Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Emma is fuming. The heat of it sits sharp in her chest, tight and constant, a steady pressure she has to keep tamped down behind her teeth. But she keeps a smile on her face as the conversation around her dissolves into general talk of Dr. Hwang’s retirement. She nods in the right places, lets out small, polite laughs, every movement practiced and deliberate so nothing cracks.

Brendon’s hand is tight on her thigh and when she glances over at him, his jaw is set. There’s tension in the line of it, something wound and contained, and she feels it through his grip more than she hears it in anything he says. A tiny part of her instinctively wants to soothe him, to slide her hand over his, to press her thumb into his knuckles and ease him out of it, but the much angrier part wants him to sit there in the discomfort he created. Because if he’d just told her, she wouldn’t have been blindsided by Dr. Sanchez bringing it up.

She crosses her legs, forcing him to drop his hand from her thigh. The movement is subtle but decisive, a quiet withdrawal that doesn’t invite negotiation. He doesn’t get the comfort of touching her right now.

But, she isn’t going to abandon him entirely. Not here. Not in a room full of people who are watching him, evaluating him, filing away every little thing. It’s obvious how much he hates all of this. The other ortho residents speak with such ease—the way she talks and jokes with the other nurses and even some of the residents in the ED. But Brendon doesn’t. He deflects personal questions, even harmless ones. Like he doesn’t think he’s allowed to discuss anything except work with his colleagues. Every answer clipped, redirected, contained within safe boundaries.

And apparently he also thinks he’s not allowed to discuss work with her—considering she had no idea Dr. Hwang was recommending him for an attending position after his fellowship. A whole future, apparently, that she wasn’t invited into. Which is a real slap in the face considering apparently all of his colleagues knew about it. And, in fact, she has no idea what his plans are for their relationship. Where she fits into any of it, if she fits at all.

Suddenly she’s a little bit less excited about the sex thing. The anticipation she’d been carrying all day dulls, replaced with something heavier, more complicated.

Brendon glances over his shoulder, then sighs and pushes his chair back. The sound is quiet but loaded, resignation threading through it. He leans over to say in her ear, “I’m being summoned.”

“What?” She whips her head around, and, yep, one of the attendings is motioning for Brendon to join him. Unsure if she’s supposed to go too, she doesn’t stand up right away. She sort of wants to sit here and stew. Throw him to the wolves on his own. But when he holds out his hand for her, she begrudgingly goes with him—not wanting him to look bad in front of his bosses.

She’s pissed at him but she’s not a monster.

“Emma, this is Dr. Hwang,” Brendon says. Huh. So he does know how to speak to people. When it’s a matter of respect. His tone shifts, formal and measured, each word placed carefully. “Dr. Hwang, this is Emma Nolan, she’s a nurse in the emergency department.”

“Very lovely to meet you, Emma,” he says, shaking her hand. His grip is firm, practiced, the kind of handshake that belongs to someone used to being deferred to. “You can call me Eugene. No reason for all the formalities.”

Emma laughs. “That’s what I keep telling my friend Vivi,” she points at Brendon, “she keeps calling him Dr. Park because she doesn’t want to confuse herself at work.” Her voice stays light, easy, slipping into the rhythm of conversation without effort.

“A bit absurd to be referring to everyone by their official titles all the time, isn’t it?” Eugene says, nodding.

“Well, to be fair, it’s a title you earned,” Emma points out. “Seems respectful.”

“Seems stuffy,” Eugene counters. “You get it, you work with Robby. Nobody’s calling him Dr. Robinavitch.” He chuckles.

Emma shrugs. “I guess it depends on the doctor.” Dr. King really does prefer to be called Mel, but most of the other residents are pretty cool if you just say their last name. She really tries not to screw up calling an attending by anything but their full title. It’s a line she’s learned to walk carefully, one mistake away from being labeled disrespectful.

“What do you prefer, Dr. Park?” Eugene says, amusement on his face as he turns to Brendon.

“For her to call me?” Brendon asks, like he suddenly snapped back into the conversation. She imagines he might have checked out. She and Dr. Hwang are about the same height. He’s so much taller he might not be able to hear them well in the noisy space. “Or at work?”

“Presumably she calls you by your first name outside of work,” Eugene says, laughing. “I meant how do you prefer colleagues to refer to you at work?”

“Dr. Park is fine.” Brendon shrugs.

Eugene returns his attention to Emma. “Getting anything out of him is like pulling teeth.”

She disagrees. “You should ask him about how strength training reduces the chances of osteoporosis in women,” she says, leaning in. Her tone shifts just enough, playful with an edge. Just enough so he seems charming by proxy. “Got a lecture on that for…what was it? Twenty straight minutes on our first date?” She gives Brendon a smug smile as a look of horror comes over his face. Yes, she is going to expose him for being a real human being to his coworkers. “He’s really quite talkative once you get him going.” And she wants them to see that version of him, not this carefully edited one.

Eugene lifts his eyebrows. “Hm.” He glances between the two of them. “So the two of you have been discussing logistics for next year, yes? You’ll stay in Pittsburgh if he decides to come back for the attending position?”

Emma looks up at Brendon. Since she had no idea that was even an option, this question is all his to answer. He forfeited her help on this subject. He forfeited the right to her backup the second he kept her in the dark.

The expectant silence stretches longer than she would have left it. Almost into awkward territory before he replies, “We’re still figuring it out.”

“Plenty of time, you have plenty of time,” Eugene assures them. He nods at Emma. “Lovely to meet you, Emma. Dr. Park.” He nods once more before strolling off.

“Ba—”

“Let’s get another drink,” Emma suggests, cutting him off. Her tone is bright, decisive, leaving no space for whatever he was about to say. “I know I could use one.”

He reaches for her hand as she turns to head back to the bar, but she doesn’t take it. She feels the movement without looking, sidesteps it without acknowledging it. He sighs with annoyance and puts his hand on her back instead. She doesn’t protest. Won’t air out their issues in front of other people. But that doesn’t mean she has to reward him for putting her in this very embarrassing position of being the last to know about this job offer he apparently received. There are limits to what she’ll smooth over.

“You’re mad,” he says quietly as they lean against the bar. How astute of him.

Emma lifts her eyebrows. “What gave you that idea?” Her voice is syrupy, controlled, edged just enough to warn him.

“I know you,” he shoots back. “You get all fake-happy.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you off in front of your co-workers,” she grumbles. “I wouldn’t do that.”

It’s clear from his expression he fully expected her to tell him off in front of everyone—probably because of the gym incident. But that wasn’t in front of people from work. There’s a line there and she isn’t stupid enough to cross it. She’s had more time to calm down. Enough time to choose control over impulse.

“I was going to talk to you abo—”

“Uh, excuse me,” a short, soft-looking woman with immaculately curled strawberry blonde hair walks up to them, grinning impishly as she puts her hand on Brendon’s forearm, her fingers settling there with an easy familiarity that makes Emma’s eyes flick down before she can stop herself, “I heard a rumor that the Shark brought a date this year.” She looks up at Brendon, who looks like he’s point-two seconds from walking into traffic. His whole body goes rigid, shoulders tightening as if bracing for impact. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Emma, this is Angela—one of our scrub nurses,” he says tightly, not taking his eyes off of Emma. There’s a warning in it, or maybe a plea, something quiet and tense threaded beneath the introduction. She understands. Don’t give this woman a reason. “Angela, this is Emma. My girlfriend.” He shifts, pulling his arm from her grasp. “She’s a nurse in the ED.”

Emma extends her hand to shake, glancing between this woman and Brendon. Taking stock, filing away details faster than she can consciously process them. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says brightly, a wide smile on her face—even as she tries to figure out what’s happening here. Angela is maybe a couple years older than Brendon, but definitely under forty. No wedding ring. Polished without trying too hard, the kind of woman who knows exactly how she comes across.

“He never brings anyone to these things so we’re all a little curious about you,” Angela says pointedly.

Emma takes a deep breath. “What would you like to know?” She keeps her voice sweet, just in case she’s reading the vibes wrong.

“I mean, he just never talks about dating,” Angela says quickly, a little breathless, “so we were all kind of like…okay, who is she?” Her eyes don’t leave Emma’s face, searching for something, measuring.

Emma almost laughs. But then she sees Angela, the way she’s looking Emma over, from the ringlets hanging by her face to her socks and Mary Janes. Not just looking—assessing, categorizing, placing her somewhere specific. “Um, me,” Emma answers with a light laugh. “I guess.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Angela says, smiling as she meets Emma’s eye again. The smile resets quickly, practiced, but her gaze lingers a beat too long. “And you work in the ED?”

They exchange the pleasantries, the small talk, where she went to school, where she's from, while Brendon speaks with the bartender. Angela asks him to order her a French 75—whatever that is. Emma notes the confidence in it, the assumption that he will, the casual expectation. Her eyebrows lift slightly when Emma explains that she just graduated in June, and her eyes flick over to Brendon for a second before settling back on Emma. Narrower now. A recalibration.

“Well, you let me know if he starts to walk all over you,” Angela warns. “He has a tendency to do that.” Her tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s something sharper underneath, something that sounds more like experience than speculation.

“Oh, he does?” Emma keeps her voice pleasant as Brendon slides another Old Fashioned into her hand. His fingers brush hers briefly, grounding, familiar. “I’ve never thought that.” She takes a sip. The drink is warm and spicy, but not as much as Brendon’s drink. It has a sweetness to it she does enjoy.

“Really?” Angela laughs, her arm brushing Brendon’s as she reaches for her drink. “He’s always the one running the OR. His way or the highway.” Emma presses her lips together, nodding, trying to contain the amusement bubbling up her throat. Even though she’s still mad at him—and they are going to talk about LA—she leans into him, letting him slide his hand down her back and over her hip. Angela locks in on the movement immediately. Her attention sharpens, drawn to the contact without even trying to hide it.

“Hm.” Emma looks up at him. Tilts her chin just slightly, inviting his attention even if she already has it. “I’d say you’re particular,” she says. “But I’ve never thought you were…overbearing.” It’s sort of entertaining to watch Angela’s microexpressions of confusion every time Emma says something—before smoothing it out into a polite smile again. Each flicker there and gone in a fraction of a second.

“Maybe you balance him out,” Angela offers. Maybe she does. But not in the way Angela thinks. It’s like she came out specifically to prove Brendon’s point about the way women perceive him. Because it’s obvious that she’s attracted to him. Maybe even tried to flirt with him at one point or another. But she saw who he is in the OR and assumed it must translate into who he is outside of the hospital.

“Maybe,” Emma agrees, sliding her hand down his arm to curl her fingers around his hand on her hip. Holding him there, keeping that contact intentional. She sips her drink, feeling him adjust to stand slightly behind her. It sends a little thrill up her spine to watch Angela’s lips turn slightly inwards, her jaw setting as she looks down at their entwined hands. Some part of her likes having the guy other women want—getting the privilege of knowing him better than everyone else. Knowing what he’s like when no one else is around. She smiles again. “How long have you worked at PTMC?” Time to redirect this back to something appropriate to discuss at a work event.

Back inside the party, Angela returns to her table and Brendon pulls her up short before they go back to theirs. His hand closes around her arm, not tight, but enough to stop her. “I’m sorry,” he says low in her ear. “She can be—”

Emma cuts him off. “The only thing you should be sorry about is not talking to me about the attending offer before I was blindsided with it in front of your coworkers—many of whom, need I remind you, are technically my coworkers. My superiors.” Her voice stays controlled, even, each word placed carefully so no one else hears. His grip tightens slightly on her waist as she kisses him on the jaw to play off how long they’ve been standing there. She smooths out his collar, letting her hand rest on his chest. Fingers pressing lightly into the fabric, grounding herself as much as him. “Let’s just get through the speeches and we can discuss later.”

Her hand threads through his and she walks back to the table as if nothing is wrong, smoothing her skirt as she sits down. She claps politely for each of the speeches, laughs when she’s supposed to, and doesn’t finish her second drink—so she won’t get sloppy in front of everyone. She puts her hand on Brendon’s knee so he stops bouncing it. Her fingers press down just enough to ground him, a silent command to settle. She plays the perfect girlfriend. And the whole time, she plans exactly how she’s going to rip into him when they get home.

He is the perfect boyfriend as they wait the acceptable amount of time before Emma says she has a shift in the morning—she doesn’t—and they have to head out. He follows her lead without question, falling into step beside her as if nothing is off. He keeps his hand on her back as he guides her to coat check. He holds her coat out for her and gently pulls her hair from below the collar—never letting his fingers separate the curls. He opens both doors—restaurant and car—for her. And as soon as he slides into the driver’s seat and shuts his own door, he sighs, resigned. Prepared to accept his fate.

“You were perfect,” he tells her quietly as he shifts into drive. His voice is softer here, stripped of the control he held onto all night. “And as previously stated, I don’t deserve you.”

Emma looks out the window. The city lights blur past, reflections catching in the glass so she doesn’t have to look at him. “No, you don’t.”

Brendon exhales sharply. The engine roars as he accelerates. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was going to tell you.”

“When did you find out?” Emma asks quietly.

“Last Wednesday.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to cool off the heat in her chest. Trying not to scream and cry and yell. Because that’s what she really wants to do. But that’s not acceptable. That’s not what she was raised to do. “You could have told me then.”

“I…” he shakes his head, “...hadn’t decided if I was taking it. He told me I have months to decide.” His grip tightens on the wheel again, knuckles paling under the dim light.

Emma can’t help but snap, “And you didn’t think maybe that was a decision we should discuss and make together?”

“Honestly…” she closes her eyes for his answer, “no.” Of course he didn’t. He doesn’t ever think to include her. It doesn’t occur to him that she might have opinions on their life together—unless it’s about their sex life. Then suddenly she’s allowed a voice. But he quickly adds, “But only because I wasn’t planning to deal with it until after the holidays.”

She frowns. “So you…compartmentalized it?”

“I…guess.” He shrugs. “Things are so great right now. I didn’t want to…ruin it by talking about leaving,” he admits quietly, glancing at her. His hands flex around the wheel, thumbs tapping the leather.

Emma still has to force herself not to respond immediately. She’s afraid if she starts yelling she’s never going to stop. And…it’s starting to sound less malicious and more clueless the more he talks. Oh. With a sigh, she reaches over and forcefully peels his hand from the wheel, holding it in her lap and squeezing. Grounding him, grounding herself, something solid to hold onto.

“Baby?” He says after a minute of silence.

“I’m still mad at you,” she grumbles even as her thumb brushes over the back of his hand. The motion automatic, betraying her softness. “But less mad. So. I’m…” she sighs, “trying to be nice to you. Even though I’m mad.”

“Oh.” He says it in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t understand. “I…thought you were going to yell at me.” There’s almost disappointment in it.

She looks at him. “I wanted—want—to. But I…I don’t know.” Shaking her head, she looks away again.

“You can,” he tells her. “If you want to.”

Sighing, she stares out the window. “That’s why I don’t want to.”

He stays silent until they get home, when she starts to grab the rail for balance to take off her shoes. “Let me do it,” he says quietly, kneeling down to work on the double buckles around her ankles while she holds onto his shoulder. He looks up at her as she lifts her foot so he can take her shoe off. “I really am sorry.”

Emma threads her fingers through his hair as he works on her other shoe. “I know you are,” she says quietly as he places them both on the shoe rack by the door, turning to head up the stairs. “I just…don’t know what else you’re compartmentalizing from me now.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, following her up the stairs. He leans against the counter as she moves to get a glass of water, watching as she digs in the freezer for ice, fills her glass from the filter, and takes a sip. His eyes don’t leave her, trying to track what he missed.

She leans against the opposite counter and shrugs. “Well, I didn’t even…know I could not know about this job offer so, you know, what other stuff do I not know I don’t know?” She looks at him as she takes another sip. “You know?”

“Uhh, hang on.” He sighs and his eyes go unfocused while he processes what she just said—which, yes, she was being confusing on purpose. Because she’s still mad at him. “Ok I think I understand,” he finally says. “You’re upset because if I didn’t think to tell you this, you don’t know what else I didn’t think to tell you.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fair.” He nods, crossing his arms.

God, he looks good. He’s got on this royal blue quarter zip over his dress shirt and trousers. She never gets to see him outside of scrubs or gym clothes. Maybe jeans and a t-shirt. But apparently he knows how to style himself, he just prefers not to. And it’s so besides the point. It’s just inconvenient that he looks that good while she’s mad at him.

“And like,” she stares down at her glass of water, “I don’t understand why I haven’t met your family. They live in Pittsburgh. You’ve met my brother—who lives in Detroit—but I haven’t met your parents who live right here in town.” It’s been bothering her for a while. Might as well air it all out. “I feel like…” Like you’re ashamed of me. Like I’m not important to you. “...Like you’re not including me in your life,” she finishes quietly, turning around to set her glass in the sink.

He’s there, behind her, before she even lets go of it. One arm curling around her waist, gently brushing her hair aside so he can press his mouth against her neck. She can’t help it. She melts back into him, reaching up to fully pull her hair over her opposite shoulder so he has more access to her skin. Her body responding before her brain can catch up.

“I don’t want you to feel that way,” he says, hands sliding under her sweater. He does this, sometimes, when he’s upset. Like she regulates him. Like just needs to hold her to know she’s still there.

“Then you need to talk to me more,” she tells him, holding onto his arms. “If you don’t tell me what you’re thinking, my mind is going to fill in the blanks with the worst possible thing it could be.”

“What is your mind filling in the blanks with?”

Emma pulls out of his arms, turning to face him. She lifts her chin. “That you’re ashamed of me,” she admits. “You don’t want your family to meet me because I…” she looks around, “I don’t know—don’t meet the standard.” She wraps her arms around herself. The words spill faster now, everything she’s been holding back finally coming out. “I mean, your dad’s a wildly successful doctor, your mom’s a lawyer, your sister’s a lawyer, you all have dinner every week and apparently your sister’s fiancé always goes but you’ve never invited me and—”

Brendon clears his throat. “It’s not you.”

“What?”

He takes a deep breath and turns away, shoving a hand in his hair as he paces. “I’m not ashamed of you. If I was, why would I have taken you to the Christmas party?”

“Logically I know that but—”

“But I can’t…” Brendon sighs, facing away from her, like he can’t talk if he’s looking at her. “I can’t lose you. So I can’t think about LA.” Emma takes a step towards him as he continues. “Because if I think about LA, then it’ll happen sooner, and I’ll lose you.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s fighting his own vocal cords to get the words out. “And if I…” Another deep breath, “...if I introduce you to my family then—then it…” He exhales slowly.

Emma stops right behind him, then slowly, slides her arms around his waist and presses her cheek against his back. She presses her hand against his diaphragm. “Breathe, babe.”

Slowly, his chest expands with a long breath. She exhales with him as he lets it out. One more deep breath, then he says, “My family are so fucking judgemental and sometimes I hate going home,” he admits. The words coming out in a rush now that he’s started. “And I haven’t brought you there because I’m ashamed of them. Not because I’m ashamed of you.”

She figured that out about two minutes ago. But it was probably good for him to say it out loud. “Okay,” she says, whispering it into his sweater. “I understand.”

“And…I’m afraid if they’re…awful that…you’ll hate me too.” The last part comes out barely audible.

Emma squeezes him as tight as she can, putting every bit of strength she has into holding him. “I would never hate you because of your family,” she promises. “And I’m tougher than I look.”

He laughs a little at that. “I know you are.”

Letting go, she walks around him so she can see his face. She takes a second, just looking at him, making sure he’s actually here with her now and not retreating into himself again. “I just want you to tell me things,” she says. Smiling, she adds, “I wanna know all of your secrets.”

He manages to smile too, reaching for her hand. “All of my secrets?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to head upstairs to his room, “I already know some of them.” All the anger, all the hurt is flowing out of her. She feels much lighter. Like she can breathe. Even though they haven’t worked it all out. They will.

“Really?” He sounds so much calmer now, happy even. Excited. There’s a lift in his voice that wasn’t there downstairs, something almost boyish. “What secrets do you know?”

“That you’re secretly a softie and nobody else knows that,” she tells him, sitting down on the bed and reaching up to take the clip out of her hair. “I was very entertained by Angela.”

“Oh god,” he says, peeling off his sweater. He exhales through it, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as the fabric comes off. “She’s like, obsessed with my dating life. Every year when she’s had a few drinks at that party, she corners me about it.”

Emma looks up at him, her mouth twisting into a smirk as she follows his fingers unbuttoning his shirt. She watches him more openly now, not hiding it, letting herself enjoy the way he moves. “Yeah, babe,” she scoffs, “she wants to fuck you.” Who wouldn’t?

He frowns. “No she doesn’t.” Oh that’s so cute that he thinks so. Emma sits back on her hands as he takes off his dress shirt, down to a tank top now. She would prefer he wear fewer layers but at least his arms are out now. The tension in him has shifted into something else entirely, energy humming just beneath the surface.

“Oh she totally does,” she reiterates, shrugging. “But like, that’s okay.” She swallows as he starts working on his belt, watching as he pulls it off and rolls it in on itself. Her attention narrows, zeroing in on the small, deliberate movements of his hands. “Can I see that?”

He hands it over with absolutely no protest or question, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants before removing his tank top, like he just remembered the last layer on top. He seems so focused on getting out of his own clothes that he doesn’t care at all that she’s still dressed. So she keeps watching, unrolling the belt and thinking. Considering. Hatching a plan. Something playful flickers back to life in her chest, a spark of control she hasn’t felt since earlier in the night.

“‘That’s okay?’” He repeats, carefully taking off his pants, folding them along the creases and turning to grab a hanger from his closet. That’s when she stands up. She grabs his wrist just before he turns back around. “Oh, fuck, what?” He jumps before relaxing when he realizes it’s her. “What are you doing?”

“Rewarding you,” she says as casually as she can as she reaches for his other wrist and loops his belt around both of them. She pulls it tight, then tucks the extra leather back into the loop—her heart hammering the whole time. There’s a thrill in it, in choosing how this plays out.

Brendon laughs, unphased. “Uhhh, this is giving the vibe of punishment, not reward,” he says as she guides him back out of the closet and presses down on his shoulder. But he goes easily, trusting her without hesitation.

“Trust me,” she tells him as he gets on his knees. “It’s a reward.” Standing right in front of him, his face is about at her chest level now. Perfect. He’ll enjoy that. She feels steadier now, more grounded in herself, the earlier frustration fading into something charged and intentional.

“What are you—oh God.” She lifts her sweater off, leaving her in a thin, white tank top that she knows he can see right through. He doesn’t even glance at her face. “That’s not—fuck, that’s not fair.” His attention locks onto her completely, everything else falling away.

“Just sit back,” Emma tells him. “Stay there and I’ll get to you in a second.”

He exhales slowly, but relaxes back a little. She stands right between his knees, balancing on his shoulder as she reaches down to remove her socks. His eyes are hungry as she reaches up under her skirt to peel off her tights. This time she sits back on the bed to get them all the way off. She’s starting to get concerned. “Blink, babe,” she laughs, “I’m not going anywhere.” There’s a nervous edge to the laugh, energy buzzing under her skin.

“Were you not wearing a bra the entire night?” He sounds anguished over his lack of knowledge of this fact.

Emma smiles and shakes her head as she stands up again to push her skirt down her legs. She kicks it aside. “Why would I wear one when I had on such a thick sweater?” She shrugs. “Nobody could see anything.”

“Thank God,” he growls. She can see his jaw working as he grinds his teeth. Possessive, unfiltered in a way he never is in public.“It’s bad enough they could see your legs.”

“I had on tights.” She inches a little closer to him, so close she can feel his breath, hot against her skin, even through the fabric. Her own chest is heaving—shaking with nerves just like she was on the couch that day. He’s technically seen all of her. But it feels more charged for him to touch her. She reaches for the hem of her tank top and pulls it over her head. There’s a moment of hesitation right before she does it, a flicker of vulnerability that she pushes through.

“Fuck me…” His tongue wets his bottom lip as she reaches for the back of his neck, threading her fingers in his hair and pulling his face to her breast.

“Ohhh my goodness,” comes out of her mouth before she can even try to stop it when he sucks her nipple into his mouth and flicks his tongue over it. The sensation shoots right down between her legs, where she’s already wet and throbbing just from watching him undress. Her grip tightens in his hair, her breath catching as everything else falls away except the feeling of him, the immediacy of it anchoring her fully in the moment.

His mouth is hot on her skin, kissing her, licking her—not just her nipple but all over and around her breast. Gentle enough not to hurt but aggressive enough that it’s overwhelming—in the best way. There’s a focus to it that catches her off guard, an intensity that feels deliberate, like he’s paying attention to every reaction she gives him.

She stares, awestruck, as he moves across her chest, glancing up at her as he licks around the curve of one breast and up between them. That brief eye contact sends something sharp and electric through her, making her breath hitch. She tightens her grip on his hair and he closes his eyes again, repeating the treatment on her other breast. Settling back into it, fully absorbed, as if nothing else exists outside of this moment.

She had really only planned to let him do this, but…she didn’t expect it to feel this good. Didn’t expect to lose herself in it this quickly, for everything else to fade out so completely. Does it always feel like this or is he just good at it? She has no idea. No frame of reference. Just his lips and tongue ruining her for anyone else ever again.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she gasps, when he ever so lightly flicks his tongue over her nipple. The words spill out of her before she can catch them, pulled straight from instinct rather than thought.

He pulls back, laughing. The sound is warm, a little breathless, breaking the intensity without fully undoing it. “You swear in Catholic.”

“Shut up,” she replies, laughter bubbling up her own throat. Relief threading through it, a moment to breathe. She leans forward, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, careful not to put too much weight on him. Still aware of him, of the position he’s in, even as she relaxes.

“It’s really adorable,” he mumbles against her shoulder. His voice softer now, fond in a way that catches her off guard.

“Sorry, I just…” She laughs again, standing and covering her mouth with her hand. Trying to get herself back under control, even though she’s not entirely sure she wants to. “Oh my god.”

“Imagine what I can do to your pussy,” he says, slowly lifting his head and looking up at her with a very smug expression. Confidence slipping back in, easy and natural.

“Yeah I’m not gonna imagine it for long,” she says, shoving her underwear down her legs and kicking it aside. Her own confidence answering his, even if her pulse is still racing.

“Holy Mother of God,” falls out of Brendon’s mouth as he watches her. The words leave him without filter, genuine and a little awed.

She reaches for his jaw. Tilting his face up, making him meet her eyes instead of just looking at her. “Who’s swearing in Catholic now?” Letting him go, she starts to sit back on the bed.

“No,” he shakes his head, “turn over.” There’s a shift in his tone, his own experience kicking in.

“Excuse me?” Emma pulls her chin back and squeezes her thighs together. Caught off guard, a flicker of uncertainty threading through her.

“Turn. Over.” He repeats, nodding at her. “Trust me.” She does trust him. But something twists in her belly. A mix of anticipation and nerves, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He looks directly in her eyes and shrugs. “Hey, my hands are tied, baby. You’re in control here.”

Emma laughs and rolls over, getting her footing on the floor as she bends over the bed. Letting herself lean into it, into him, into the moment they’ve built together. “You’re such a dork—oh blessed mother!” She clenches her jaw and buries her face in the comforter, fisting it with both hands. He didn’t give her a second to feel exposed. The reaction pulled out of her before she can stop it, her body responding faster than her mind can keep up.

His mouth is hot and wet on the back of her thigh. She feels him smile, his teeth pressing into her skin—gentle though. There’s a confidence in it now, a quiet assurance that makes her pulse jump. He presses soft kisses up the back of her leg and all of it goes straight to her clit. Her body reacts before she can think about it, immediate and undeniable.

She squirms, hoping it’ll get him to move there quicker. But God, she really has taught him patience. Because he spends probably minutes on one leg, then repeats it all the other, until she’s shaking and whimpering against the comforter. The slow build stretching her out, making every second feel longer, more intense.

“Babe,” she pants, turning her face to the side. The words break apart, barely forming before they’re overtaken by sensation. “Please. Oh my god. I need you to—Hmm!”

She bites down on the comforter in an attempt to contain the noise coming out of her as he finally, finally licks through her folds. His tongue hot and wet and probing. Not being able to see him might actually be worse than if she could anticipate what he’ll do next. The lack of control heightening everything, leaving her completely at the mercy of what he decides to do.

Slowly laving her throbbing clit with the tip of his tongue—delicate little circles that have her writhing impatiently for more. Then flattening his tongue against her with more pressure. She whimpers, practically stamping her foot when he leaves it there for a second without moving. That pause making her chest tighten, desperate for the next movement.

He pulls away for a moment and she can feel his breath, hot over her damp skin, panting. She opens her mouth to say something, but only cries out when he buries his face in her again—and she can feel his tongue inside her. “Ohh, Mother of Mercy!” His laugh vibrates all the way through her, lips pulling back as he smiles. “Oh goodness!” She might be playing it up for his entertainment too. Leaning into the reaction, giving him exactly what he wants because she knows he likes it.

“Are you going to be like this every time?” Brendon mumbles, his voice low and amused.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Right, fair,” he says, before diving right back in.

The filthy sounds his mouth makes against her wet skin make her nose scrunch—but she likes it, sending a current of heat over her skin. It makes everything feel more real, more immediate. The pleasure mounting between her thighs builds until she feels like if she doesn’t come, she might die. Everything narrowing down to that one point, the rest of the world falling away.

When he sucks on her clit—producing the filthiest sound of all—she pushes up on her toes a little. Her whole body tensing as the orgasm washes over her. She’s not even sure what she says or what sound she makes. It was definitely a sound though, ripped out of her by the force of her own release. Something unfiltered, pulled straight from her without permission.

Finally, she comes back down, huffing out a breath as Brendon presses soft kisses to her skin, breathing hard. Both of them catching up, the intensity settling into softness again. She wonders why he isn’t holding her like he usually is, before remembering the belt. “Hang on,” she rasps, pushing herself upright.

“Oh I’m good,” he says. There’s a smugness to it that makes her want to roll her eyes. “Take your time.”

She glares at him, legs quivering, as she sinks down to the ground and unbuckles the belt around his wrists. He flexes his hands when she frees him, rolling his wrists around, and stretches his shoulders. Working out the tension, testing the movement, but not complaining.

Emma leans back against the bed, tilting her head back, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Heavy-limbed, loose, everything in her softened and slow. “You okay?” She glances down at his wrists, red and angry skin where he fought against the leather, a bruise already forming from the buckle digging into his skin. Whoops.

“Me?” He grins at her, shifting to sit beside her. “Oh I’m great. Are you good? You seem a little shaky.” Still tracking her first, attention fixed on her instead of himself.

“Yeah,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. Letting her weight fall into him without thinking about it. Brendon curls an arm around her and tugs her into his lap. She sighs and leans in, practically falling into kissing him. Seeking the closeness instinctively, needing it after everything just settled. He tastes tangy and a little salty—he tastes like her. “I just feel like I don’t have any bones left.”

“Well, we can stay down here all night,” he offers.

She runs her fingers over his collarbone. “Tempting, but not ideal.” She loves him for offering that instead of suggesting she let him pick her up. Holding that boundary, even now.

“No, not ideal,” he agrees. His hands trace small circles on her skin, gentle and unhurried. Grounding her, bringing her back down at her pace.

She rests her forehead against his. “Just a minute then,” she tells him, curling her hand around the back of his neck and stroking her fingers lightly through his hair. “That was so good, babe.”

“You liked it?” There’s something vulnerable in the question, something that makes her chest tighten. She nods a couple times, then kisses him. “Me too,” he whispers against her lips.

“Yeah?” Emma pulls away so she can see him. “What did you like?”

“I mean, all of it,” he says immediately. “But definitely getting you all worked up, the challenge not having my hands brought—still being able to make you come…”

Emma swallows. She shifts back a little, her hand sliding down his chest. “Can I…”

“You don’t have to,” he says, frowning. He grabs her hand and holds it where it is, glancing away. “I sort of already did,” he admits quietly. A hint of embarrassment creeping in, unsure how she’ll react.

“You what?” She says, incredulous, but keeping her voice free of judgement. “I didn’t know that actually happened?” He can’t be serious.

He laughs dryly. “Uh, me either? But I guess it does?” Leaning forward, he rests his forehead against her shoulder. The words quieter now, careful, almost braced for her response. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Emma scoffs. “That you came just from eating me out? Uhh, no, that’s super hot.” She can’t help but put her hand down and trail her fingers over his boxer briefs just to feel the damp evidence that he isn’t lying. He shudders at her touch before she brings her hand back up to his chest, feeling his heart thump. She did that to him. Wow.

“Yeah?” He mumbles into her skin. “I genuinely think it’s just because it’s been a while and I was so keyed up and I promise, that doesn’t usually happen and I—”

Emma’s hand slides around his throat, lifting his head up to meet her eyes. “You were so good, babe,” she says quietly. “So good. Perfect, actually.” She squeezes lightly, just to emphasize her point. Making sure he hears it, making sure it lands. “Okay?”

He nods, head falling forward as she slides her hand back down her neck. “Thank you,” he says, his voice rough, barely louder than a whisper. Gratitude layered with something deeper, something more exposed than he usually lets himself be. “I just—thank you.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes, feeling him tighten his hold on her waist. “You’re welcome,” she tells him. Though some part of her feels like she should be thanking him instead.

Maman: Are you coming home for Christmas?

Emma: I couldn’t get the days off 😩

Maman: I’m sorry, ma cherié

Maman: I’ll ship your gifts to you

Emma: I’m sorry it’s just impossible to get both holidays off as a new grad

Maman: I love you

Emma: Love you too

Having the same day off as Brendon produces the most euphoric feeling. There’s a lightness to it, a rare kind of ease she doesn’t get in her regular routine, something she wants to hold onto for as long as she can. Emma wakes up with his arm draped over her and his face buried in the curve of her neck. She sighs and turns towards him, yawning as she arches her back to stretch a little. He stirs at her movement, tightening his hold on her. Instinctive, pulling her closer without even fully waking up.

“Morning,” he says against her neck as he drags her in to kiss her there. She loves his voice in the morning, not quite awake, definitely not performing for anyone yet. Unfiltered, softer, stripped of the control he keeps on himself the rest of the day. The stubble on his jaw scrapes her skin as he mouths at her, hot and wet and…familiar.

She giggles, ticklish. “Good morning.” Her fingers trail lightly up and down the back of his arm as he slides his hand up under her pajama top. Tracing the shape of him, grounding herself in the simple fact that he’s here. “You still want to go to the gym?”

“No,” he answers immediately, moving up to cup her breast. Her breath hitches when his thumb swipes over her nipple.

“Really, you sure?” Her voice comes out breathless now. Trying to hold onto some version of their routine, even as it slips. “When’s the last time you skipped the gym?”

“Probably…when I wrenched my shoulder a couple years ago,” he grunts, making his way down her chest as he pushes her top up above her breasts. She shifts, opening her thighs so he can settle between them, gently carding her fingers through his hair as he continues his obviously very important work. Letting herself fall into it, into him, without resistance.

“Mm,” she hums in satisfaction. “We should still go.” A weak attempt at practicality that she doesn’t really mean.

“Later,” he suggests, before flicking his tongue over her nipple. His arms slide beneath her, hands flat against her back. God, it’s like he can cover her entire back with just his hands. The breadth of him anchoring her in place, making it easy to stay exactly where she is.

“And I need to go home today,” she goes on. Trying to remember the rest of her life outside of this room. “I need more clothes and I—”

“Move…all your stuff…over here…” Brendon makes his way back up her chest, kissing her wherever he can between words. There’s a seriousness tucked under the teasing, something he means more than he’s saying outright. He pulls back slightly, looking at her.

Emma smiles, her whole body warm, both from being wrapped up in him and the heat of his sudden obsession. “I can’t move in with you,” she protests.

“Why not?” He dips down to kiss the hollow of her jaw. Not really arguing, just pushing, testing.

“Because,” she pushes at his chest until he rolls off of her, “we’ve only been dating for two months.” She climbs on top of him, bracing her hands on his ribs to sit up. “And I signed a lease through June.”

“Jo would let you out of it,” he counters. “You know she would.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s the principle of the thing.” And something deeper than that, something she’s not unpacking yet.

“Fine, I’ll pay your rent then,” he suggests, curling his fingers around her thighs, tips digging into her flesh as he ever so slightly moves her back. She lets him drag her back and forth, the length of him hard between her legs, insistently nudging against her clit when she rolls her hips a little. She wants to feel him inside her so badly it hurts.

His suggestion makes her laugh though. “Oh my god, you’re incorrigible. You eat me out one time and you’re trying to get me to move in with you? You’re willing to put money on it?”

“I’d be willing to do a lot of things to have access to you all the time,” he admits.

Except, of course, ask her to move to LA with him. Something less fun twists in her stomach. Part of her really wants to bring it up—point out that he’s perfectly willing to move her into his house here, but not across the country with him. Willing to leave her behind, just like that. The thought settling heavy, cutting through the warmth of the moment.

But she just sighs and gets off of him, adjusting her pajamas as she stands up. Pulling herself out of it before it can turn into something else. “I think we should go to the gym.” She heads for the bathroom, yawning as she pulls off her bonnet, only vaguely aware of the rustling of the covers as he gets out of bed himself. They don’t continue the discussion.

They split up at the gym because Emma wants to work glutes and Brendon never specifically targets that group. He heads off for push day, but not too far. Never too far. Close enough that she can always find him if she looks up, close enough that he can keep an eye on her without making it obvious.

She sets up for hip thrusts—which takes forever—and gets through three sets. She’s up to 225. The weight heavy across her hips, grounding, familiar, something she can control even when everything else feels a little less certain. Pulling out her phone during her rest, she shoots Brendon a text.

Emma: currently hip thrusting your body weight 😘

His reply comes a few seconds after she watches him lay back for chest presses. He’s still maintaining, so he hasn’t gone up over the last couple months like she has.

Brendon: Sexy.

Emma: i thought you’d think so

Her phone vibrates next to her as she finishes up the last set, her glutes screaming at her as she holds the final rep. With a deep exhale, she sits back, wiping her forehead with her arm. It doesn’t really work that well. The issue with wearing a sports bra and leggings is she doesn’t have extra fabric to wipe her sweat.

Brendon: I think I can probably row your body weight.

Of course he can. He says it so casually it almost feels unfair. As she’s unloading her weights, she keeps an eye on Brendon. He’s typing on his phone—recording a set or something—and innocently lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his neck. Oh God. Part of her sort of wants to be his shirt right now, licking the sweat off his skin. It’s like it happens in slow motion, the fabric bunching up to reveal abdominal after abdominal. Her mouth goes completely dry when he lifts it further to mop the sweat on his forehead, revealing the curve of his pectoral. Then he lets the fabric fall back into place, completely unbothered. Oblivious to the effect he has, which somehow makes it worse.

Emma is a little bothered though, because she can see the two women on the other side of him—staring just as intently as she is. One of them looks a lot more appreciative of the show he just put on though, and judging from the way she takes off her own sweatshirt and tightens her ponytail, she’s planning to put one on too. She’s tall and blonde and gorgeous. Probably exactly who people would expect to see Brendon with. The kind of woman who fits neatly into assumptions, who doesn’t raise questions.

But she’s not who he’s with. Racking her last weight, Emma walks casually over to him. He’s standing, still on his phone, about to go put his weights back. Not a clue in the world. Completely unaware of the attention around him, completely unbothered by it. Without a word, she reaches for the hem of his shirt and dabs at the sweat on her forehead. He’s laughing before she’s even finished.

“You know you can just grab a towel,” he says, taking her water bottle right from her hand and sipping from it—despite the fact that his own is on the ground by his feet.

“I could,” she agrees, glancing at where the other women were standing. They both look like they’re pointedly trying not to look now. Their attention snapping away a second too late. “But what’s the fun in that?”

“Yeah, no, I like it your way,” he corrects quickly. “Please use me as your personal towel. Anytime.”

She gets that little surge of power that comes through whenever he does or says something to defer to her. A quiet, steady confidence settling in her chest. Other women can look all they want. He’s obsessed with her. She’s the one who gets his hands and mouth and body to herself—all things he willingly gives to her, wants to give her.

“I’m off to do RDLs,” she says with a sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Chest flies.”

“Super fun.” She doesn’t do those. “Well, I’ll see you around.” Before she walks away, she reaches up and puts her hand on his chest, pressing her fingers in, feeling the heat of him, the pump. “Nice.”

His hand falls right to her ass, squeezing once as she turns to walk away. “You too. Feel free to come back,” he calls after her, loud enough for other people to hear him. She smiles, shaking her head. At least they’re the same level of possessive.

They don’t manage to make it to her house until the afternoon, because Emma mentions that she’s hungry as they’re walking out of the gym. So Brendon insists on taking her to lunch, and she lets him even though it’s going to eat into the time she has to get stuff done because they never really go out—preferring to cook at home. It feels indulgent, a small break from their routine that she doesn’t argue too hard against, even as a part of her keeps track of the hours slipping away.

But eventually they do make it and Jo greets them from the kitchen when they come through the front door. “Oh good, I was about a day away from calling the police,” she says, smiling.

Emma glances at Brendon. “It can’t have been that many days since I was at home.” He frowns and she watches him, counting in his head. She can’t believe she ever thought he wasn’t expressive. Now it’s like she can always tell what he’s thinking. Every micro-shift in his face readable now that she knows what to look for.

“Last night you spent here was Monday,” he says. That was the night before she worked three days in a row. “So it’s only been four nights,” he adds to Jo.

“Four nights,” she scoffs and leans on the counter. “How was the work party? That was last night, right?”

“Good.” Emma shrugs. “It was a work party.” She starts to walk towards her room. “Is it okay if I start a load of laundry? I have to wash my scrubs.” And workout clothes. And everything else.

Jo looks at Brendon. “What, you don’t have a washing machine?”

He holds his hands up, defensive. “I offered. She said no.”

“I like this one!” Emma says defensively. There’s comfort in familiarity, in not having to learn something new. “I understand this one. Yours has too many buttons and it sings a song when it finishes.”

He snorts, following her to her room. “Don’t all washers?”

“Hey, uh, you got some mail,” Jo calls out. “I think you got summoned for jury duty or something.”

Great. Just what she needs. “Ugh, can you go get that from her?” She asks Brendon.

“Yeah.”

He comes back with her mail as she’s sorting the clothes in her bag into piles for various loads—scrubs and workout clothes, knits and denim, and pajamas and lounge clothes. Emma takes the stack from him and puts it on the dresser. She’ll look later.

“Um.” Brendon closes the door carefully behind him and lowers his voice. “You should probably open that.” Something in his tone cutting through her autopilot.

“I will,” she says absently.

“Like now,” he insists. “It’s not a jury summons.”

“Oh.” That gives her pause. She grabs the envelope and starts ripping it open. A flicker of unease starting to build. “What is it?”

“I think it’s a subpoena.”

“You think?” She repeats. But he doesn’t have to answer because she gets the letter out.

IN THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS OF ALLEGHENY COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

CRIMINAL DIVISION

COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA

v.

CURTIS LARSON

Her eyes skip over the docket number and go straight to:

SUBPOENA TO APPEAR AND TESTIFY

TO: Emma Lise-Marie Nolan

YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED to appear in person before the Court of Common Pleas of Allegheny County, Criminal Division, located at the Allegheny County Courthouse, on December 18, 2026 at 09:00, to testify on behalf of the Commonwealth in the above-captioned matter, and to remain until excused by the Court.

Emma sighs and presses her lips together. “You were right.” She holds out the paper for Brendon. He takes it and scans it as she turns back to sorting her laundry. But her hands are shaking now. She tries to inhale, but it’s like the air won’t go in her lungs. Her body reacting before her brain can catch up, panic creeping in at the edges.

The paper rustles as he sets it down, then he sits down beside her pile of laundry, looking at her. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she says, laughing breathlessly. Her mouth stretches into a smile despite the panic settling in her chest. Tears sting her eyes, salty and unwanted. She shakes her head. “Not really.”

He inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Must be nice. “What can I do best for you right now?” She shrugs. He doesn’t let her deflect, and gives her choices. “Do you want to talk about logistics or emotions, or do you want comfort?”

She glances at him, confused. “I feel like you’re following a script, babe.”

“I am,” he says plainly. “My sister and I used to fight because when she was upset and I wanted to help, I’d jump straight to solving the problem.” He sighs. “But she just wanted comfort. So now I ask everyone what they want before I get involved.” Explaining himself without defensiveness, just offering context.

“Oh.” That’s both incredibly thoughtful and strangely impersonal. “Um. I don’t know.” Ideally she would ignore it. Pretend this isn’t happening at all.

“You can’t ignore it, baby.”

That’s what makes her snap. “Don’t do that right now,” she snarls. “Don’t read my mind. I just—” She lifts her hands, clenching her jaw as she tries to find the words. “Just let me think.”

“Okay.” His shoulders relax, like he’s perfectly happy to sit there and take what she gives him—even if it’s yelling. Because he’s a wonderful boyfriend like that. Absorbing it without pushing back.

She inhales sharply. “Can you turn your thoughts down?”

“Turn my thoughts down?” He repeats flatly.

“Yes,” she snaps again, “you’re thinking too loudly. Stop it.” Everything in her overwhelmed, overstimulated.

She knows she’s being irrational right now. But she can’t…be in charge right now. She doesn’t want to make decisions about this. This feels too big. Too important. It’s not something she’s supposed to have to worry about. Not something she ever imagined would land in her life, demanding this much from her

She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. Every time she tries to think about having to go to court, she feels too stupid to go through with it. Where does she go when she gets there? What will happen? How long will she be there? What is she supposed to say? What if she gets it wrong? What if she was wrong about what happened?

Brendon reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. She watches him swipe around for a second, then he holds it out, ringing on speaker. His movements steady, deliberate, giving her something to focus on outside of her own head. “Who are you calling?” She asks, swallowing.

“My mom,” he says simply. Like he didn’t just admit his shame around his family last night. “She’s a defense attorney. I thought she could help explain what they want.” He sounds so sure she’ll help, trusting. If he trusts her, so does Emma. She leans on that certainty, borrowing it for a moment because she doesn’t have any of her own.

“Hello?” A sharp, female voice comes through the speaker. Emma starts slightly. The abruptness of it snapping her attention away from the panic for a second.

“Hey, Mom,” Brendon says, rubbing his forehead. “You’re on speaker with Emma.”

“Oh hello!” The voice brightens significantly, like she didn’t check the caller ID before answering and only just realized she’s speaking with her son.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” Emma says with not nearly enough enthusiasm, sitting directly on her pile of laundry.

“Oh, it’s Sharon,” she corrects immediately. “How lovely to meet you! Sort of. I wish my son would bring you over for dinner. Are you in town for Christmas? We have dinner on Christmas Eve, and obviously tomorrow as well—”

“Mom,” Brendon interrupts gently. Wow. Emma is reeling from the onslaught. She doesn’t know why she thought his family would all be as reticent to speak as he is, but his mom sure talks a lot. Fast too. The contrast almost disorienting, coming at her too quickly to keep up with. “We called because we need some legal advice.” Emma’s chest warms at the way he frames it as their problem. Not just hers.

“You know my hourly rate,” she says dryly, which implies to Emma it must be quite high. Then she says in a normal voice, “What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Brendon says. “But Emma’s being subpoenaed.” He reaches for the paper again and sighs. “It says she’s supposed to appear in court on Friday to testify on behalf of the commonwealth.”

“Oh, they’re just calling her as a witness,” Sharon says immediately. “She’s not in trouble.” That doesn’t make her feel better.

“I don’t…” Emma hesitates, “know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Just show up at the time on the subpoena. Wear something that looks nice, you know, it’s court,” she advises. “Be conservative.”

“Right,” Emma says, “I…figured that much. But what’s going to happen?” She needs something more concrete, something she can hold onto.

“Well, it’s strange that the prosecuting attorney hasn’t called you or emailed you,” Sharon says. “What’s the case and docket number? Let me see who it is.”

Brendon reads from the paper. “Uhh, Commonwealth versus Curtis Lar—”

“Stephen Merisko.” She cuts him off so sharply that Emma recoils. “I’m sorry, I have to go. A…client is calling me. Brendon, honey, see you tomorrow for dinner.” From the way she said the last part, it’s obvious Emma is no longer invited. The line goes dead. Leaving behind a silence that feels heavier than before.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon says, sighing. “She can get…intense about work.”

Emma snorts. “Yeah she seems intense in general.” And it weirdly seemed like she knew the case? She sighs and grabs her own phone. “God I never check my personal email. I assumed they’d call me if they had something else for me.” She searches in her cluttered inbox for the name Sharon gave her. Five emails pop up, all in increasing increments of urgency. She clicks on the most recent one. “She was right, the prosecutor has been trying to get a hold of me. He wants me to call him.” No part of her is able to move. Her body going still, the weight of it settling in.

“You should do it,” Brendon urges.

Emma looks at him. “I can’t,” she says flatly.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Brain won’t let me.” I’m scared. I don’t want this to be real.

“Okay,” Brendon carefully takes her phone from her hand, “I’m going to dial. It’s probably going to go to his assistant or his voicemail. If it’s his assistant, I’ll talk and ask for him, but as soon as he gets on or it’s his voicemail, you talk. This is your case. Sound good?” Breaking it down into steps, something manageable, something she can follow.

She swallows. “What do I say?”

“‘This is Emma Nolan returning your attempts to reach me. I just received the subpoena for December eighteenth. Let me know what the next steps are.’”

How does he do that? He just seems to know the language you have to be able to speak to garner respect in this situation. In any professional situation. Like that’s his second language as much as Creole is hers. Fluent in a world she’s still trying to learn to navigate.

“You ready?” He prompts.

With him here? Sure. She reaches for his free hand and nods. Leaning into his steadiness, letting it carry her through. “Yeah, call him.”

It rings for what feels like hours before clicking over to a voicemail. It is Saturday. “You’ve reached Stephen Merisko, Assistant District Attorney at the Allegheny County District Attorney’s Office. I’m unable to take your call right now. Please leave your number, a brief message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

Emma only barely gets to take a breath before it beeps. She hesitates a second, then Brendon squeezes her hand and she locks in. “Hi, this is Emma Nolan. I’m…so sorry I missed your emails but I just received the subpoena to appear in court December eighteenth. Please, um, call me back to let me know what the next steps are. I’m best reached by cell phone.” She rattles off her phone number, adding, “thank you so much.”

Brendon hangs up and hands her phone back.

Emma exhales more air than her lungs are capable of holding. Relief breaking through the tension in a rush. She looks at Brendon. “Thank you.”

“Yeah of course.” He squeezes her hand, but is already typing on his phone with the other.

“What are you doing?” Emma asks, only able to make out that he’s writing an email.

“Making Sanchez cover for me on Friday to take the day off,” he says, like she should have known that.

“You don’t have to do that,” she tries to protest. “I can just—”

“You can’t go alone,” he interrupts. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Who else have you even told about this?”

Emma’s mouth goes dry. “Well…everyone at work knows,” she whispers.

“What about your family?” He asks. “Or, hell, even Jo. Have you told her?”

She just shakes her head.

“Okay, then I’m gonna come with you,” he says, like it’s decided. “I have five billion hours of PTO I have to burn before I leave anyway. And I’m taking Sanchez’s Christmas Eve shift so he can get home to Texas earlier.”

Emma rests her forehead on his shoulder. A strange sense of calm washes over her with the knowledge that she won’t be alone. That she’ll have a translator. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Brendon doesn’t answer. Just kisses the top of her head and sighs.

Emma: can you help me figure out what to wear to court?

Vivi: sure what do you have so far?

Emma: literally nothing

Vivi: ok i’ll bring everything i have that might work

Emma: that you soooo much 💛

Vivi: i got you bestie 💗

“Ok so the prosecutor told me, ‘keep it simple,’” Emma starts as she and Vivi sort through the pile of clothes on her bed, “‘avoid anything bright or distracting,’” she takes a deep breath, “and ‘dress conservatively.’”

She’d met with him the day before, going over her statement. He smoothed it out for her. Helped her keep it simple. Then they spent a few hours preparing her for cross examination by the defense. That had made her nervous. Like she’s on trial now.

He’d explained that this isn’t a trial. It’s a pre-trial hearing. Which doesn’t usually happen in Allegheny County. But the defense filed motions questioning the validity of her given statements as evidence. So basically, she has to give her statement again, in front of the judge. And the judge will determine if her statements can be used as evidence.

So it feels a lot like she’s on trial.

Vivi snorts when she hears what the clothing instructions are, “Bestie, why’d you call me?” She puts her hands on her hips. “You know I don’t have stuff like that.” Her tone is half-insulted, half-amused, which is exactly why Emma wanted her here.

“Because I couldn’t do this alone,” Emma whines. “And the only other person who knows is Brendon and you know he’s useless.” Not actually useless, but useless in this specific, very female, very visual kind of emergency.

“His credit card isn’t,” Vivi says, holding up a pair of black jeans, “we could have gone shopping. Hit up, like, Ann Taylor.”

Emma gives her a look. “What’s that?”

“It’s where my mom shops.” Vivi turns and starts flipping through Emma’s closet. “No…no…that’s cute but no…oh, this is perfect.” She pulls out a white button-down blouse with a Peter Pan collar, holding it up in front of her chest. “This is really cute.”

“Oh yeah,” Emma agrees, reaching for it. She sheds her t-shirt. Definitely not braless today. For this, she’s wearing her most compressive bra, hoping to come off as frumpy as possible. Merisko had warned her away from appearing too sexualized. No skirts, he’d said. His assistant suggested wide-leg trousers. She asks if Vivi has anything like that. Apparently there is an official way to make yourself look harmless in court, and Emma hates how quickly she understood what he meant.

“Try these,” Vivi suggests, handing over a pair of black slacks. “I wore them for my interview at the hospital and never again.”

“I did mine over Zoom,” Emma admits as she peels off her leggings, “so I only had to wear a nice top.” She buttons the shirt all the way up and tucks it into the trousers, turning to check in her vanity. “Oh no, it’s gaping.” Wrinkling her nose, she starts to take it off. Of course even her emergency court blouse has to remind her she exists in a body.

“Wait,” Vivi says. “I know you have a cardigan. You should wear one anyway ‘cause it’s short sleeved and I bet that courtroom is cold.” She turns and shuffles through the shelves where Emma keeps her sweater, coming up with a gray one. “Perfect.”

Emma slips it on and starts buttoning it. “Okay, this is pretty good,” she says. Plain enough to disappear in, which seems to be the whole goal.

“Yes, we appear to have successfully erased your tits and ass,” Vivi says, smirking. “How are you gonna do your hair?”

“He said get it out of my face, and minimal makeup,” Emma nods. “Stud earrings, cross necklace.” As if there’s a formula for credibility and she just has to follow it exactly.

“Do you have a cross necklace?” Vivi asks, scoffing.

“Oh yeah,” Emma walks over to her jewelry box and opens the glass side, where her necklaces hang from hooks at the top. She extracts the simple gold cross she wore every day in high school and goes to fasten it around her neck. “Before nursing school I wanted to be a nun.” Sometimes that still feels more believable than the life she has now.

Vivi lifts her eyebrows. “Well, in this outfit I can see it,” she says. “Just channel Sister Nolan and you’ll be fine,” she advises.

Emma’s hands fall down to her sides and she wipes her palms on her thighs. “I’m scared,” she admits. “I feel like nobody believes me. What if they throw my statement out?” What if she does all of this right and it still isn’t enough?

“Like a bunch of people saw it, Emma,” Vivi reminds her. “Even if they throw your statement out, they’ll still have Dana and McKay when it goes to trial. They’re gonna nail this guy.” She sits on the bed and gestures to her. “And anyway, you look like a freaking saint. No way are they gonna believe that cokehead over you.”

Emma’s mouth twists as she looks in the mirror, smoothing the pleats of her slacks. God, she hopes Vivi is right. Because underneath the cardigan and the blouse and the cross, she still feels exactly like herself—scared, shaky, and far less convincing than everyone else seems to think.