

At her door, she turned to him, keys already in hand.

“Can we just exchange numbers?” she asked. “So you don’t have to go through, like, five people to find me?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She handed him her phone. He put his number in, handed it back. She did the same with his.

“Text me if you’re running late,” she said. “I’ll do the same.”

“I will.”

She smiled. “Okay. Night, Brendon.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

She slipped inside, door closing softly behind her.

He waited until he heard the lock.

Then he left.

✷✷✷✷

Later, he was halfway settled into bed when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from Emma.

A screenshot—her schedule for the next two weeks. Blocks of shifts, neatly lined up.

Most of them matched his.

At the bottom, a single smiley face.

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary.

Then set the phone back down.

When he closed his eyes, it was the same image that stayed with him—the way she’d looked when she saw him at the Hub. The way it had changed her whole face.

He fell asleep picturing that.

Over the next few weeks, they fell into a routine.

She’d come up to his office at the end of her shift, sometimes right on time, most of the time after a text telling him she’d be late with a quick apology. If he was on time, himself, he’d finish whatever he was doing, shut down his computer, and stand. They’d walk to the garage together, her talking, him listening.

She’d put on different music every ride, and he’d ask her about her day. At first, she talked mostly about work—what she’d learned that day, cases she’d seen. He listened, asked a question here or there, but mostly just let her talk.

Then, gradually, it shifted.

She started talking about herself. Her family. Friends back home. Small stories about whatever she was reminded of that day. He filed it all away—names, places, the way her voice changed depending on what she was talking about.

He’d park. Walk her inside. Up the stairs. Wait while she unlocked her door.

They’d say goodnight.

He'd stay until he heard the lock click, then leave.

And when he’d get home, he’d think about her.

Every detail she’d given him that day stayed with him longer than it should have. He’d replay things she’d said, the way she’d said them, the way she’d looked at him when she was trying to explain something she was excited about.

He stopped trying to delude himself.

He wanted her.

Badly.

There wasn’t any point in dressing it up.

But he also knew exactly how it looked.

She was young—twenty-three, he’d learned. The gap between them wasn’t something anyone would ignore. He wouldn’t, if he were looking at it from the outside.

And he could tell her they were coworkers—which he believed, in practice—but it didn’t erase the fact that he was an experienced attending and she wasn’t. That he had authority in that building in a way she didn’t. People would see that before anything else.

It wouldn’t reflect on him; it would reflect on her.

He wanted her, but he decided he’d never do anything about it.

He told himself this—driving her home, listening to her talk, making sure she got inside safely—was enough.

✷✷✷✷

She’d been talking the whole way up the stairs—something about Halloween plans the following weekend, a party one of the other nurses was throwing, a costume she hadn’t fully committed to yet—when she stopped short in front of her door mid-sentence.

She turned to him, fingers already toying with the blue puffball on her keyring. Looked up at him like she was weighing something.

“Are you doing anything for Halloween?” she asked.

He pictured the on-call room and the ridiculous injuries that would come in from people inevitably being drunk and stupid. “Covering the pager.”

She nodded, lips worrying each other until a faint dent appeared in the lower one. His hands dug deeper into his pockets.

“Would you—” a small inhale—“um, I mean—do you want to come in for a drink?”

His pulse spiked hard enough he felt it in his molars. It was Friday and neither of them worked the next day, but this invitation broke every guardrail he’d built. He stood there too long. Her eyes dropped, shoulders dipped.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she said quickly, words tripping a little. “I mean, you’re probably tired, and it’s been a long week and—”

“Okay.” The word left before he weighed it.

Her head snapped up.

“Yeah?” she asked, her face lit—pure wattage. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay!” she said, a little breathless.

They stared in a hush thick enough to hear the old radiator ticking. When she didn’t move, he huffed a quiet laugh and tipped his chin toward the door. “Have to let us in first.”

“Oh—” she laughed, a little flustered now. “Sorry.”

She fumbled for the right key, found it, and pushed the door open, stepping inside and holding it for him.

Vanilla, lavender, cotton detergent—her apartment smelled like all three at once. She closed the door behind him, toed off her sneakers, and stepped in to turn on a floorlamp in the corner. Lamplight pooled over neat order: oatmeal loveseat, wooden coffee table, bed dressed in what he could now see was a floral pattern. A throw blanket folded over the back of the couch in the same pale blue he’d since learned was her favorite color. Fairy lights draped the ceiling like low constellations. He wondered how she put them up there. Did she do it herself, standing on a wobbling stepstool? Or did she have someone taller—a man—do it for her? Brendon didn’t like either option.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s the first place I’ve had to myself.” she said, pushing a curl of hair behind her ear.

“It’s nice. Neater than my first apartment,” he added, toeing off his shoes and aligning them beside her white sneakers.

She dropped her keys and bag onto the small kitchen table and turned toward the cabinets.

“Have a seat,” she said. “What do you want to drink? I have—um—seltzers and tequila. Or I could make margaritas?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

He heard her padding to the kitchenette while he eased onto the loveseat, knees wide, elbows on thighs, taking inventory of the coffee table: crocheted flower coasters stacked up, a little vase with dried lavender, a ribbon around its neck, a dogeared romance novel, nearly falling off the table. He reached out to straighten it.

Emma reappeared with two peach-margarita Cutwaters and set them on the flower coasters she’d pulled from the stack. She folded onto the opposite cushion, tucked one leg underself so she was turned facing him, and cracked her can. He followed. It wasn’t what he would have ordered, but he took a large sip anyway.

He must have made a face, because she started laughing.

“What do you usually drink?”

“Bourbon. Or beer. Sometimes wine.”

“Very manly”

“Alcohol doesn’t have gender, Emma. It’s just a preference."

She giggled. “Oh sorry, didn’t realize the old white guy was so woke.”

He actually laughed, short and startled. Janey had taught him what “woke” meant during their call a few weeks ago. She sipped again, tongue catching a bead at the corner of her mouth. The motion tunneled his focus. He took a longer pull than needed and set the can down with a click.

She mirrored him, then inched closer. Knee brushed thigh. Her fingers, clasped in her lap, trembled once before she met his eyes.

“Can I try… a thing?” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

Confusion flickered, chased immediately by heat. He frowned, but nodded.

She slid until her thigh pressed to his, placed a light hand above his knee—featherweight, pulse against pulse—then rose onto her knees on the cushion so their faces aligned. Her gaze dropped to his mouth; lashes lowered.

Brendon didn’t breathe.

Her lips met his—soft, cautious, tasting of artificial peach and nervous courage. A current shot through him, so strong he felt it in his fingers despite the fists he’d made to keep them still.

She started to withdraw. He followed, catching the back of her neck with one hand, answering with a deeper press, the decision made for him the instant she’d closed the gap. Her breath hitched; the hand on his leg tightened. He felt the bow of her rib cage, the quick drum of her heart matching his own.

He drank her in—drunk not on the candy-sweet Cutwater, but the heat clinging to her lips. Fingers slid from her nape to the braid nearest his thumb, restless, wishing for loose curls to sift through. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, a faint tug. The sound she gave—half moan, half startled gasp—went straight to the base of his spine.

Stop. He needed to stop.

He eased back just enough to breathe, then another inch when she chased him. Her eyes opened, pupils wide in the low lamp-glow.

“Emma,” he whispered, the word rough. “This is a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Her chest lifted and fell too fast. “I know.” She swallowed. “But you want it, don’t you? You’re always looking at me. And you’re so gentle with me when I know you’re basically a dick to everyone else. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Fuck.” The admission cut itself loose before he could cage it. “You’re not crazy, baby.”

The endearment drew a sharp inhale from her.

“But you shouldn’t want me,” he forced out. The professional optics, the years between them—he’d built up reason after reason of why he couldn’t have her over the past few months.

“I’m a big girl.” Her reply held steel. “That’s for me to decide.”

She swung a leg over his thighs, settling her weight in his lap as if she had done it a hundred times. Heat pressed through polyester; his pulse spiked so hard he saw white at the edge of his vision. Small hands braced on his chest, fingertips tentative at first, then firmer when he didn’t halt her.

“Emma…” Warning, plea, neither carried strength.

Her palms glided up, thumbs drawing lines along the slope of his traps. She leaned forward until her mouth hovered a breath above his.

“Brendon…” The syllables melted into him. Then her lips covered his again.

Restraint fractured.

He rose into the kiss, arms banding around her waist, pulling her closer. She exhaled a trembling sigh and rocked forward, slow grind that left nothing uncertain about how closely their bodies fit. His rapidly-hardening bulge pressed into her; he felt the sharp tug of her breath as she shifted again, testing friction. His hands slid under the hem of her scrub top, fingertips brushing the warm stretch of skin above her waistband. Soft, smooth, undeniably real under his palms.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss until her lips parted for him. Tongues met—sweet peach, salt, heat—her small whimper thudding straight through his chest. He answered with a low growl he barely recognized as his own. She pressed harder, nails curling against his shoulders for leverage, rolling her hips with more confidence now. Blood roared in his ears; logic drowned beneath it.

He broke away only to trail down the line of her jaw, tasting the hollow beneath her ear. She shivered, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“Been thinking about this,” she whispered, words fractured by breath. “About you. Every night.”

His answer was a rough kiss at the vibration racing under her skin. “Fuck. Me too.” Confession rasped against her throat. “Couldn’t—shouldn’t—but I did. I do.”

He slid a hand up her spine, found the end of one braid, tugged gently until she tipped her head and kissed him again, heat pooling where their bodies met. Her hips rocked, a helpless circle that made him bite back a curse. The room shrank to the couch, to them.

Emma explored. Fingertips traced sternum, collar, the pulse at his throat; they skated down, mapping muscle and bone, learning his body the way he’d spent weeks memorizing her voice. Each glide of her body fed the low thrum in his blood. Her breath hitched; she rolled her hips again, helpless and eager. He took her lower lip between his teeth—just enough pressure. She moaned, a breathy, exquisite sound that punched straight through the last of his discipline.

He could take her here. Now. A dozen ways flashed behind his eyes.

But she deserved better than a frantic fuck on a shitty loveseat.

The kisses softened, shifted: urgent to careful, careful to reluctant. Each press a wordless apology. “Emma—” he breathed between touches, “Emma.” Another brush of lips, “Emma.”

“Mm?” She sounded dazed, chasing his mouth.

“We need to slow down, sweetheart.”

She gave a frustrated noise and caught his lower lip again, shaking her head against his protest. He gripped her waist, stilling the roll of her hips, and peeled back an inch. Both of them were breathing hard.

“You have—I need you to let me do this right, baby” he said, voice rough. “Let me take you out first. To a restaurant or I’ll make you dinner or something. You deserve better than this.”

A beat. Then her eyes widened. “Did you just ask me on a date?”

He stared. “If you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll take it back.”

“No!” She bounced slightly in his lap. “I mean no, don’t take it back. Yes to the date.”

She kissed him, joy bright as a sparkler, until instinct drove her hips down again. He caught a moan against his tongue, fought the urge to tear her scrub top over her head.

He gripped her waist, stilling the motion, and pressed shorter, softer kisses to her lips, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Emma… please.” His voice cracked on the plea. “I promise I will take care of you afterwards. Just let me do this right.”

She blinked, half-dazed, then sighed and nodded. 

As much as it pained him to do so, he knew he needed some distance to think straight, so he lifted her with both hands and set her beside him. She stared, then dropped her gaze to the unmistakable erection straining his scrub pants.

“How do you have this much restraint?”

He laughed, rough. “Like you said, I’m an old white guy.” A beat. “And I’ve been restraining myself from pinning you against every surface for months now. A few days won’t hurt me.”

Color flooded her cheeks; she looked equal parts thrilled and wicked. “Tomorrow, then. Take me out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he vowed.

She slumped backward, pouting but resigned. He stood, adjusting himself, and collected his shoes. At the door she waited, arms loose around his waist the moment he faced her. He cupped her jaw, kissed her once, then pressed a softer kiss to her forehead.

Her whisper fanned across his lips. “I hope you know I’m going to touch myself, thinking about you, the minute you leave.”

His head thudded against the door as he threw it back. A groan, half prayer, half defeat. “You’re going to be the death of me. I hope you know that.

She giggled, tugged him down for one last brush of lips, then pushed gently at his chest. “Go. Text me the details.”

“I will.” The smile he gave her felt unfamiliar, wildly young. “Good night.”

“Night, Brendon. See you tomorrow.”

✷✷✷✷

He didn’t register the streets on the drive home, only the thunder under his ribs. In the shower he braced one hand against tile, the other working frantically around his cock. Peach and salt lingered on his tongue, the shape of her hips branded into his palms. He came so hard onto the tile floor it blurred his vision; water sluiced away evidence, but not the want.

After, still pulsing with insatiable need, he opened his laptop. Reservations, or cook for her? What flowers were her favorite? He scrolled until the screen blurred, planning the first date he’d cared about in years, every detail chosen with her laugh in mind.

To: Emma Nolan
Pick you up at 6.
(Sent @ 10:43 PM)

✷✷✷✷

Brendon reached Emma’s block ten minutes early and spent nine of them pacing beside the crumbling façade, checking his watch every thirty seconds. A wrapped bouquet of white ranunculus and pale blue delphinium felt absurdly delicate in his hand; the stems kept dripping onto his knuckles. At 5:59 he planted himself under the busted streetlamp, eyes fixed on the minute hand as though he could drag it forward. When it clicked to six, he exhaled and pressed the buzzer for 3C.

Her voice crackled through the speaker, then the latch released. He took the stairs two at a time, knuckles tight around the flowers. Before he could knock, the door flew open.

Emma’s smile hit first, bright enough to bounce off the hallway’s dingy paint. Curls spilled past her shoulders, framing tiny gold hoops; a soft pink sundress skimmed the tops of her thighs, white cardigan sliding off one shoulder.

“Hi!” She sounded breathless, as if the word had hurried up her throat.

He offered the bouquet. “Hi. These are for you.”

Color bloomed across her cheeks. “They’re gorgeous—come in while I find a vase.”

He lingered just inside, hands pocketed, watching her navigate the kitchenette. She rinsed a glass jar, filled it, trimmed stems with kitchen scissors, arranging until satisfied. Flowers in place on her counter, she slipped into white sneakers, tugged frilly socks higher, and lifted her purse.

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself. You look beautiful.” He reached out, straightening her cardigan where it had drifted. The brush of skin against his knuckles drew a fresh flush to her cheeks.

Lights off, door locked, keys vanished into her bag. On the sidewalk her palm slid into his like it belonged there. A tightness bloomed loosened under his breastbone.

He opened the passenger door; she collected his phone as soon as he settled behind the wheel, queuing her playlist with practiced ease. He eased into traffic, headlights pooling over wet asphalt.

“So,” she said, swaying to the beat, “do I get to know where we’re going now?”

He let the suspense hang a breath, then: “My place. I’m cooking.”

She shot upright, seat belt tugging. He flicked a glance over— her eyes wide, delighted. “I finally get to see your house?”

“What do you mean finally? I only stepped inside your apartment yesterday.”

“Please. You’ve been dropping me off for weeks. My place is tiny; you can see the entire thing from the doorway.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t. Instead he listened while she filled the twenty-minute drive with talk about a college friend convinced a proposal was imminent, the latest ED rumor about if Dr. Langdon and Mel are dating or just really close friends. 

He pulled into the garage, hit the remote, and the door rumbled down behind them. This time, when he opened the passenger side door for her, he offered her a hand; she accepted with a sweet smile and didn’t release it until they were taking off their shoes in the mudroom. Her sneakers lined up beside his looked impossibly small. He laced their fingers again and guided her into the kitchen.

Lights on: dark wood cabinets, light quartz counters, copper pans hanging. A bottle of Sancerre waited on the counter, chilled in a bucket of ice, flanked by two stemless glasses; the scent of the amber and sandalwood candle he lit earlier lingering.

Emma’s eyes went round. “Wow. This place is beautiful,” squeezing his hand.

He led her to one of the stools at the island and pulled it out for her, gesturing for her to sit. When she settled, he asked, “I know you’re allergic to shellfish, but you like salmon, right?” 

“Yep.”

“I’ve got it prepped in the fridge. It cooks in only a few minutes under the broiler, so I figured I'd make us a salad now while we have some wine and then put it in. Sound good?” He poured, pushed a glass to her. “The wine pairs well with the salmon, but I picked up some of those seltzers if you don’t like it.”

She tasted, eyes fluttering shut. “This is great. But that’s very thoughtful.”

She thanked him as though he’d hung the stars in the sky for her—an adoring look that warmed him even as it sparked a simmering anger at whoever had taught her such simple kindness counted as anything less than the bare minimum.

He gathered anchovy, garlic, Dijon, lemon, Parmesan, cracked an egg yolk into a wooden bowl. While the pestle circled, she rested elbows on the quartz.

“You know, I’ve always loved Tudor houses. They remind me of fairy cottages from this cartoon I watched as a little girl, The Adventures of the Disney Fairies. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I didn’t picture you with a house like this.”

He mashed the anchovies smooth. “Oh? What did you picture?”

“I don’t know. Something more modern, maybe. More black and white.”

“Hmm. I spend most of my time in a hospital, I don't want my home to feel sterile, too.”

She smiled. “That makes sense. I like learning things about you, you know. I talk at you too much.”

“I like listening to you, remember?”

“I know, but I want to know about you too. This dating thing goes both ways you know.”

The word dating snapped him upright. “Oh does it? You gotta tell me the rules, then, baby, because I’m a little out of the game.”

She sipped again, throat moving. “Rule one: always open my door.”

He hummed his assent. He slid romaine into the bowl, tossed. Pesto-coated fillets hit a pan; he slipped them under the broiler, set a seven-minute timer. Then he leaned on the counter opposite her.

She took a sip of wine and he watched her throat constrict as she swallowed. 

“Rule two: let me play my pop music even though I can tell you don’t like it.”

He huffed out a laugh but nodded.

“Rule three?” he prompted.

He rose in one fluid glide, circling the island the way a dark fin slices calm water, closing the distance until she was turned to the side, facing him on her stool, knees brushing his thighs.

“You have to listen and talk to me.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“You have to kiss me hello and goodbye.”

He let a slow smirk rise. “Of course, baby.” He lowered, lips lingering on hers, then lifted just enough to murmur, “Hello.”

Her breath stuttered. “Anything else?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Tell me when you do.” He bent for another kiss—right then the timer shrilled. She groaned, fists in his shirt, stealing one last peck.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered, circling back to rescue the salmon, heart still ticking fast under his ribs.

“You can handle it.”

A low laugh slipped out. He found two dinner plates, slid a fillet onto each, and nodded toward the island. “Grab the wine glasses for me?”

Emma gathered them, trailing him to the dining room. He set the plates; she placed the glasses, eyes bright. Pulling out her chair, he waited until she sat before saying, “Back in a second.”

He returned with the wooden salad bowl in one hand, the wine bottle in his other. Once seated across from her, he topped off both glasses. He watched as she surveyed the meal he’d prepared for her.

“This looks incredible. Thank you for cooking.”

“It’s nothing.” He meant it; following recipes he knew by heart was far easier than navigating how she made him feel.

They served themselves. Between bites she angled her head, curls brushing her cardigan. “Tell me something no one else knows,” she said. Then, softer, “Lie to me.”

His fork paused. The phrase dropped him straight back to a rain-slicked car months earlier. Truth dressed as a lie. He repeated her prompt under his breath, hunted for an answer that wasn’t boring.

“Dolls scare the hell out of me,” he said at last.

She burst into sudden laughter, nearly inhaling a crouton.

“You okay, there?” he questioned, half rising.

“I’m fine,” she wheezed, wiping her eyes. “I’m fine. Just—didn’t expect that.”

“Annabelle fucked me up.” He shrugged, aware his ears were warm.

“Hey, I get it. Dolls can be creepy. I was always a stuffed-animal girl myself.” She sipped wine. 

He thought of the plush lamb on her bed. “I noticed the lamb on your bed; does it have a story?”

“My mémé gave it to me when I was little. Got me through college dorms and terrible roommates.” She looked self-conscious. “I know it probably sounds childish, but I just think they’re cute and good for a cuddle.”

“Nothing childish about comfort,” he said, and watched tension leave her shoulders.

She tasted the salmon, closed her eyes. “Gosh, this is so good. Where’d you learn to cook?”

“My parents worked a lot when I was younger. My older brother cooked for us and he taught me.”

She finished her last bite; he mirrored her. A beat of silence, then he reversed the earlier challenge. “Your turn. Something no one else knows.”

A sly, coyly innocent smile curved her mouth. She leaned in, voice low and sweet.

“I’m not wearing any panties.”

His fork slipped, clattered against porcelain. Hands came up, pressing to his temples.

“Fuck, you don’t play fair,” he muttered through his fingers, while she only sipped her wine and watched him unravel.

Her eyes gleamed over the rim of the glass. He drew a slow breath, dragged his palms down his face. “You look so sweet, but you’re not, are you? You’re mischief wrapped in sugar.”

She lowered the glass, a corner of her mouth lifting. He shook his head, forced order into his thoughts.

“We need to talk about this, Emma—what it would mean.” His voice had the careful edge he used in consults that mattered.

“I know how it might look.” She set her glass down, lifted her chin. “And I don’t care.”

He studied her, then asked, “When’s your mom’s birthday?”

She blinked. “March 31st, 1976. Why?”

He did some quick math. “I’m eight years younger than your mom,” he said quietly. “Almost nineteen older than you. Maybe you’re fine with that, but what will she think? I know how important she is to you. I won’t be the reason your relationship with her suffers.”

Emma folded her arms. “She’s eleven years younger than my dad; she has no leg to stand on.”

A beat, then she leaned closer. “Why are you trying to convince me I don’t want this?”

“I need you to be sure.” He gripped the edge of the table. “Because once I have you, I’m filing a disclosure with HR, and I’m not letting you go. I promised myself I’d never act on this, but you came on to me.”

“And you promised me yesterday you’d take care of me if I let you take me out,” she shot back, voice low.

The words hit like a spark to tinder. His jaw locked; his pulse shuddered.

“Are you sure, Emma?” Last warning—restraint fraying.

She didn’t answer. She rose, dress swishing against her thighs, and rounded the table. He pushed his chair back just as she climbed into his lap, straddling him. Her weight settled; his fingers found her waist, gathering cardigan and cotton in tight fists.

“You promised,” she whispered, breath a tremor against his mouth, and kissed him.

Whatever leash he’d kept on himself snapped. He met her hunger for hunger, lips parting, hands sliding up her back to bury in soft curls. The fork he had dropped earlier rattled against porcelain when her hips rocked forward. Thought disintegrated beneath the surge of want he’d dammed for months.

He shoved the chair back harder—wood scraping wood—and stood, hands locked beneath her thighs. She gasped against his mouth, legs cinching tight around his waist, arms looping his shoulders. The kiss broke only long enough for her to breathe his name, and then he was moving—through the kitchen, past the hallway where amber light pooled against hardwood, up the stairs as quickly as he could without dropping her. Her fingers threaded through his hair; her mouth found his jaw, his throat, the lobe of his ear.

"Brendon—"

He kicked the bedroom door wider and crossed to the bed in three strides. When he lowered her onto the duvet, she didn't let go—pulled him down with her, nails scraping lightly at his nape. He braced above her, one knee between her thighs, and kissed down the line of her neck. Vanilla and jasmine. The faint sweetness of wine still on her breath.

Her hands fisted in his shirt. "God—I knew you were gonna be strong."

He sucked hard at her collarbone, felt her arch beneath him, and dragged his mouth lower. The cardigan bunched under his palms; he shoved it aside, bared the slope of her shoulder, and bit down gently. She whimpered. He licked the sting away, kissed the hollow of her throat, nipped at the swell above her neckline until she was writhing, hips rolling against his thigh.

She wriggled free of the cardigan, tossing it somewhere behind her. He hooked his fingers into the neckline of her dress and tugged it down, exposing the white lace of her bra, the soft curve beneath. He lowered his mouth to her breast, tongue tracing the edge of lace, and she gasped—hands shoving at his chest.

He pulled back. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown.

"Sit up," she breathed.

He did. She rose with him, reached for the hem of her dress, and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion. Pink cotton pooled on the floor. Then her hands went behind her back—one quick twist—and the bra fell away.

Brendon stared.

She was completely bare, skin flushed, nipples tight, chest rising and falling fast. Sprawled across his bed like she'd been made for it.

"Fuck," he muttered. She really hadn't been wearing panties.

"I wanna see you." Her voice was rough, needy. She gestured at his shirt, his belt, everything still buttoned and fastened like armor.

He stood. Slowly. Let her watch as his fingers found the top button of his shirt and slipped it free. Then the next. And the next. Her gaze tracked every inch of skin he revealed—the hollow of his throat, the line of his sternum, the cut of muscle across his chest and abdomen.

She scooted back on the bed, head sinking into the pillows, and spread her legs. Her hand drifted down her torso, fingers trailing through the trimmed patch of dark curls above her mound, and his breath caught.

He shrugged out of the shirt, let it fall. His hands went to his belt—snap of leather through loops, metallic clink of the buckle hitting the floor. Button. Zipper. He shoved jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion and stepped free, his cock heavy and aching as it sprang loose. He wrapped his hand around himself, gave two long, slow strokes, and watched her eyes go wide.

She was panting. He smirked.

Releasing himself, he crawled onto the bed, settled on his stomach between her thighs, and kissed the inside of her knee. Her leg trembled. He moved higher, open-mouthed, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint tremor of her pulse. When his breath ghosted over her sex, she made a sound low in her throat.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

And pressed his mouth to her.

At the first broad lick of his tongue, her hand slipped out of his way and her hips jerked upward, pressing into his mouth. She was soaked—slick and swollen and so fucking wet he could taste her arousal coating his tongue. He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her folds, and her thighs trembled on either side of his head.

He took her hips in both hands and pinned them to the mattress, holding her still while he explored her with his mouth. He sucked gently on her labia, traced the seam of her with his tongue, flicked at her clit until she gasped. Then he sealed his lips around that sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, and she cried out—high and breathless.

Her hand wound into his hair, fingers tangling in the strands he'd slicked back hours ago. She tugged, messing it completely, and he found he didn't care. He licked her again, slowly dragging his tongue from her entrance to her clit, and listened to the way her breath hitched. The way she moaned when he circled her clit with the tip of his tongue. The way she whimpered when he fucked his tongue into her pussy, tasting her from the inside.

"Brendon—oh my god—"

He pulled back just enough to murmur, "Tell me what you like, baby." He took her clit in his mouth and sucked.

"That—oh—just like that—"

He did it again. Tongue flat and broad, licking through her folds, then pointed and precise against her clit. She was trembling, hips trying to roll despite his grip, and he tightened his hold, keeping her pinned. She whined in frustration, and he smirked against her.

He released one hip to slide his middle finger through her wetness, circling her entrance before pressing inside. She was tight—so fucking tight—and he had to work his finger in slowly, feeling her clench around him. When he curled it upward, searching, her entire body went rigid.

Her stomach caved. He heard her throw her head back against the pillows. A strangled moan tore from her throat.

He looked up, watching her face contort with pleasure, and smirked. "That's the spot, huh?"

She nodded frantically, unable to form words, and he began to fuck his finger into her—slow, firm strokes that pressed into that spongy spot on her front wall. Her hand in his hair clenched harder, nails scraping his scalp, and her breath ragged.

He pulled his mouth off her clit, stilling his finger, and her eyes flew open—wide and desperate.

"Nuh-uh, baby," he said, voice low and commanding. "Keep those pretty eyes on me."

She whined—loud and unrestrained—but obeyed, her gaze locking onto his even as her chest heaved. Her once brown eyes were black, her lips parted, her face flushed pink.

"Good girl," he praised, and added a second finger.

She screamed.

He took her clit into his mouth and sucked hard, fingers curling and thrusting into that sweet spot, and her hand in his hair clenched so tight it bordered on pain. He didn't stop. He kept fucking his fingers into her, stretching her, feeling the way her walls gripped him with every stroke. His cock throbbed against the mattress, hard and aching, and he had to actively stop himself from rutting into the bed or he'd come before he even got inside her.

The sounds she made—breathless gasps, broken moans, his name over and over—were going to ruin him.

He was glad his house was well-insulated.

"Brendon—please—please—"

He pulled off her clit, fingers still moving, and looked up at her. His chin was slick with her, his lips wet. "Please what?"

"Fuck me—" The word came out raw and desperate, and he realized with a jolt that it was the first time he'd ever heard her curse. "Please—I need—"

He cut her off by pressing his fingers deeper, harder, and she choked on a sob. "Come for me first, baby girl," he said, voice rough. "And then I'll fuck you. I promised I'd take care of you, and I will, but you gotta come for me first."

She moaned, and her pussy clenched down on his fingers so hard he felt it in his wrist. He sealed his mouth back over her clit and sucked, fingers curling rapidly into that spot, pressing and stroking and fucking into her with relentless precision.

Her back arched off the mattress. Her thighs clamped around his head. And then she was coming—hard—her entire body seizing as her orgasm tore through her. He felt her cunt quiver and pulse around his fingers, felt the flood of wetness coat his hand, and he kept going, drawing it out, sucking her clit until she was shaking and gasping his name.

Only when her hand in his hair went slack did he ease off, slowing his licks to gentle, soothing strokes. He carefully withdrew his fingers and kissed her thigh, her belly, the underside of her breast. He moved up her body, pressing his lips to her sternum, her collarbone, the corner of her mouth, before capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss.

He let her taste herself on his tongue and she moaned into his mouth.

He pushed himself up to kneel between her thighs, one hand wrapping around his cock to ease the ache. She was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes half-lidded as she watched him. When her gaze dropped to where his fist moved over his length. She bit her lip, and he had to squeeze himself at the base to keep from losing it right there.

He just watched her for a moment. Flushed and wrecked and beautiful.

"Fuck," he muttered. "You're gorgeous."

Then he released himself and leaned over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer to retrieve a condom.

He was about to tear the foil when her voice stopped him.

"Brendon…"

He looked down at her. Her curls spread wild across his pillows, dark against the light linen. Her lips swollen from his mouth.

"Yes, baby?"

"Do we have to use a condom?" She shifted slightly, propping herself on one elbow. "I have an implant. And I'm clean."

Fuck.

The offer hung between them—trust, intimacy, the removal of one more barrier. He felt the pull of it, the want to say yes, to feel her without anything between them. But the protective instinct that had driven him to keeping her out of the rain, that had gotten the fucker who tried to drug her kicked out of Pearson's, rose sharp and immediate.

"I am too," he said carefully. "But we need to use one today."

Her brow furrowed. "Why? I trust you."

She said it so simply. So completely. As if trust were something she could hand over without hesitation, without proof.

He set the condom on the bed and leaned down, bracing himself on one forearm so he could look at her directly. "Fuck, Emma. You shouldn't."

Her eyes widened slightly.

"You should always make a man show you his test results before you let him fuck you raw," he continued, voice firm but not unkind. "I don't care how much you think you know him. I don't care how much you trust him. You protect yourself first."

"But you're not just a man," she countered, reaching up to touch his jaw. "I know you'd never hurt me."

His chest tightened. The faith in her voice—unearned, unquestioned—made him ache.

"I wouldn't," he said quietly. "I won't. But, please—for the ease of my mind knowing that you're taking care of yourself—condom for today."

He picked up the foil packet again, tore it open with his teeth. "I'll get retested tomorrow. Once you see the results, then we can talk about it."

She watched him roll the latex down his length, her lower lip caught between her teeth. When he finished, she nodded, though her mouth formed a small pout.

"Okay." Then, softer: "Kiss me."

It wasn't a request. It was a demand, gentle but absolute.

He shifted his weight, settling into the cradle of her thighs, his hips aligned with hers, and paused for just a moment—a breath of control before he let himself drown.

He placed one hand beside her head and leaned down, capturing her mouth in a deep, slow kiss. His other hand moved between them, positioning his cock at her entrance, dragging the head through her slickness. She was still so wet—soaked and swollen and ready—and the feel of her against him, even through the condom, made him groan into her mouth.

He pressed forward slowly, feeling her body yield and stretch around him. She gasped into his mouth, her hand flying to the back of his thigh, gripping hard. He kept the kiss steady, breathing through his nose, fighting the urge to thrust deep and hard and lose himself completely.

Inch by inch, he sank into her.

When he finally bottomed out—hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt—he had to pull back from the kiss to breathe. His forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned. "Your pretty little cunt is choking my cock."

She moaned at his words, clenched around him, and he hissed through his teeth.

"Emma—"

"Sorry," she whispered, though she didn't sound sorry at all.

He leaned back, kneeling upright,, and took her waist in both hands. She wrapped her legs around him, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and he began to move—slow, deep thrusts that let him feel every inch of her. He used his grip on her waist to pull her down onto him as he thrust up, and the angle made her cry out.

"That's it," he murmured, watching her face. "Eyes on me, baby."

Her mouth dropped open, her breathing ragged, but she obeyed. Those wide brown eyes locked onto his, and he felt the last thread of his control begin to fray.

He was going to come fast. He could feel it building already—the heat coiling low in his spine, the tension in his thighs. But he needed her to come first. Needed to feel her fall apart around him.

Still thrusting, he brought his thumb to his mouth and wet it with his tongue. Eyes locked on hers, he brought it down to her clit and worked it in slow, firm circles.

Her back arched off the bed immediately, hands fisting in the duvet. "Oh my god—"

"Yeah?" He kept his rhythm steady—thrusts hard and deep, circles on her clit firm and unrelenting. "Does my pretty girl like that?"

She nodded frantically, wordless, and he felt her walls flutter around him.

"Harder," she begged, and the word broke something in him.

He complied without thought, driving into her with more force, gritting his teeth, clenching his stomach to keep from spilling too soon. Her moans grew ragged, high-pitched, desperate.

"Go on, baby," he ordered, voice rough. "Come on my cock."

He kept his thrusts hard and fast, his circles on her clit firm and steady, watching her climb higher and higher.

"I can feel you're close," he continued, leaning down slightly so his voice was right above her. "Come for me, Emma."

She reached up suddenly, hand wrapping around the back of his neck, and pulled him down into a kiss. Her mouth crashed against his—messy and desperate—and then she shattered.

Her entire body went rigid, back bowing, cunt clenching down on him so hard he saw stars. She screamed into his mouth, and the sensation—her pulsing around him, her nails digging into his neck, her tongue against his—dragged him over the edge with her.

He came hard, spilling into the condom, hips jerking as the orgasm tore through him. The kiss dissolved into shared breath, their mouths open against each other, both of them gasping.

She purred into his mouth, hands sliding over his sweat-slick shoulders, and he felt the tremors still running through her body.

When he finally caught his breath, he leaned back and looked down at where they were joined. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out, groaning at the sight of his cock sliding free from her. She whined softly at the loss, and he had to close his eyes against the surge of possessive satisfaction that rolled through him.

He pulled off the condom and tied it off. "Be right back."

He stood on unsteady legs and walked into the ensuite bathroom. He turned on the tap at the sink, letting the water warm while he tossed the condom in the bin. He grabbed a clean hand towel and quickly cleaned himself, then tossed it into the laundry hamper. He grabbed another towel, ran it under the warm water, wrung it out, and returned to the bedroom.

Emma lay sprawled on the bed, one arm draped over her face, chest still rising and falling with shallow breaths. She startled slightly when he knelt on the mattress, removing her arm, but smiled when she saw him.

"What—oh."

He gently parted her thighs and pressed the warm towel between her legs, cleaning her carefully. She sighed, eyes fluttering closed.

"Thank you," she mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

He hummed in acknowledgment, finishing quickly before returning to the bathroom to deposit the towel with the other dirty laundry. When he came back, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and just watched her.

She was stretched out on his bed like she belonged there. Eyes closed, breathing evening out, one hand resting on her flat stomach.

"Tired?" he asked.

She nodded without opening her eyes, then stretched like a cat—arms above her head, back arching, toes pointing—before settling back into the mattress with a contented sigh.

"Do you want a shirt to wear?"

Her eyes opened, and she smiled at him. "Yes, please."

He crossed to his dresser and pulled open the second drawer, retrieving an old Johns Hopkins Medical School shirt—soft from years of washing, faded blue letters across the chest. He returned to the bed and pulled her upright gently, guiding her arms through the sleeves and tugging it down over her head.

The shirt swallowed her. The hem fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves past her elbows. She looked impossibly young in it.

The moment he released her, she fell backward onto the bed and reached for him, hands grasping at his arm. "Lay with me."

He let her pull him down, settling onto his back, and she immediately curled into his side. Her head found his chest, one leg hooking over his, her arm draped across his stomach. She fit against him perfectly—small and warm and soft.

He wrapped an arm around her, tucking her in closer, and felt her sigh against his skin.

"You don't have to stay awake," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It's okay, honey. You can sleep."

"But I—" She yawned, the words trailing off. "I wanna talk with—"

"We'll talk later."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She hummed, unconvinced, but her body was already going slack against him. Her breathing deepened, evened out. Within minutes, she was asleep—completely boneless, her weight a warm pressure against his side.

Brendon lay still, staring up at the ceiling, his hand moving in slow, absent circles on her back.

What the fuck have I done?

He'd crossed a line he'd sworn he wouldn't cross. He'd taken a twenty-three-year-old nurse—a woman whose professional reputation he could inadvertently tarnish, who trusted him with a faith he hadn't earned—to bed. He'd made her come twice, fucked her in his own house, and now she was asleep on his chest wearing one of his shirts that was almost as old as she was.

And he didn't regret it.

That was the part that should have unsettled him. The part that would have unsettled him, a few months ago, before a collision in a stairwell had reordered his priorities in ways he still didn't fully understand.

He looked down at her. Her curls were wild against his chest, her face soft and unguarded in sleep. One hand rested over his heart, fingers curled loosely against his skin.

She'd said she trusted him.

She'd said she knew he'd never hurt her.

And the terrifying truth was that he would do everything in his power to prove her right.

He tightened his arm around her and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, they'd talk. Tomorrow, they’d figure out what this meant—what they were, what they were doing, how to navigate the impossible tangle of age and power and professional consequence.

But tonight, he let himself have this.

Her warmth. Her weight. Her trust.

✷✷✷✷

Brendon woke to the feeling of warm lips against his throat and a small hand trailing down his stomach, over the trimmed hair below his navel, wrapping around his quickly-hardening cock.

At first, he thought he was still dreaming. He'd imagined this exact scenario dozens of times—Emma waking him, her body soft and eager against his—but his dreams had never captured the cold press of her toes against his shin, the ambrosia scent of her hair, or the slick heat of her cunt writhing against his hip.

He groaned, blinking toward the windows. Completely dark outside. The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 AM.

"What're ya doin'?" he drawled, voice heavy with sleep.

"Need you," Emma whined, leaning up to capture his lips.

He kissed her back without hesitation, his breath stuttering when her hand grasped him firmly and began to stroke with a slow, deliberate twist of her wrist. Her mouth was soft and insistent, her tongue sliding against his, and he let himself sink into it—the slide of her hand, the press of her breasts against his ribs, the way she shifted her hips to grind herself against him.

They kissed like that for minutes, her hand working him with increasing confidence, until he pulled back just enough to murmur, "Gimme your hand."

She did, releasing him to offer her palm.

He gathered saliva in his mouth and spit into it, watching her eyes widen slightly before she wrapped her slick hand back around his cock and resumed stroking. The glide was smoother now, wetter, and he groaned low in his chest as she worked him with the same eager focus she brought to everything.

After a few more minutes—her mouth on his, her hand moving in steady rhythm—she sat up, swung her leg over his hip, and settled fully into his lap. The heat of her cunt pressed against the length of his cock, slippery and swollen, and she began to grind herself over him in slow circles.

He gripped her hips in both hands, holding her but not directing her, letting her play. She moved like she was chasing something, her head tipped back, her small breasts rising and falling with each breath. The shirt he'd put on her earlier was gone—discarded somewhere in the sheets—and she was bare and beautiful in the faint starlight filtering through the blinds.

Then she shifted, lifting herself slightly, and he felt the head of his cock catch at her entrance.

"Emma…" His voice was a warning, his grip tightening on her hips to still her.

"Please," she begged, her eyes dark and pleading.

He was just awake enough to remember. "Condom, baby."

She whined—a soft, frustrated sound—but she didn't argue. She waited, her body trembling with need, while he reached into the bedside table and retrieved a foil packet. He tore it open with his teeth and rolled the latex over himself quickly, his hands steady despite the urgency thrumming through his veins.

"Spit on it," he ordered, his voice rougher now.

She did, leaning forward to let saliva drip onto the covered head of his cock, then reached down to rub it in with her palm. The sight of her naked and eager, touching him without hesitation made his breath catch.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now sit on it. Nice and slow."

She positioned herself over him, one hand braced on his chest, and began to sink down. The first inch made her gasp, her body stretching to accommodate him, and he forced himself to stay still, to let her control the pace.

"There we go, honey," he said, his voice low and steady. "Nice and slow. Don't wanna hurt that perfect pussy."

She took him inch by inch, her breath coming in soft, broken sounds, until she was fully seated in his lap. She paused there, adjusting, her walls fluttering around him, and he had to close his eyes against the overwhelming sensation of being inside her again.

Then she moved.

She was a vision—head thrown back, small breasts illuminated by the faint starlight coming through the blinds, her body moving up and down in a slow, rolling rhythm. He reached up to tweak one of her hard nipples, watching her face for her response.

She let out a low moan and fell forward, her breasts pressing into his face as she continued to ride him at a leisurely pace.

He replaced his fingers with his mouth, taking her nipple between his teeth and biting down gently. Her breathy moan told him everything he needed to know.

He released her nipple and turned his head so his mouth was next to her ear, her face buried in his shoulder.

"Doing such a good job riding me, baby girl," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and desire. "So perfect, waking me up like this. My needy, needy girl."

She whimpered against his neck, her movements beginning to slow, her thighs trembling with effort.

"Need me to help you out, little lamb?" he murmured. "You just sit there, baby. I'll take care of this pussy."

He gripped her waist with both hands, planted his feet flat on the bed, and began to thrust up into her.

Her lazy moans turned into shrieks, her face tucked into his neck, her body jolting with each deep stroke.

"That's it," he drew out the words, his voice a low rasp. "'S a lot, huh? Go 'head and bite down on my shoulder if you have to, baby. I can take it."

She did. Her teeth sank into the meat of his shoulder, and he groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second before he resumed his punishing pace. She was squeezing him so tight and the sensation was almost too much.

She released his shoulder, gasping. "I—I…"

"I know, baby," he said, reaching one hand between their bodies to find her clit. "You just come when you need to."

He circled the swollen bud with his thumb, and she squealed, biting down on his shoulder again as her orgasm tore through her. Her walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering, and he groaned at the tight squeeze, his own release following moments later as he spilled into the condom.

He kept moving through it, slower now, gentler, until she went limp against him.

He rubbed her back as she calmed, her breath evening out, her body still draped over his, him still inside her. After a few minutes, she lifted her head, curls cascading around her face, and looked at him with a sleepy, satisfied smile.

"You know," she said, a little breathless, "for such a quiet man, you have a surprisingly dirty voice in bed."

He huffed out a laugh, his hand still moving in slow circles on her back. "You're delirious."

She giggled and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet.

He tapped her bottom gently. "C'mon, sweetheart. You gotta go pee. Should've made you do it earlier."

She groaned and let her head fall down into his neck, muttering, "I don't think my legs work."

He laughed—genuine, prideful—and asked, "Need me to carry you?"

"No," she groaned, sliding herself off of him with a wince. "No, I can do it."

He reached over to the bedside table and turned on the lamp, flooding the room with soft light so she wouldn't stumble in the dark.

He watched as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, moving slowly, her body still adjusting to the aftermath. She reached for the shirt she'd discarded earlier that was hanging off the edge of the mattress and slipped it over her head. The fabric swallowed her small frame, the hem falling to mid-thigh, and she padded barefoot toward the ensuite, her gait unsteady but determined.

The door clicked shut behind her.

He sighed and sat up, reaching down to remove the condom. He tied it off with practiced efficiency, then bent to retrieve the two foil wrappers from the floor where they'd been discarded in haste. When he heard the toilet flush and the water running in the sink, he stood and carried the small bundle of trash into the bathroom.

She emerged as he entered, her face freshly washed, her curls wild around her shoulders. She gave him a sleepy smile as they passed each other in the doorway, and he caught the faint scent of his soap on her skin.

He disposed of the condom and wrappers in the small bin beneath the sink, then relieved himself and washed his hands thoroughly, the water running cool over his knuckles. When he finished, he dried his hands on the towel and paused in the doorway, watching her.

She'd curled up on her side, diagonally across the bed, her head resting on his pillow. Her eyes were open, tracking him, and the soft lamplight caught the gold in her irises.

He scratched absently at his navel, and she groaned, tucking her face into the pillow.

"What?" he asked, crossing the room.

She didn't answer immediately. He let himself back into bed, and she shifted without hesitation, draping herself half across him.

"Oh, come on," she murmured into his skin. "You have to know what you look like."

He frowned slightly, his thumb coming to trace idle circles against her spine. "Hmm?"

She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, her expression soft and drowsy. "You're this hot, sexy, older man with a resting mean face who's secretly a sweetheart."

He scoffed in disbelief. He knew he was fit; he worked out enough to make it so. "No one's ever called me a sweetheart."

She hummed, her eyes drifting shut. "Then they haven't been looking."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he turned off the lamp, pulled the sheet up over both of them, tucking it around her shoulders, and let his hand rest against the small of her back. Her breathing had already begun to even out, her body going slack and heavy against his.

He closed his eyes and followed her into sleep.

✷✷✷✷

One knee sank into the mattress as Brendon leaned over Emma, already scrub-clad and coffee-scented. Dawn slipped between the blinds, striping her shoulder. He brushed a loose curl off her cheek, tucked it behind her ear, and let his mouth graze the spot.

“Emma,” he whispered.

She burrowed deeper into his pillow with a faint groan.

“Just a minute, honey.” He smoothed the sheet along her spine. “Then you can sleep again.”

Her lashes fluttered, focus drifting toward him. “What time ‘s it?”

“6:45. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to head in.” He kept his voice low, calm. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. If you’d rather Uber home, let me know how much it is and I’ll cover it. Or wait and I’ll drive you after my shift.”

She blinked, still half-dreaming. He added the practical things before she could fret: “I left you a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. Eat anything in the kitchen. Use anything in the shower. There’s some curly hair stuff in the guest bath if you need it.”

She frowned slightly, processing. Then: "Why do you have curly hair products?"

Of all the things he'd just said, that's what she'd latched onto?

"My niece is half Caribbean," he explained. "She has curly hair. Uses them when she stays here."

"Oh."

She turned back toward the pillow, her eyes already drifting shut.

He moved to stand, but her fingers caught his wrist. “Kiss.”

He bent, pressed a slow kiss to her lips, felt her smile against his mouth. “Get some sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun breaking bones,” she mumbled, already sinking.

He huffed out a laugh, easing free, before shuttering the blinds for her.

The faint grin he’d left her with lasted through the drive to PTMC and exactly three minutes on the floor—until an intern asked whether a displaced tib-fib “might straighten itself once the swelling went down.”

Brendon closed his eyes and tried to remember why the fuck he chose to work at a teaching hospital.

This was going to be the longest shift of his life.

✷✷✷✷

He pushed through the mudroom door just after 7:30, the weight of the day still clinging to his shoulders. Four surgeries, three consults, and an intern who'd somehow managed to confuse a lateral malleolus fracture with a sprain. The shift had dragged on with the kind of relentless tedium that made his “resting mean face,” as Emma referred to it, deserved.

But when he stepped into the living room, he stopped.

Emma was stretched out on his couch, barefoot, one leg bent at the knee, the other extended along the cushions. She held his copy of Project Hail Mary in both hands, her head propped against the armrest, curls spilling over the edge in a dark cascade. She looked up when he entered, and her face brightened immediately.

"Hi," she said, smiling.

"Hi." The word came out softer than he'd intended.

He stood there for a moment, taking her in. She was wearing another one of his t-shirts, pooling at her waist, and what appeared to be a pair of his boxers, the waistband rolled twice to keep them from sliding off her hips. The sight of her in his clothes made him feel possessive in a way he hadn’t earned.

She'd been here all day. Waiting for him.

He cleared his throat. "Do you mind if I go take a quick shower?"

"Yeah, of course." She held up the book. "I've got Grace and Rocky to keep me company."

He crossed to the couch, leaned down, and kissed her—soft, brief, honoring the rule she'd set yesterday about hellos and goodbyes. Her lips curved against his, and when he pulled back, her eyes were still closed, her smile lingering.

"Be right back," he murmured.

Upstairs, he stripped out of his scrubs and stepped under the hot spray, letting the water wash away the residue of the day. He scrubbed quickly, efficiently, his mind already drifting back downstairs to the nurse on his couch. When he dried off and dressed in sweatpants and a clean Henley, he felt lighter than he had in hours.

He found her in the same position when he returned, though she'd shifted slightly, her legs now stretched out fully along the cushions. She looked up as he approached.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Yeah. I ordered pizza from Tony's." She gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "I put the leftovers in the oven for you."

He nodded, filing away the mental note to slip some cash into her purse later. She might not accept it if he offered directly, but there’s no way he would let her pay for her own food while in his house.

He moved to the couch, picked up her legs gently, and sat down, settling them over his lap once he was comfortable. His hands came to rest on her shins, his thumbs tracing idle circles against her skin.

She was in his clothes. In his home. On his couch.

The reality of it settled over him slowly, accompanied by a tightness in his chest that felt dangerously close to a happiness he didn’t deserve.

She seemed to sense the shift in his mood. She closed the book carefully, set it on the coffee table, and turned her attention fully to him. Her expression was open, searching.

"Do you regret it?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her and felt the answer rise immediately, certain and unshakable.

"No."

Her shoulders dropped slightly, relief softening her features. "Me either."

She took a deep breath, her hands fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. "I want—God, this is probably gonna sound really childish, but I like you. And I think you like me too. And I want to be with you. Romantically. And sexually—if that wasn’t clear."

The words hung in the air between them, brave and unguarded and so much more than he'd ever been able to articulate.

She was braver than him. So much braver. He would have lived out the rest of his life stuck feeling like this before he admitted it to her.

He sat there, processing, his hands still resting on her legs. The silence stretched too long, and he saw her shift slightly, uncertainty creeping into her expression.

"Okay," he said finally.

Her brow furrowed. "Okay? That's all?"

She sat up, pulling her legs free and tucking them beneath her, cross-legged now, facing him fully.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know I'm not good with words, Emma."

"Try. For me."

He met her eyes, saw the challenge there, the quiet insistence that he give her more than monosyllables.

"I obviously want to be with you," he said slowly. "But I never thought I'd have the chance. I'm worried about how you'll be perceived at work. We'd have to disclose a relationship with HR, which is fine because it’s allowed since I’m not your superior. But we both know the professional repercussions for me would be miniscule compared to yours."

She frowned slightly, waiting..

"I'm a white, male attending," he continued. "You're a young woman of color. The power dynamic is already there, and people will talk. They'll assume things. They'll question your competence, your motives, whether you earned your position or whether I'm giving you preferential treatment—not that there’s even anything I could do in that regard. And none of that will touch me the way it'll touch you."

Her expression didn't change, but he saw her jaw tighten slightly.

"Are you really sure you want to deal with all of that?" he asked.

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze steady on his. Then she leaned forward slightly, her voice calm and certain.

"I'd rather deal with it with you than be alone without you."

The simplicity of it hit him harder than he'd expected.

He exhaled slowly, something in his chest loosening. "Okay."

"Okay," she echoed, a small smile tugging at her lips.

He reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers. "We'll go in early tomorrow. I'll pick you up and we'll meet with HR before our shifts."

She nodded. "Good."

He drove her home a bit later, the streets quiet and dark, the city settling into its late-evening rhythm. She was chatty in the passenger seat, her hand holding his over the center console, still in his clothes, her sundress from the day before in a paper bag.

At her building, he walked her up the three flights, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. At her door, she turned to face him, her back against the frame.

"I’ll pick you up at 6:15," he said.

"I’ll be here," she agreed.

She rose on her toes and kissed him, slow and lingering, her hands sliding up to rest against his chest. When she pulled back, her eyes were soft, her smile small and private.

"Goodnight, Brendon."

"Goodnight."

He waited until he heard the lock click, then turned and headed back down the stairs.

At home, he pulled the pizza from the oven, poured himself a glass of water, and sat at the kitchen counter. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that usually brought him peace.

Tonight, it felt different.

He thought about her, writhing underneath him on his bed. He thought about her on his couch, in his clothes, reading his book. He thought about her confession, her bravery.

He thought about the HR meeting tomorrow, the disclosure forms, the inevitable gossip that would follow.

And he thought about the fact that, despite all of it, he'd said yes.

He took a bite of pizza, chewed slowly, and let himself sit with the weight of what he'd agreed to.

What the hell had he gotten her into?

The craftsman sat back from the street, its wide porch shadowed by the oak that had been there long before the house. Brendon pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, bag from La Tolteca warm in the passenger seat.

It was his first day off since he’d disclosed their relationship to HR as a promise they wouldn’t sue the hospital if they broke up. He’d driven Emma to work that morning after she spent the night with him at his place.

He should have slept, caught up on research, done literally anything other than drive forty minutes to sit in his dead brother's house and tell his sister-in-law that he was sleeping with a twenty-three-year-old nurse.

He grabbed the bag and got out.

Janey answered the door in volleyball shorts and an oversized hoodie, her hair pulled into a messy bun, curls spilling out. She blinked at him, confused.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too, Janey. Your mom home?"

She rolled her eyes—so much like Connor it hurt—and stepped aside. "Yeah. She's in her office."

He held up the bag. "Great. Let me in, I brought tacos."

Her face lit up immediately, and she reached for it, but he pulled it out of range.

He walked in, set the bag on the kitchen table, and started unpacking containers while Janey hovered.

"Go get drinks," he said.

"You're bossy."

"Did you want tacos? I’m sure your mom and I can eat all of these and leave you to starve. Drinks."

She huffed but moved to the fridge, filling up three glasses of water. He was arranging carnitas and carne asada when she leaned against the doorway and shouted, "Mom! Uncle Brendon's here and he brought La Tolteca!"

The shout was loud enough to rattle the windows.

He flinched. "Jesus, Janey."

"What? She was upstairs."

Christine appeared a moment later, barefoot, wearing jeans and a faded Pirates shirt. She crossed to him and kissed his cheek, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder.

"To what do we owe this surprise?"

He shrugged. "Had the day off. Thought I'd stop by."

She looked at him for a beat too long, her expression unreadable, then took a seat at the table. "Well, I'm not complaining."

Janey sat across from her and immediately started loading her plate. Brendon took the chair at the end, closer to Christine, and let the conversation wash over him.

Janey talked. About her AP Lit class, about the girl she was maybe-possibly interested in, about the college personal statement she was procrastinating on. Christine asked questions, teased her gently, and Brendon sat there, eating carnitas and answering Janey’s questions about different colleges she was applying to.

This. This was what he'd needed.

When Janey finished eating, she looked at her phone and saw something that made her eyes light up. She grabbed her plate and stood. "I've got homework."

"Since when?" Christine asked, eyebrow raised.

"Since now." Janey grinned and disappeared upstairs.

Christine shook her head and waited until her footsteps faded, then turned to Brendon. "Help me clean up?"

They cleared the table in silence, moving around each other with the ease of years. When the containers were stacked in the fridge and the table wiped down, Christine grabbed two beers from the door and nodded toward the back.

"Patio?"

He followed her out.

The adirondack chairs were exactly where they'd always been, angled toward the yard. The treehouse sat in the oak at the far edge of the property, its platform still sturdy, the rope ladder swaying slightly in the breeze.

He and Connor had built that the summer Janey turned six. Brendon had done most of the structural work; Connor had insisted on the slide, the pulley system for snacks, the painted sign that read Janey's Castle in uneven letters.

Connor had been good at that. At making things feel magical.

Brendon sat, accepted the beer Christine handed him, and took a long pull.

She settled into the chair beside him, her legs stretched out, ankles crossed. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then: "Cut the shit. What's going on?"

He exhaled slowly, his gaze still on the treehouse. "I met someone."

A pause. "Okay. That's great."

"She's young."

Another pause, longer this time. "How young?"

"Twenty-three."

Christine was quiet. He risked a glance at her and found her watching him, her expression neutral.

"How'd you meet?"

"At work. She's a nurse in the ED."

Christine hummed, took a sip of her beer. "So she's smart."

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "Yes."

"Is she kind?"

He thought about Emma going the extra mile for unhoused people that came through the ED. Emma in the car, talking about the kid she'd lost. Emma on his couch, reading his book in his clothes. Emma. Emma. Emma.

"Unbelievably so."

Christine nodded slowly. "And you asked her out?"

"God, no." He huffed a humorless laugh. "I'd been driving her home so she didn't have to take the bus. She came on to me."

"Smart, kind, and outgoing," Christine said, and there was something almost approving in her tone.

He looked at her, confused. "You're not—"

"What? Horrified? Disgusted?" She shook her head. "Brendon, you're a good man. You're a great uncle. You've been an incredible help to me and Janey since Connor died. If this woman makes you happy, I'm not going to tell you to walk away from that."

He stared at her, the words not quite landing the way he'd expected.

"She's closer in age to Janey than she is to me," he said quietly.

Christine turned to look at him fully. "Do you like her because she's young?"

"No." The answer came immediately, certain. "I like her and she's young."

"Then what're you really worried about?"

He didn't answer right away. He took another drink, let the cold bite of the beer wake him up.

"What if she changes her mind," he asked finally. "The age gap, the professional dynamic—it's complicated. And I keep thinking about what people will say. About her, specifically. We both know that she’ll take the brunt of the judgement. What if… what if she finds someone better—someone younger—and then leaves?"

"Oh, honey." Christine's voice was soft. She reached out to give him a comforting pat on his thigh. "Haven’t you heard the saying it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I had fifteen wonderful years with Connor. Would I have wanted more? Absolutely; I miss him every day. But nothing—not even losing him—could make me regret choosing to love him. Choosing to try. What if this woman…"

“Emma,” he provided.

“What if Emma is your Connor? Don’t miss out because you’re afraid to try.”

He looked at the treehouse again, at the weathered wood and the faded paint. Connor always tried to get him to put himself out there more. Brendon was always the introverted little brother; sometimes he wished he could be like Connor, but he just wasn’t. 

"You're overthinking this," she continued. "You always do. If she's smart and kind and she chose you—knowing all the complications—then trust her judgment. And trust yourself."

He sat with that for a moment, digesting Chrisitne’s advice.

"She’s Carribean, you know. From Pointe-à-Pitre," he said, almost absently.

Christine barked a laugh, sudden and loud, and reached over to pat his thigh again. "You and your brother have a type."

He blinked at her, startled.

She was grinning now, her eyes bright with something that looked like grief and humor tangled together. "Smart, kind, strong, Caribbean women who can handle complicated men. Connor married one. Looks like you found one too."

"I wish he were here," Brendon said quietly.

Christine's smile softened. "Yeah. Me too."

They sat in silence for a while, the evening settling around them. Somewhere in the house, Janey's music played faintly through an open window. So much for “homework.”

"I'd like to meet her," Christine said eventually. "When you're ready."

He nodded. "Okay."

"And Brendon?"

"Yeah?"

"You deserve to be happy. Don't forget that."

He didn't respond. He wasn't sure he believed her. But he finished his beer, and when Christine stood to go back inside, he followed.

At the door, she hugged him—brief, firm, the kind of hug that said I've got you without needing words.

"Thanks for the tacos," she said.

"Anytime."

He drove toward the hospital through the October darkness to pick up Emma, the crescent moon rising pale against the black. His phone buzzed at a red light.

From: Emma Nolan
crazy shift. can't wait to tell you about it 💗
(Delivered @ 06:31 PM) 

To: Emma Nolan
Me too. See you soon.
(Sent @ 06:32 PM) 

Calling it a long day would have been an understatement.

Brendon sat at his desk, the overhead light dimmed in case anyone came by and tried to rope him onto a case, and stared at the computer screen without really seeing it. His shoulders ached. His hands—steady as ever in the OR—felt heavy now, the fine motor control he'd maintained for twelve hours finally giving way to the dull throb of overuse.

Thirteen ACL repairs this week. Thirteen. He'd done three that morning alone, back-to-back-to-back, each one a variation on the same theme: torn ligaments, unstable knees, athletes who'd pushed too hard or landed wrong or simply had the misfortune of bad biomechanics. Then a vertebroplasty in the early evening. And finally, late in the day, he supervised Leon's first solo foraminotomy.

Leon had done well. Brendon had stood back, watched, corrected only once, and let the resident work. 

Still. Nearly twelve hours in the OR. Twelve hours of standing, cutting, suturing, teaching. His feet hurt. His back hurt. And he was done.

He clicked through the last of his post-op notes, signed off on the discharge orders for tomorrow's early cases, and pulled up his schedule for his next shift. Tonight started the first time in weeks he and Emma both had the same two consecutive days off. Forty-eight consecutive hours outside of this godforsaken hospital. He planned to take advantage of every single second. 

He glanced at his phone. 7:14 PM.

Though both of their shifts technically ended at seven, it was rare they exited the building before thirty minutes past. But she should have texted by now—on my way up or finishing charting or even just a heart emoji to let him know she was close.

Nothing.

He frowned, picked up the phone, and typed: 

To: Emma Nolan
Done soon?
(Sent @ 07:15 PM) 

The reply came ten minutes later.

From: Emma Nolan
10-car pile up, gonna be a while ☹️
(Delivered @ 07:25 PM)

He stared at the message, then set the phone down and leaned back in his chair.

Fine.

He could wait.

✷✷✷✷

An hour later, he'd played four games of chess against his computer and lost three of them.

He wasn't bad at chess. He was, in fact, quite good. But his focus was shot, his patience thinner than it should have been, and the algorithm was unforgiving. He moved his queen too early in the third game, left his king exposed in the fourth, and by the fifth he was playing recklessly, chasing a win he didn't have the mental energy to execute.

Checkmate.

He closed the app and set the phone on the desk harder than necessary.

8:36 PM.

He stood, paced to the window, looked out at the street below. A few cars passing, the glow of streetlights reflecting off slick pavement. It had snowed earlier. The air would be cold now, sharp with the bite of February.

He wanted to go home. Shower, eat something that wasn't from a vending machine, sleep in his own bed.

But Emma was still downstairs.

He checked his phone again. No new messages.

He sat back down. Opened another chess game. Lost again.

✷✷✷✷

By 10:15 PM, he was over it.

Three hours. Three hours past the end of her shift, and she was still down there, still caught in the machinery of the ED's endless demand. 1,700 seconds stolen from a weekend they'd planned, from time that was supposed to be theirs.

He hated the pitt.

Hated its noise, its chaos, its relentless churn of bodies and blood and crisis. Hated the way it swallowed people whole—good people, competent people, people like Emma who gave and gave until there was nothing left.

He stood, grabbed his stupid phone that kept beating him at chess, and headed for the stairs.

✷✷✷✷

The ED at night was a different animal than during the day.

The overhead lights were too bright, fluorescent and unforgiving, casting everything in stark relief. Voices overlapped—nurses calling out vitals, residents shouting orders, patients groaning or crying or demanding attention. Monitors beeped in discordant rhythms. Somewhere, a child was screaming.

Brendon stepped up to the hub and scanned the room.

Dana looked up from her computer, her expression shifting from neutral to faintly amused in the span of a second.

"Can I help you with something, Dr. Park?"

In the three months since he and Emma had become “HR official,” they decided that they wouldn’t hide their relationship at work, but they also wouldn’t advertise it. That being said, Brendon was under no disillusion that Dana didn’t know. Charge nurses know everything that goes on in their ED.

He didn't bother with pleasantries. "Her shift ended three hours ago."

Dana leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Them's the breaks, kid. You know how it is."

"What kind of shit show are you lot running down here?" He kept his voice level, but the edge was there. "Have Robby go yell at Gloria. Get yourself some more nurses. Stop monopolizing mine."

Dana's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "From your lips to God's ears. I tried to tell her to get out of here an hour ago, but you know how she is. Always trying to help everyone."

Brendon exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and ran a hand down his face.

"Do you know where she is?"

Dana tilted her head toward the north wing. "Last I heard, North 3."

"Thanks."

He turned and walked.

The hallway stretched long and dim, the overhead lights spaced farther apart here, the noise a steady hum. A few rooms had their doors cracked open; every one filled.

He found her in the third room on the left.

Through the narrow window in the door, he could see her sitting in the chair beside the bed, her body angled toward the patient—an elderly woman, thin and frail beneath the blankets, her hand resting in Emma's.

Emma was talking. He couldn't hear the words, but he could see the way her mouth moved, the way her thumb traced small circles over the woman's knuckles. The woman's eyes were closed, her face slack with exhaustion or pain or both.

Brendon leaned against the charting station outside the room, arms crossed, and waited.

It took her a few minutes to notice him.

When she did, her head turned, and her eyes widened slightly. She gave him a look—sheepish, apologetic, caught—and said something to the woman. The woman nodded. Emma squeezed her hand once more, then stood and crossed to the door.

She stepped out, closing it softly behind her, and walked toward him.

"Hi," she said, and her voice was quiet, a little breathless.

He didn't move. "Ah—Don't bother."

Her mouth opened, then closed.

"I talked to Dana," he continued, his tone flat. "I'm taking you home. Let's go."

She bit her lip, and for a moment he thought she might argue. But then she nodded, her shoulders dropping slightly.

"Okay."

They walked through the ED in silence.

Emma stopped at the hub to say something to Dana that Brendon didn't catch, and then followed him to the stairs. Up two flights, down the hallway to his office, where she retrieved her coat—navy blue, slightly too big for her frame—from a hook on the back of his door and her bag from behind his desk. She'd left them there this morning before her shift, part of their routinee now: her things in his space, waiting for her return.

He helped her into her coat and she slung the bag over her shoulder.

He held the door for her. She stepped through without a word.

The garage was cold, the air sharp and metallic, their breath visible in the dim light. His Bentayga sat in its usual spot on the second level.

He unlocked it, opened her door, waited.

She climbed in, set her bag at her feet, and pulled the seatbelt across her chest.

He closed the door, walked around to the driver's side, and got in.

The engine purred to life. He turned up the heat, adjusted the vents toward her, and pulled out of the space.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, as they turned into Brendon’s neighborhood, Emma said softly, "I'm sorry."

He glanced at her. Her hands were folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

"For what?"

"For making you wait. I’m sure you're tired.”

“You were working longer than me; I’m sure you’re tired.”

She hummed in agreement.

"We're both tired," he said finally. "Let's just get home."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "That thing you did. In the ED…"

He kept his eyes on the road. "What thing?"

"When you told me to go. When you just... took over." She paused. "That was really attractive. Like, sexy."

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forced himself to breathe normally, to keep the car in its lane.

"Emma."

"I'm just saying." Her voice was soft, almost conversational, but there was something underneath it—something that made his pulse quicken. "You don't usually do that. You're usually so careful with me."

He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her, he'd miss the turn. He'd end up somewhere in the dark with her hand on his thigh and no good sense left between them.

"Don't," he said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that while I'm driving."

She made a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Okay."

But her hand found his on the gearshift anyway, her fingers curling around his palm. He let her hold it, let the warmth of her touch settle into the spaces between his ribs, and drove them home with his jaw clenched and his thoughts carefully, desperately fixed on the road ahead.

✷✷✷✷

The house was warm when they stepped inside, the contrast from the February cold immediate and welcome. Brendon locked the door behind them and turned to find Emma already unwinding her scarf, her cheeks still pink from the wind.

He'd spent the entire evening watching her look up at the stars through the observatory's telescope, her face lit with wonder, her breath fogging in the cold air between observations. She'd been radiant—more luminous than anything they'd pointed the lens toward—and all he'd been able to think about was getting her home. Getting her alone.

He would have preferred a night in. Would have been content to keep her in his bed, warm and bare. But she'd wanted to go to the Allegheny Observatory, and he'd wanted to give her that. Wanted to give her everything she asked for, if he was being honest with himself.

They moved into the mudroom, and he watched as she unwound her scarf completely, draping it over the hook beside the door. Her coat came next—she shrugged out of it, and he caught it before it fell, hanging it carefully on the rack. She bent to unlace her boots, and he did the same with his, the small domestic ritual somehow intimate in its efficiency. 

When they were free of their outer layers, he straightened and found her watching him. He took her hand, he turned toward the stairs.

He flicked on the lights as they entered the bedroom. He moved directly to the dresser and pulled open the drawer, extracting a pair of sweatpants. Then, without hesitation, he crossed to the closet, stripped off his sweater and jeans, and dropped them into the hamper. He pulled the sweatpants on and emerged back into the bedroom to find Emma already at the dresser, in the process of undressing.

She was pulling her sweater over her head when he approached.

"Here," he said, his voice low. "Let me."

She paused, the sweater caught halfway, and he reached up to help her draw it the rest of the way off. The fabric came away, and underneath was the dark purple bra he'd glimpsed earlier. He tossed the sweater aside without looking at it.

"Turn around," he said.

She did, and he made quick work of her jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them down her hips. She stepped out of them without protest, and he let them fall to the floor. Then he knelt, his hands finding her ankles, and drew her socks off one at a time, his fingers lingering against her skin longer than necessary.

When he stood, she turned toward the dresser to grab her sleep shorts and his navy long-sleeve shirt. That's when it hit him—the sight of her in only the purple bra and panties, her skin luminous in the bedroom light, the curve of her back, the vulnerability of her nearly bare form. His blood ran hot, urgent and demanding.

He closed the distance between them and pinned her against the dresser, his hands gripping the edge on either side of her hips, caging her in. She went still, her breath catching audibly. He leaned down, his mouth finding the curve of her neck, and pressed a slow, hot kiss just below her ear.

She made a soft sound and tilted her head to give him better access.

He took it as permission.

His lips traced the line of her throat, his teeth grazing lightly over her pulse point. She shivered, and he felt the tremor run through her, felt the way her body leaned back into his. He was still wearing his sweatpants, the fabric doing nothing to hide how hard he was, and when his hips pressed forward against her ass, she let out a quiet gasp.

"Brendon—"

His hands left the dresser, sliding around to her stomach. Her skin was warm under his palms, soft and yielding. He spread his fingers wide, covering as much of her as he could, and pulled her back against him.

She turned in his hold, her hands coming up to loop around his neck, and he didn't hesitate. His mouth found hers, hungry and insistent, and she kissed him back with equal fervor. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly, and he groaned into her mouth.

He reached down, gripped her ass with both hands, and lifted her onto the dresser in one smooth motion. She gasped against his lips, her legs parting instinctively to make room for him. He stepped between her thighs, his hips pressing forward, and the friction—even through the layers separating them—was almost too much.

He rolled his hips into her and she whimpered.

"Oh," she breathed, her head falling back.

He took advantage, his mouth moving to her throat, her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her neck. His hands found her thighs, gripping tight, holding her in place as he ground against her. She was panting now, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips moving to meet his.

He kissed his way back up to her mouth, capturing her lips in a deep, consuming kiss. She moaned into him, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. He was fully hard now, aching, and the pressure of her against him was exquisite torture.

They stayed like that for minutes—kissing, grinding, breathing each other in—until she was trembling in his arms and he was dizzy with want.

"Wait."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands framing her face. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from his kisses.

"What's wrong?"

She bit her lip, her gaze dropping. "I want to. I really want to, but I can't right now."

Confusion flickered through him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm—" She paused, her cheeks flushing deeper. "Stop that, that's distracting—"

He'd leaned down to press a kiss to her collarbone, unable to help himself.

"I'm on my period," she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush.

He went still.

His mind caught on the information, turned it over. Her period. She was on her period.

The confusion lasted only a second before something else took its place—something hot and visceral that coiled low in his gut.

"Oh?" he said.

She was watching him carefully, her expression uncertain. "So that's why. I'm sorry, I should have said something earlier, but I didn't think—"

"Emma." His voice came out lower than he intended. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" She gestured vaguely between them. "Because we can't—"

"Says who?"

Her eyes widened. "I just told you I'm on my period."

"I heard you."

She stared at him, clearly trying to parse his reaction. "You're... you still want to have sex?"

He had to close his eyes for a moment, had to take a breath and steady himself, because the image that flashed through his mind—her spread out beneath him, the taste of her on his tongue, the evidence of her cycle mixing with her arousal—nearly undid him.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still watching him, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

"Emma," he said carefully, "if you don't want to have sex because you don't want to have sex, that is perfectly fine. I will go to bed with you right now, and we won't do anything you're not comfortable with."

She nodded slowly.

"But if you don't want to have sex because you think I will have a problem with your very natural bodily function, then you are sorely mistaken. Your period is anything but a deterrent."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"We're both medical professionals. We know that sex during menstruation can alleviate cramping, improve mood, even shorten the duration of your cycle." His thumbs traced slow circles against her skin. "I will grab a towel—if that makes you feel better—and eat your perfect cunt right fucking now."

She made a choked sound, her eyes going impossibly wide.

He waited, giving her time to process, to object, to tell him no.

She didn't.

"You'd..." She swallowed hard. "You'd go down on me? Right now? Even with—"

"Yes." The word came out clipped, definitive. He had to close his eyes again, had to breathe through the surge of arousal that threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened them, he found her staring at him like she'd never seen him before. "I'm never going to pressure you into something you don't want to do. But yes. I want it."

"No one's ever..." She trailed off, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, that's fucking criminal, baby." He leaned in, his mouth brushing against her ear. "I'll make you feel so good, honey. You know I will." His hands slid higher on her thighs, his thumbs grazing the edge of her panties. "Won't a few orgasms make you feel better?"

"A few?" she echoed, her voice breathless.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "When have I ever let you get off just once, Emma?"

Her breath hitched.

He watched her, waiting. The decision had to be hers.

"Okay," she said finally, the word barely audible.

Heat flooded through him, sharp and consuming. "Fuck."

"Will you—" She bit her lip. "Will you put a towel down? I don’t wanna mess up your sheets."

"I wouldn’t care but yes, I'll get one." He kissed her, hard and fast, then stepped back. "Be right back."

He adjusted himself in his sweatpants—painfully hard now—and crossed to the ensuite. He grabbed a dark grey bath sheet from the linen closet, along with two hand towels, and returned to find her still sitting on the dresser, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

He spread the large towel across the middle of the bed, smoothing it flat, then set the hand towels within reach on the nightstand.

When he turned back to her, she was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read—nervous, yes, but also curious. Aroused.

He crossed to her, slid his hands under her thighs, and lifted her off the dresser. She wrapped her arms around his neck instinctively, and he carried her to the bed, setting her down gently so her hips rested on the towel.

She lay back slowly, her hair fanning out across the pillow, her hands resting uncertainly at her sides.

He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her.

Deep purple cotton against bronzed skin. The slight tremor in her breathing. The way her thighs pressed together, then parted just slightly, as if her body couldn't decide between modesty and invitation.

She was perfect.

"Brendon?" Her voice was small, uncertain.

"Yeah, baby?"

"You're sure?"

He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if he'd had any air left in his lungs. "Emma, I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and she let her legs fall open.

Brendon had always been eager to have sex with Emma, but in this moment, with her spread before him like an offering, he could have sworn he heard his own heartbeat thrumming in his veins—a primal, urgent rhythm that made his hands shake slightly as he reached for her.

He knelt on the bed between her thighs and reached up to help her out of her bra, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her ribs as he unhooked it. She lifted slightly to help him, and he discarded it to the side without ceremony. Then he slipped his fingers under the waistband of her panties, ready to draw them down.

Her hands caught his wrists.

"Emma?" He looked up to check in with her, his expression immediately shifting from desire to concern.

"I—I forgot," she said quietly, her cheeks flushing. "I have a tampon in."

"I figured. I'll take it out."

She bit her lip, clearly embarrassed, her eyes darting away from his. He rubbed his thumbs in slow circles just over the waistband of her panties, grounding her.

"Trust me?" he asked softly.

She waited for a moment, then nodded, releasing his wrists.

He placed a soft kiss at her hip—a gesture of reassurance—and then shimmied her cotton panties down. She lifted her hips to help him, and he discarded them off the bed without looking back. He reached up to the nightstand to grab one of the dark grey hand towels he'd prepared, then settled between her thighs.

His fingers found the string, grazing the lips of her pussy gently. He looked up at her and saw her eyes were shut, her head tilted back—likely too embarrassed to watch. He wanted her to see him, to understand that this was nothing to be ashamed of, that he was hungry for her in every way. But he didn't push. Instead, he let her keep her eyes closed and found the string.

He pulled slowly, carefully, until the tampon came free. Without hesitation, he placed it in the hand towel and wrapped it, setting it on the floor where she wouldn't have to see it.

Then he settled between her legs on his stomach, spreading her thighs so they draped over his shoulders. He nosed at her sex, and at the first lick, his head went heavy—dizzy with lust, with want, with something deeper that he couldn't name.

Emma inhaled sharply above him.

Once he had a taste, he couldn't stop himself. He groaned loudly and dove in, licking and sucking, fucking his tongue into her while using his nose to rub at her clit. The taste of her—the sweetness of her arousal mingled with the subtle metallic tang of her blood—made his cock throb hard against the bed, straining in his sweatpants.

His arms wrapped around her legs, keeping them anchored over his shoulders, his hands grabbing at the inside of her thighs as he feasted. She was making the most delicious, heady noises above him—gasps and moans that spurred him on.

He ate her with a fervor that gave himself away completely. This wasn't casual. He wasn't performing. He was starving for her—for her arousal, for her pleasure, for the evidence of her body's response to him. He hadn't even gotten a finger inside her before she was coming on his tongue, her body tensing, her thighs squeezing around his head.

But one measly orgasm wasn't enough. He hadn't tasted his fill.

He unwrapped one hand from around her thigh and brought his middle and ring finger to her opening, curling them inside her while he sucked on her clit the way she liked. Emma became a moaning, screaming mess above him, her hands grabbing at his hair, his arms, his shoulders—anywhere she could reach.

"Bren—Brendon, I can't—" she gasped.

He pulled off her clit just long enough to say, "Yes you can. Come for me one more time. Need to taste you one more time and then I'll fuck you, baby. Promise."

He reattached his mouth to her, his fingers trilling against her g-spot while he flicked and sucked her clit with precision.

"Oh god!" she cried out, coming hard on his fingers and tongue just minutes later.

Brendon still wasn't satisfied. He continued licking at her, collecting every drop he could get his tongue on, when Emma tugged insistently at his shoulder.

"C'mon, c'mon," she begged. "You promised."

He groaned—a sound of reluctance and need—and pulled his fingers out, standing to kneel between her legs. When she saw him for the first time, blood smeared across his face and chin, she gasped. Then she bit her lip, her eyes darkening with something that looked a lot like desire.

His little lamb was just as dirty as he was.

He grabbed the second hand towel from the nightstand and wiped his face clean, then his fingers. He wasn't entirely sure she'd let him kiss her with her own menstrual blood on his mouth, and he wasn't about to risk it—not when he had other plans.

He shrugged off his sweatpants, his throbbing cock springing free, already hard and ready. He knelt between her legs and tapped the head of his cock against her, coating himself in her mess.

She gasped. "Don’t you want a condom?"

They hadn't used them in months—not since they'd both gotten tested and shared their clean results. But he understood her asking, understood the vulnerability of the moment.

"No," he said, his voice rough and desperate. "Fuck, Emma. Look at you. Oh god, you're covering me in it. Please—fuck—please let me fuck you like this."

He was reduced to a blubbering mess at the sight of his cock coated in her blood, at the sheer intimacy of it.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark, and nodded.

He didn't waste another second. He sheathed himself inside her in one deep thrust, grabbing her waist to pull her down onto him as he drove forward. She was squeezing around him—tight, perfect, his—and he couldn't look away from the sight of his bloody cock moving in and out of her.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he gasped against her shoulder. "I'm gonna come so fucking fast right now."

He pulled back just enough to look at her lips, silently asking permission. She nodded, and he bent down to cover her mouth with his, keeping up the punishing pace. She gasped into his mouth, likely tasting the faint metallic remnant of her own blood, and moaned when he reached a hand between their bodies to play with her clit.

He wasn't lying—he really was going to come soon. But he desperately wanted her to come on his cock first, wanted to feel her squeeze around him as she fell apart.

He pulled his mouth away from hers and started kissing the side of her neck, muttering into her skin, "Please come for me, baby. C'mon, let me feel it."

Just a minute or two later, she did. She came hard on his cock, squeezing him, her body tensing beneath his, and he was helpless but to follow. He spilled into her with a groan that came from deep in his chest, his hips driving forward one last time before he collapsed against her, breathing hard.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—tangled together, skin against skin, the towel beneath them dark with evidence of what they'd just done. His heartbeat gradually slowed from its frantic pace, until he was rejuvenated by the idea of tasting them both like this.

He pulled out sharply, Emma gasping at the loss, and slid down her body before she could process what he was doing. His mouth found her core again, tongue dragging through the mix of blood and come, tasting them together in a way that was primal and possessive.

"Oh my god—" Emma's hand flew to his hair, tugging. "Brendon, what are you—I can't, I'm too sensitive—"

He didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The taste of her blood mixed with his release was intoxicating, filthy and intimate in equal measure, and he needed more of it. Needed to consume every trace of what they'd just done together.

She squirmed beneath him, half-laughing, half-gasping. "Seriously, I really don't think I can come again—"

He didn't care if she came again. That wasn't the point. The point was this—the raw evidence of their intimacy, the way she'd let him have her like this, the trust implicit in every shuddering breath she took while he licked her clean. Her blood. His come.

She let him continue for another minute, maybe two, her fingers still tangled in his hair but no longer pulling him away. Then her grip tightened and she tugged harder, her thighs trembling. "Okay, okay—too sensitive."

He pulled back immediately, pressing one last kiss to her inner thigh before sitting up on his heels. His face was wet, his lips swollen, and he was certain that if he looked in a mirror right now he'd see someone completely undone. Sex-drunk. Wrecked in the best possible way.

He reached for the hand towel he'd used earlier, wiping his face before gently cleaning her up. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, her chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths.

"Come on," he said quietly, tugging her up by the hand. "Let's get you in the shower."

She nodded, still looking dazed, and followed him into the ensuite. While she used the toilet, he adjusted the shower temperature to the scalding heat she preferred—hot enough to turn his skin pink—and stepped inside.

He braced one hand against the tile wall, letting the spray hit the back of his neck, and tried to collect himself. He wasn't used to being this vulnerable with his desires. Wasn't used to wanting something so badly that he'd lose himself in it the way he just had. And now, in the aftermath, a thread of worry began to wind through his chest.

She hadn't stopped him. She'd let him do it. She’d even seemed to like it. But what if she was just being polite? What if, now that the heat of the moment had passed, she was quietly horrified by what he'd wanted? By what he'd done?

The shower door opened, and he felt Emma's arms wrap around him from behind, her cheek pressing against his back.

"You really liked that, huh?" Her voice was soft, curious rather than judgmental.

"Yeah." He didn't elaborate. Didn't trust himself to.

"What do you like about it?"

He sighed, the sound lost beneath the spray. "It's just you," he said finally. "At your core. Literally. You already know I love eating you out, and with the blood it's just... even more. It's intimate. It's… it’s just hot. I don't know how else to explain it."

There was a pause, long enough that his stomach tightened.

Then: "I thought so too."

His heart kicked hard against his ribs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She squeezed him a little tighter. "In fact, I wouldn't mind doing it again. Another day—I'm way too sensitive right now."

Relief flooded through him so fast it left him lightheaded. He turned them carefully so she was under the spray, so she wouldn't get cold, and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.

"Thank you," he murmured against her mouth.

Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for letting me have this part of you. Thank you for not running.

She smiled against his lips, and they stood there for a long moment, just holding each other under the water.

A few minutes later, while they were washing each other up—his hands gentle as he worked soap into the muscles of her back, her hair dry under a blue floral showercap—Emma broke into giggles.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Is this why they call you Shark?"

He barked out a laugh, startled. "No. Believe it or not, most people find me intimidating—if not an asshole. And Garcia told me once that my face actually looks like a shark, whatever the hell that means." He paused, then added, quieter, "Plus, I haven't slept with anyone at the hospital besides you. So no one would know."

Emma's giggles softened, but her expression shifted into something pleased—almost smug. He’d guess she liked that. Liked knowing she was the only one at PTMC who'd had him like this.

They finished rinsing off in comfortable silence, and when they finally climbed into bed, his arm wrapped around her waist, Brendon's breathing slowed to match hers. The weight of her against him—solid, real, exactly where she belonged—was all he needed.

She fit against him perfectly.

And as her breathing evened out and she drifted toward sleep, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder and let himself follow.

Not much had changed, really.

Brendon still didn't mind working holidays—he just had Emma to look forward to afterward. He still drove her home from work. But now he drove her to work too. He'd even started driving her on days he wasn't working—unable to stomach the idea of her taking the bus in the dark, waiting alone at that poorly lit stop while he sat at home doing nothing.

And they spent most of their days off together. At his place, fucking her brains out. Around town doing the touristy things she hadn't gotten to since moving here—Kennywood, Phipps Conservatory, The Frick, the food carts she'd heard about but never tried. Reading with her on the couch, her legs draped over his lap. Watching movies she picked, her head on his shoulder.

But his favorite—his absolute favorite—was listening to her talk.

About her patients, about the crazy gossip she heard in the pitt, about a podcast she'd started, about nothing at all. He could listen to her for hours and never get bored.

Okay. So maybe a lot had changed.

But it didn't really feel like it.

He'd spent so much of his free time thinking about her for so long that when that time was filled with actually being with her, it just felt normal. Right.

Neither of them were what they seemed. But both of them were what the other needed.

He knew it hadn't even been a year, but he was planning on asking her to move in with him soon—she already basically lived there anyway. Her toothbrush had a permanent spot next to his. Her curly hair products had taken over half the shower. His dresser was basically hers. Her little lamb now lived on his bed. Emma's presence had seeped into every corner of his carefully controlled life, and he didn't want it any other way.

She'd met Christine and Janey a few months ago, and they'd all gotten along a little too well for his liking. They'd discovered that Emma spoke French too, which meant the three of them could talk about God-knows-what without Brendon understanding a damn word. He'd sat there at Christine's dining table, watching them laugh and gesture wildly in a language he didn't speak, feeling both excluded and oddly content.

He'd been worried about what Janey might think—worried she'd see the age gap and judge him for it. But she'd been immediately accepting of Emma, the two of them connecting over life with curly hair and volleyball. Janey had shown Emma her setting technique in the backyard while Brendon watched from the patio, and Christine had leaned over and whispered, "She likes her."

"Yeah," he'd said. "I can tell."

"Connor would've liked her too."

He'd nodded, throat tight, pleased with the thought.

Brendon found himself thinking of things he previously hadn't been interested in: being a husband. Maybe a father.

They hadn't talked about it yet, but Brendon thought—no, he knew—that he'd be more than willing to take a step back from surgery to stay home with their child if Emma wanted to keep working. She loved the ED. Loved the chaos, the adrenaline, the way every shift was different. He could see her thriving there for years, and the idea of supporting that—of being the one who stayed home, who made dinner, who handled bedtime routines—actually excited him.

Sometimes, late at night while holding Emma as she slept, he'd imagine what a baby shark might look like.

Would they have his blue eyes and her curly hair? Her smile and his height? His intensity and her kindness?

He didn't know. But he wanted to find out.

Tomorrow was July third—Emma's birthday—and they were flying out to New York City so he could finally meet her parents for the first time. She'd warned him that her mom would ask a thousand questions, that her dad would probably try to intimidate him.

Brendon was nervous. But he felt good.

They were good.

He'd spent forty-two years building a life defined by control, precision, and solitude. And then a small nurse with a bright smile and an even brighter personality had collided with him in a stairwell, and everything had changed.

Not broken. Not ruined.

Just… opened.

She'd cracked him wide, let the light in, and somehow convinced him that he didn't have to be so afraid of wanting something—someone—this much.

Before Emma, he'd been coasting. Not living—just moving through the days with nothing to hold onto, nothing to look forward to. Surgery. Sleep. Repeat. A life that looked full from the outside but felt hollow straight through.

Now he woke up wanting tomorrow. Wanting next week, next year, the rest of his life. Because she was going to be in all of it.

That was the difference. That was everything.

For the first time in forty-two years, Brendon Park wasn't just existing.

He was alive.