Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There really is nothing like being strangled on your very first day of your first real adult job to make you feel like you’re weak. Like your body is something that can be overpowered, overridden—like it doesn’t belong to you at all. Emma still remembers the feeling of complete powerlessness as she pushed against his arm and absolutely nothing happened. He didn’t budge even an inch from her neck, dragging her off the bed and against the wall. Not until Dana came in and got him off her.

That feeling…of everything slipping away and being unable to do a single thing to stop it. Of knowing exactly what was happening to her body and still not being able to change it. She doesn’t want to feel it again.

Which is how Emma finds herself in the gym at 6am on her very first day off to meet Vivi after three days of full shifts—luckily none as crazy as the Fourth of July. Her body still feels heavy from those shifts, a dull exhaustion sitting in her bones, but underneath it there’s something sharper—resolve. Vivi’s waiting by the front counter wearing pink spandex shorts, a black sports bra, and a massive smile. Her toned biceps and quads make up the rest of the outfit. She’s going to help Emma get back into strength training. She looks like she belongs here. Emma very much does not.

“Yay! I’m so glad you came. I’ve never had a gym buddy before,” she tells her as she signs Emma in as her guest. If she decides to come back, she’ll have to get her own membership—Vivi doesn’t get that many guest passes and likes to save them for when her brother comes to visit over the holidays. “You ready?”

No. “As I’ll ever be,” Emma says brightly, tugging on the hem of her faded college t-shirt. She feels painfully overdressed next to Vivi in her cute little workout clothes—but she’s always kind of just worn whatever to work out. She didn’t think people tried to look cute while they did this sort of thing.

She used to lift. When she was on the softball team in high school, they used to use the weight room once a week. She knows the basics—bench press, squat, deadlift, and the accessory movements—but they were never serious. Never like this. Never with people who look like they actually know what they’re doing. Mostly they all just futzed around and talked about boys.

Which…also seems appropriate here given that the gym is full of them.

“Do any women work out here?” Emma hisses to Vivi as they walk across the dark gym to a chorus of squeaking machine hinges and grunts.

“Yes,” Vivi says, setting her stuff down in a corner. “I do.” She shrugs. “And a few others. But it’s a lifting-focused gym so it’s kind of a sausage fest. It doesn’t matter. Nobody ever bothers me.”

Emma glances around the room again. Kind of is an understatement. It’s a bit overwhelming to be surrounded by so many muscles. Bodies that take up space without apology. Bodies that look like they’ve never failed them. She’s pretty sure what she’s smelling is straight up just pure testosterone—raw and unfiltered. Or maybe it’s sweat and rubber. Results unclear.

“I thought we were lifting,” Emma says as Vivi puts a hand on the wall and begins to swing her right leg back and forth.

“Yeah,” Vivi says, “dynamic stretches to warm up first though.”

Dynamic stretches to warm up? Emma’s never done that before. Warm ups were always optional. Skipped. Something to rush through. She turns and copies Vivi, making sure to leave enough room so they don’t kick each other. It’s weird. Part of her feels like everyone must be staring at them. Like they can tell she doesn’t belong. Like they can see right through the oversized t-shirt and into the uncertainty underneath.

But she figures if any of the men in the room are staring at them, they’re looking at Vivi for sure. Not at Emma in her baggy Nike shorts and faded Michigan t-shirt with her hair in a halfhearted braid. Vivi has her hair up in two little buns on top of her head. It’s really cute actually, especially with her split-dyed bangs.

She’s like a total expert though, putting Emma through several different exercises to open up her hips and warm her leg muscles. Including, but not limited to, three more variations of the leg swings and the runners stretch. Emma is sure by the end of it that everyone is staring at them. It feels like one of the few overhead lights in the gym is shining down on them like a spotlight. Like she’s being evaluated and found lacking.

“Are we lifting now?” She asks as Vivi picks up her bag again. What does she even have in there? Emma only has her keys and her water bottle. What more do you need at the gym?

“Yes, let’s hit the hack squat, it’s easier than a barbell.”

Emma wants to protest, say she absolutely knows how to barbell squat, but Vivi is leading the show here and she’s just following along like a lost baby deer. Better to follow than to prove she doesn’t actually know what she’s doing.

“Okay, I usually add a couple plates,” Vivi explains, “but you should probably just start with the weight as is.”

She feels sort of silly climbing up on the machine and pushing her shoulders up against the pads. It pins her in place in a way she doesn’t love, even if it’s controlled, even if she chose it. Vivi reaches out and adjusts her foot placement against the base. But it’s when she drops the handles to release the weight that she really feels stupid.

Because bending her knees and pushing the hack back up into place is way harder than she thought it was going to be. She grits her teeth, driving through her heels like she remembers her coach yelling at them, but it’s slow. Slower than she wants to go. Her muscles tremble, unfamiliar with being asked to actually work.

“Good, yeah, I figured,” Vivi says as she re-racks it.

“How heavy is that?” Emma wonders, panting. Her lungs burn in a way that feels both alarming and…earned.

“Oh like a hundred pounds.” Thank God. So she isn’t a total wimp. “I couldn’t even do it when I started lifting honestly.”

“Really?”

Vivi nods, reaching for one of the 45 pound plates and adding it to the hack squat. Emma’s eyes widen as she adds another. Holy crap. Nearly 200 pounds. The machine suddenly looks less like equipment and more like something dangerous. “But it’s really good and stable to work your quads.”

“I didn’t know we were going to do legs,” Emma says, lifting the collar of her shirt to wipe her upper lip. “It’s my upper body that’s the issue.”

“Yeah, we can do that next time. I usually do legs on Tuesdays and the foundation is good.” She glances at Emma as she takes her position under the hack squat. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘lift with your legs?’”

It doesn’t get any better after that. As Vivi takes her through four sets of hack squats, followed by lunges, then hamstring curls, single leg extensions—ouch—and finally weighted calf raises, more and more people fill the gym. At least more women show up, but it’s like one for every five men. By 7:30am, they’re having to squeeze between people just to make it to the door. But at least she feels accomplished. She kept up. Didn’t quit. Even when her legs burned, even when she wanted to stop, she didn’t. That has to count for something.

She’s not a quitter.

“Jeez,” Emma says, as a guy with biceps bigger than her head whacks her with his gym bag. It felt like he had rocks in there. “It’s so crowded.”

“That’s why I try to come so early,” Vivi explains. “Beat the corporate people.”

They follow a tall guy with a backwards Penn State hat that looks like it’s seen better days towards the door. Emma swallows, her mouth suddenly dry as she stares at his back—she can’t help it, he’s right in front of her. As she’d looked around, most of the men were either super shredded, with body fat so low she could see striations in their muscles, or too big to be comfortable, walking with their arms held away from them due to the size of their lats. This guy is just right.

He’s wearing a tank top, so she can see the contours of his rear delts and traps, muscular, but he’s not too cut either. His body looks functional—like the aesthetics are just a bonus. Like strength comes first and everything else follows. When he reaches for the door, he’s got nicely built arms to match. He holds it open for them, stepping back. Emma looks up to thank him, but balks when she sees the look of utter disdain on his face. Yikes. He exhales sharply, like he’s annoyed. But even as she ducks her head, she catches how handsome he is, high cheekbones and blue eyes. Wow. That combination—intimidating and attractive—puts something unsettling in her chest.

“Ooh, thanks, Dr. Park,” Vivi says, flashing her own wry smile. “You’re in late, no surgeries today?” Shit, he’s a doctor? At PTMC?

“Just clinicals,” he says. Then he walks away, off towards a sleek, black BMW. Emma can’t help but watch him.

“Park the Shark,” Vivi explains, leaning in to whisper in Emma’s ear. “Orthopedic surgery senior resident.” Ah. So the muscles are definitely functional.

“Why do they call him that?” Emma asks, finally tearing her eyes away.

Vivi shrugs. “No idea. He’s hot as fuck though.”

“Yeah,” Emma breathes, sneaking a peek back. The driver’s door is open now, so all she can see is his leg. But it sure is a nice leg to look at. Strong. Solid. Like everything about him probably is. “Do a lot of doctors work out here?” She definitely will not be coming back if she’s going to see a bunch of coworkers—especially superiors—at the gym.

“I’ve only ever seen him,” Vivi says. “Which is good because I do not need to embarrass myself in front of someone I actually see all the time.”

“Doesn’t ortho come down to the ED for consults?” Emma asks as they start walking again. She took the bus here so she could ride with Vivi to go get breakfast after.

“Like, sometimes,” Vivi scoffs, “but they like to take their sweet time and usually unless it’s literally a missing limb our docs take care of whatever it is before they show up.”

“Oh well, that’s fine then.” Emma sighs with relief. “Maybe I will come back.”

“Awesome,” Vivi says, throwing an arm over Emma’s shoulders and squeezing. Somehow she still smells fresh. She’ll have to ask her what deodorant she uses. “I’m so excited to have a lifting buddy!”

“Me too,” Emma agrees, pasting on a smile. But as she walks beside Vivi towards the smoothie place they’re going to check out, her stomach twists, wondering if she’ll ever feel comfortable going there. If strength is something she can actually build—or something she’ll always feel like she’s chasing. If she’ll ever feel safe in her body again.

Vivi: you sore?

Emma: idk if i’m making it through my next shift girl

Vivi: dw you got this! it won’t be this bad ever again

Vivi: you just need to lay the foundations

“Babygirl, you’re moving worse than I am this morning,” Jo, Emma’s roommate/landlord, says as Emma hobbles into the kitchen the next morning before her shift. Each step is stiff and careful, her muscles protesting being forced into use again so soon.

“You move just fine,” Emma protests, wincing at the pain in her calves as she pushes up on her toes to reach for a coffee mug. Jo pushes the pot towards her, sipping from her own cup.

When she moved to Pittsburgh and was looking for a place to live, she responded to Jo’s ad on Facebook advertising her extra bedroom—which she rents out for extra cash since she retired from working as a flight attendant ten years ago. She never married, but Emma thinks she might have had a girlfriend for a while. There are framed photos tucked between the plants—women with sunburned noses and windblown hair, laughing into the camera. Emma has never asked.

“I’m slow,” Jo counters. “You’re supposed to be the one running around town kissing people and dancing on tables.” She clicks her tongue and Emma’s stomach twists uncomfortably. Not from the soreness this time, but from the way that version of herself feels completely foreign. Even in college she was never doing that stuff. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be gardening and knitting.” Emma glances at the pile of yarn she left on the counter yesterday and presses her lips together, vowing to clean up her stuff after work. She’s only been living here a few weeks, she shouldn’t leave clutter around.

“My coworker took me to the gym yesterday,” Emma admits, dumping oatmilk creamer into her coffee before turning to lean back against the counter, inhaling the delicious scent of the coffee before languishing in her first sip. Best part of the morning. The warmth spreads through her chest, loosening something tight in there.

It’s a pretty day out, sunshine already streaming through the kitchen windows and illuminating the orange tile and blue cabinets. Jo has the most colorful house she’s ever been in—with every wall painted a different bold color, photos from everywhere she’s traveled to covering all of them, and shelves upon shelves of crystals, knicknacks, plants, and incense holders. It’s overwhelming in the best way. There’s always something new to look at, something slightly out of place that somehow still fits.

Jo’s vintage orange Beetle sits outside under the carport. She’s always telling Emma she can borrow it, but Emma prefers the bus. More economical. And easier—no decisions, no responsibility beyond showing up.

“Oh that’s good,” Jo says, brushing her waist-length, gray braid back over her shoulder. “Good for you.”

Emma ducks her head and lifts her shoulders, sipping more coffee. She never told Jo—or her parents—about the patient that attacked her. So she doesn’t really have a concrete reason to give for why she’s suddenly gotten into lifting weights. No way to explain that it isn’t about fitness, not really—it’s about not feeling that helpless again.

“Don’t end up like me with two shoulder replacements because your bones gave out,” Jo continues. “My surgeon told me lifting weights is the best way to prevent osteoporosis.”

Surgeon…Emma wonders where Jo had her shoulder replacement surgeries, her mind drifting back to Dr. Park and his very muscular back. The clean lines of it, the way his body looked like it knew exactly what it was doing. Her brain gets so lost in the image imprinted inside her skull that she misses what Jo is saying until she nudges Emma with her elbow.

“Sorry, what?” Emma shakes her head a little to clear it. Like she can physically dislodge the image of him.

“Do you want me to send you the article on osteoporosis?” Jo repeats. She grabs her phone. “Actually, I’ll just send it. You can read it on your break at work.”

It’s cute that she thinks Emma gets breaks at work.

“Ooh, girl, you look a little rough,” Vivi says sympathetically as Emma winces while sitting down at the nurses station. Muscles she didn’t even know could hurt are burning with every movement, all around her hips and thighs. Even lowering herself into the chair feels like controlled damage.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” Emma admits, shifting as the hard plastic chair digs into her butt. “I’ve never felt like this after a workout before.” Every tiny adjustment sends another ripple of soreness through her.

“You probably weren’t training with enough intensity,” Vivi suggests, leaning around her screen to see Emma. “Never pushed yourself this hard before. How’s your sleep?”

As if on cue, Emma yawns. She stayed up too late watching Love Island. “Fine,” she lies, blinking hard. Her eyes feel gritty, her body heavier than usual.

“Make sure you’re getting enough,” Vivi warns her, “or you’ll be sore twice as long.”

Emma nods, yawning again. As annoying as it is, it’s obvious Vivi is just trying to help. Sighing, she looks up at her coworker—maybe her friend. “Thank you,” she says, “seriously, like, I appreciate you helping me out.” I didn’t know there was so much to this lifting thing. “I probably wouldn’t have ever gone on my own.”

Vivi smiles. “Of course! It’s purely selfish for me though. I couldn’t figure out how to ask you to get together outside of work so when you mentioned the gym it worked out perfectly!” Her face tingles a little with the idea that Vivi—arguably the coolest nurse in the entire department—wants to be her friend. That she chose her. “It’s really nice to have someone close to my age on day shift.”

“How old are you again?” Emma asks.

“Twenty-four,” Vivi says. “I graduated two years ago.”

“Oh nice!”

“Come on.” Vivi stands and stretches, hands over her head. She lets out a yawn herself. “You can shadow me today and if Dana says anything, we’ll just say we’re following her buddy system thing about not seeing patients alone after Saturday.”

Emma grinds her teeth a little as she follows Vivi over to the board. Guilt pools in her gut. The buddy system thing is because of her. Because she was stupid enough to check on a volatile patient alone. She got herself into trouble. Now everyone has to adjust as a result.

The morning drifts by in a haze of needles and pain—aching, unrelenting pain. But strangely, after a while, it sort of starts to feel good. Emma begins to look forward to standing or sitting, walking, changing position—just so she can feel that ache. That reminder that she accomplished something. She’s strong—and if she keeps going, she’ll get even stronger.

But after another workout with Vivi the next day, when her legs haven’t even stopped being sore, her entire body hurts on her next shift. So she’s not paying a ton of attention as she walks towards the viewing room with a couple blankets in her arms and walks right into a wall she was sure wasn’t there yesterday. Her nose smacks right into it and—

Oh, the wall has hands. Hands that come up to grip her upper arms and steady her, moving her back a half a foot. Firm. Controlled. Not rough, but not gentle either. The wall is a quite tall, very broad, very hard-bodied person. The wall is Dr. Park. The Shark.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Emma says as her hand flies up to rub the bridge of her nose. It hurts so bad from smacking into his shoulder that her eyes are starting to water. He has the same look of total indifference on his face as his eyes flick over her. Assessing, not reacting. Do not cry in front of this man.

“Should watch where you’re going,” he suggests, in that same, flat tone. Dismissive. Like she’s deeply inconveniencing him.

“So, so sorry, my head is just not in it today and—” She winces at the pain in her armpit as she reaches up to rub her nose again. God, could she have broken it? It feels sort of jiggly and loose. But wouldn’t there be blood? Maybe it’s just the cartilage. “Ouch.” Her thoughts scatter, half-clinical, half-panicked.

Dr. Park reaches up and touches her cheek. Oh crap. Oh my god. His hand practically wraps around her head. He’s—feeling the bridge of her nose with his thumb. Palpating it. That’s all. Medical. Totally normal for him to do. Even if her entire body goes still at the contact.

“It’s not broken, you’re fine,” he concludes. With a sharp exhale, he withdraws his hand and shoves it in his pocket.

“Right, um, thank you, sorry again,” Emma starts to say as she moves out of his way. But he doesn’t even acknowledge her. Just breezes right past her heading for trauma one. Oh. Right. Ortho consult. She shakes her head and turns back to her original destination, muttering, “get it together, girl.” Her face still hot, pulse a little too fast.

Two shark encounters in one week. She really ought to stay clear of that man. Everything about him reads as dangerous. She understands fully why he got the nickname Park the Shark. Sharp. Efficient. Unapologetic. Always moving.

But there is absolutely no reason for him to be that pretty and that arrogant.

Emma: Omg I’m not sore anymore!

Vivi: Yayyyyyy!

Vivi: Now just use that as motivation to keep showing up and never be sore again! 💪🏼🖤

Emma: 😤😤😤

She manages to keep up with going to the gym on her days off, getting back into the rhythm of it. The soreness fades faster now, her body learning what to expect, what’s coming. Some days it doesn’t come at all. It’s like school—work, then work out—except she doesn’t have to do any homework. That’s the best thing about having graduated. When she goes home, she can just chill. No studying, no looming deadlines—just her body, tired in a way that feels almost earned.

Except the day the police department calls her and asks if she can come in next week to review her statement about the guy who assaulted her. The word assaulted lands heavier this time, harder to brush off than it was the day it happened.

“I already gave a statement,” she complains to Vivi after their daily Love Island debrief. “Why do I have to go in again?”

This is going to take up her whole day off. It bothers her because she likes to relax after the gym, take her time walking home since the weather is nice—now she’ll have to hurry home to shower and make it in time. She might even have to actually borrow Jo’s car and drive. Terrifying. Everything about it feels like too much—too fast, too close to something she’s been trying not to think about.

“They just need to make sure they have all the details,” Vivi says. “Just tell them what happened. It’ll be fine.” She walks off to check on a patient.

It would be fine…if she could remember what happened. The more time passes, the hazier her memory gets—like it’s slipping just out of her reach every time she tries to grab it. Like trying to hold onto something underwater, fingers closing around nothing. She doesn’t even know why she walked in his room anymore, or what he said to her. Maybe pulling up his chart will jog her memory? There has to be something in there—something concrete. What if she remembers it wrong and the police don’t believe her? What if it turns out she can’t even tell her own story correctly?

She pulls it up, even though all she wants to do is forget it ever happened. Her stomach tightens the second the chart loads. Dana and Robby said she has to go through with pressing charges. Set an example. But why does she have to be the example? Just because Dana didn’t go through with reporting the guy who punched her last year. It’s like she’s living vicariously through Emma or something. Like Emma’s experience is something to be used for a lesson instead of something she’s still trying to survive.

Groaning, she blows her bangs out of her face and settles down to try and remember Curtis Larson. Forty-two years old. Brought in after he was reported to be combative on the golf course. Alcohol on his breath. Cocaine later found in his blood. Four milligrams of versed given in the field.

She sighs, leaning harder into her hand. It’s sort of coming back. She’d met the EMTs who brought him in with Donnie. Then his golf buddy came in. That had been super weird. The memory flickers—voices, movement, the hum of the department—but it won’t quite settle into something solid. She’d asked him if Curtis had any family to contact and he’d said he had no idea—they don’t talk about that kind of thing.

How can you call yourself someone’s friend if you don’t even know if they have a significant other? Or parents? Men are so strange. What do they talk to each other about instead?

In just a couple weeks of hanging out with Vivi at work and at the gym, she feels like they’ve been best friends for years.

As if on cue, she re-appears. “Ever since I saw that Tiktok about catching print, I can’t stop doing it,” she says without preamble.

Emma lifts her head, eyes going wide. “At work?” Vivi had sent her the Tiktok two days ago and she’d felt her face getting hot at the idea of staring at men’s crotches trying to determine how big they are. Still, it felt…educational. She’d watched the whole thing. Twice. Just to really commit it to memory.

Vivi shrugs, unbothered. “Why not? It’s good practice. Easy peasy in scrubs.”

“Who have you been looking at?” Emma says in a low voice, glancing around, trying not to smile. Vivi is just so funny and open, infectious in her nonchalance. Emma wishes she could be that cool. That unbothered. That comfortable in her own skin. She can’t believe Vivi’s only two years older than her.

“Mm.” Vivi leans against the desk so they can look at the room together. “Okay so Dr. Whittaker, solid B bulge.”

Emma looks at the intern and immediately looks away. Maybe she doesn’t want to think about this. It feels private. She keeps her eyes strictly at his chest or above like that’s somehow better. She can still picture it in her head. “Okay,” she says to urge Vivi on.

“Dr. Langdon, also a B,” she says in a low voice, lifting her hand to wave at him and Dr. King—those two are always practically glued to each other—when she makes eye contact. So incredibly chill. “I’m really looking forward to shift change so I can check out Dr. Abbott.”

Emma nearly chokes. “Dr. Abbott? But he’s so old.”

Vivi turns and leans her elbows on the counter. “So? He’s still hot.” She leans in closer. “You know who else I saw?”

“Who?” Emma glances around and shifts towards Vivi, keeping her voice low.

“I passed Dr. Park in the stairwell.” That straightens Emma’s spine. Like someone just pulled a string through her back.

“Yeah?” She whispers, looking over her shoulder like he’s going to be standing there or something. Anxiety knots in her belly. She isn’t actually sure she wants to know. But she asks anyway because Vivi is practically vibrating to tell her. “What’d you conclude?” She can do this kind of girl talk. It’s easy. It’s just information. Just facts.

“D bulge.” Vivi nods and waggles her eyebrows. “For sure.”

Emma’s heart pounds so hard her face gets hot. God, of course. Big like the rest of him. Her mind betrays her immediately, filling in details she absolutely does not need. She tries not to think about it too much. If she does, she’ll never be able to look him in the face again. Not that she’s seen him since their collision. But she’s always looking out at the gym—just in case.

“Ladies! Enough chit chat! There’s work to be done,” Dana calls out. “Can one of you assist Dr. Santos on a priapism?"

Emma tries to hold it in, she really does, but as soon as she makes eye contact, they lose it—uncontrollable giggles that go on so long her abs and cheeks start to ache. Another wave hits when Vivi manages to yell back, “Yeah! Emma’s gonna do it!”

She snorts so hard it hurts, then drags herself to her feet, stumbling slightly as she heads over to where Dr. Santos is already tapping her foot. Glancing back at Vivi, she snickers again. The laughter feels good—light, easy, a relief from everything heavier sitting underneath.

“Something funny?” Dr. Santos asks, sounding bored. She sighs and looks at her watch.

Emma puts a hand over her mouth, trying to keep it in. “Yeah…” she pants between giggles, “but don’t—don’t worry about it.”

Dr. Santos clicks her tongue. “Right. Didn’t really care anyway.”

Okay—maybe she really can’t do this kind of girl talk.

Vivi: you sure you don’t want me to come with you?

Emma: no bestie it’s ok you have your motorcycle lesson

Vivi: he’ll understand if i cancel

Emma: i’ll be okay 😊

Vivi: call me if you need me and duke and i’ll come down there and beat up the cops

Emma: 🥹

For some reason Emma expects the police station to be a lot like the the ED—noisy, chaotic—but it isn’t. No alarms, no voices calling out vitals, no organized chaos—just quiet. Too quiet. When she walks in, there’s a sterile lobby, gray floors, blue chairs. Designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. Like it’s meant to keep people from settling in. She bypasses it and goes to the reception window.

“Hi, um, I’m supposed to meet Detective Marler?” She puts her hands on the counter, tapping nervously. Her fingertips make small, hollow sounds against the surface. The receptionist glances at her. Emma smiles a little.

“Name?”

“Emma Nolan?” Why is everything coming out as a question?

“ID?”

“Oh, um.” She pulls her wallet out of her back pocket. It falls open—the snap doesn’t work anymore. Extricating her ID, she slides it into the little dip in the window. “Sorry, I haven’t been to the DMV to get a new one,” she explains when the receptionist lifts an eyebrow at her Michigan license. It’s still a vertical one—indicating under twenty-one. She just never replaced it because it didn’t expire. She doesn’t drink anyway. It suddenly feels childish in her hand.

“Here,” the receptionist says, sliding her ID back. “Take a seat.”

Emma tucks it back in her wallet and perches on the edge of the nearest chair. She squeezes her hands between her thighs, hoping it’ll stop the trembling. It doesn’t. It just traps the shaking there, contained but constant. But she doesn’t have to wait long, the door opens and a tall, thin man pokes his head in.

“Miss Nolan?” He beckons her. “Come with me.” As she approaches he says, “I’m Detective Marler.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She follows him into the depths of the police station into a room full of desks. It looks like a regular office, people on computers or whispering into the phone or looking through files. Except they all have guns. When Marler pulls out a chair for her beside his desk, she eyes the gun laying on it. Police officers make her very nervous.

When she and her brothers were pretty young—long before any of them could drive—her parents gave them a lecture about the police. About how they aren’t your friends. Don’t ever give them a reason to suspect you. Always make sure they can see your hands. Don’t make sudden movements. Answer their questions. Don’t talk too much. Don’t say the wrong thing. The lecture was definitely more aimed at her brothers, but she’s always been wary too. She wore her scrubs today even though she isn’t working so she seems more grown up—more human. Less like someone who could be mistaken for a problem.

She spreads her fingers on her thighs as Marler sits down in his chair and takes a deep breath. Visible hands. Just like she was taught. “What, um, what do I need to do?” To get out of here as fast as possible. “I already gave a statement after it happened.”

“Yes, thank you,” Marler says, tapping the file on his desk with two fingers. He gives her a flat smile. “You were very detailed. I just want to hear it in your words again, pass it along to the prosecutor. That okay?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, um, sure whatever you need.” She swallows, trying to elicit some saliva to wet her very dry mouth. Her tongue sticks to the roof of it anyway.

“So it was your first day at work?” Marler prompts her. He’s not your friend.

“Uh, yep,” Emma confirms. “I just graduated from the University of Michigan in May,” she adds. “I’m from, uh, the like tippy top part.” Why did she say that?

“Where?”

“Sault Ste. Marie.” Don’t say more than he asks.

“And you wanted to come to Pittsburgh because…?”

“Um, my, uh, best friend, Cameron, she took a job in Philly, so when I was applying places, I was looking to move out of Michigan so I was looking in places my friends lived,” she explains. “I didn’t get a position in Philly but, you know, we can see each other sometimes.” They haven’t actually managed to find a time to visit each other—mainly because of Emma’s insane schedule—but that’s extraneous information. Too much. She's saying too much again.

“That’s nice,” he nods, taking notes, “that you have someone nearby.”

“Yes,” she agrees, nodding.

“So your first day was the Fourth of July,” he continues, still looking at her intently. She shrinks back, feeling like she’s under a magnifying glass. “That’s a pretty crazy day to start in the emergency department.”

“It was,” Emma agrees. Not a single shift has compared to that one since. “We, um, shut down the network to prevent a cyberattack.” She swallows. “So everything was analog.”

“That must have been challenging,” he says. Why does he talk like a therapist? Is it to try and get her to talk more? She nods. “So Curtis Larson arrived shortly after five pm?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Thank goodness he’s getting to the point. Something she can answer. Something factual.

“Tell me about his arrival.”

“Um.” She rubs her palms over her thighs. They’re damp. “H–he was sedated. Um,” she remembers the chart, “EMTs gave him four milligrams of Versed in the field.”

“Did they say why?” He interrupts quietly.

“Um, I think they said he was com–combative,” she answers quietly. Even though he strangled her, it feels like she’s bad-mouthing a stranger—which her mother always told her not to do. “Drunk on the golf course,” she adds.

“Did they say anything else?”

She shakes her head. “Just alcohol on his breath.”

“And then what happened?”

“I went in to evaluate him before the doctors arrived with Donnie—”

“Donnie Donahue, right?” He confirms, taking notes. Will Donnie get in trouble? Will it bother him that she said his name to them? “Nurse practitioner?”

“Um, I think?” She can’t remember his last name right now. Her brain blanks at the wrong moment.

“Okay, go on.”

“His, um, friend showed up,” Emma says, “from the golf course. I don’t know his name. He said that, uh, Mr. Larson had too much to drink and tried to fight the guys playing ahead of them.” She takes a deep breath trying to calm her heart. It’s beating too fast. Too loud. “They called the cops and the EMTs came.” Marler nods, waving her on as she takes notes. “I, um, I asked him if—if Mr. Larson had family to call and he said he didn’t know and asked if he could come back later.” She looks down and chews on her lip a moment. “He didn’t seem to care much.” Oh no, should she have given her opinion? Was that wrong?

“So you finished up with intake,” Marler says, “and then what did you do?”

Emma closes her eyes, fighting the fog in her brain to remember. It’s right there. It has to be. “I, um, sorry it’s—it’s fuzzy.”

“Take your time.”

She inhales deeply and lets it out slowly, then tries again. And again. Finally, she opens her eyes. “I was checking in on my other patients, checking vitals, dressed a couple wounds—” She sighs. “Then the ICE officers arrived and Jesse was arrested.” She winces. “And I don’t remember much about that. Everyone was yelling and running around. I just tried to stay out of the way,” she admits.

“That’s okay,” Marler says, “and then you went back to check on Mr. Larson? During the chaos when everyone was occupied?” It feels like a leading question. Like he already knows the answer.

“Um, I guess. It had been nearly an hour and we need to check vital signs and stuff every hour,” she explains.

“Did anyone directly tell you to go and check on Mr. Larson?” He interrupts before she can continue.

She pauses. “Umm, I don’t know. Maybe? I can’t be sure.” Will Donnie or Dana get in trouble if they told her to go check on him? “Everyone was pretty busy with the computer shutdown—oh! I do remember,” she sits up a little, “one of the runners came and told me and Donnie his BAC was 0.14.”

“Wowza.” Marler whistles. “Pretty high.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “And then we were waiting on his other labs, drugs and such.”

“Is that when you went in to check on Mr. Larson?”

Emma nods. “It must have been.”

“What happened?”

She takes a deep breath. This is the part. “Um, I checked the monitor and the wires to make sure everything was connected and then put down the rail because the pulse ox had come off his hand.”

“So you went to fix it,” Marler fills in. She doesn’t like when he does that. It feels wrong. Like he’s deciding it for her. “How?”

“How what?”

“How did you fix it? Did you touch his arm?”

She swallows. “I think I might have grabbed his wrist?”

“You think or you know?”

“I think,” Emma says. She doesn’t want to say she’s sure when she isn’t. “But that’s when he woke up.” That part she knows.

“And what happened?”

And then he strangled her. “It’s sort of a blur,” Emma says, “I, um, tried to like, explain that he was in the hospital but, um,” she swallows, “he wasn’t supposed to be awake. He’d had so much alcohol and they’d sedated him so,” she shakes her head, “it was supposed to be four hours before he woke up.”

“Is that why you went in alone?”

“I guess?” She shrugs, unable to remember her motivations at all. All she knows is what she knows now. And if she’d known then what she knows now, she never would have gone in there.

“Were you told not to see patients alone?”

Emma shakes her head. “Not until after this happened.”

“Okay, okay.” Marler taps his fingers again. “So he grabbed you around the neck. Were you facing away from him?”

She shakes her head. “No he sort of got the back of my neck and around my jaw,” she explains. “And then he, um, I guess he stood up to get a better grip or something? I can’t really remember. I was trying really hard to get him off.” Her hands twitch against her thighs.

“I’m sure you were.”

“And he got his arm around my neck.” She reaches up and rubs her throat, trying to get rid of the sensation. Replace it with something else. It feels like she’ll never forget it. “And I was still trying to get him off.” Useless, completely useless. Weak. “And then Dana came in and sedated him again.”

“With versed, correct?” Emma nods. “Versed prescribed by Dr. Michael Robinavitch?”

“I–I don’t know,” she admits. “Everyone came running and they pulled me out of there and made Dr. McKay examine me. And once she said I was okay, I talked to the cops.”

“Yes, okay.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “So you never hit Mr. Larson in the face?”

Emma reels back. “What? No! I was pulling on his arm.” Why would she—

“Did Dana Evans strike Mr. Larson and break his nose?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so.” Emma shakes her head. “I don’t remember that.” She could barely breathe then. She can barely breathe now. Her chest tightens. “I think he fell from the sedative.”

“Okay.” He makes another note. Then he gives her a flat smile. “Thank you, Miss Nolan. We’ll be in contact with you to update you on how the case proceeds.”

“That’s it?” Emma asks. “I can go?” That’s all? That’s what this was?

“Yep. You can go.” He shows her out. “Have a great day, Miss Nolan.”

Emma finds the nearest available surface to sit on, buries her face in her hands and cries. The sound surprises her—like it’s coming from someone else.

Vivi: omg girl i’m so sorry i fucked up

Emma: what happened??

Vivi: i went for my motorcycle lesson with duke and i pulled the whole thing over on myself

Emma: oh no!

Vivi: right?

Vivi: fucked up my ankle AND my shoulder

Vivi: so I can’t go to the gym for a while :(

Emma: NOOOOOOOOOO 😭

Emma almost skips her next gym session. Without Vivi she feels naked, exposed. Like she’s missing a layer of protection she didn’t realize she’d been relying on. Someone might try to talk to her. Try and get her to give up the bench. Or worse, hit on her.

But she doesn’t want to skip. She has to admit, she’s starting to look forward to the gym. To the accomplishment of adding weight each week. To the small, measurable proof that she’s getting stronger. And she needs to take her mind off the police station. She still feels like she did something wrong.

After a month of lifting, she’s noticing a difference at work. Moving and rolling patients is a little easier. She doesn’t need as many breaks. Plus, she feels better about what she’s doing. It’s the same exercises every week—it’s push day. She can do this by herself. She can—

She cannot.

The barbell is stuck. Pressing down on her chest and she can’t get it up again. The weight feels heavier than it should, heavier than it has any right to be. She tries not to panic, but she’s never failed a lift before. Close, but never actual failure—like Vivi taught her. She only added 5 pounds to each side. It’s only 55 pounds. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t trap her like this. She grits her teeth and pushes with all her strength, determined not to be taken out by the weight equivalent of her family’s Basset Hound. Her elbows tremble, chest straining, breath catching sharp in her throat.

A large hand comes down from behind her and wraps around the bar, lifting it easily off her chest. The pressure disappears so suddenly it almost makes her dizzy. She tries to look back, but is immediately confronted with the owner of the hand’s gray sweatpants right by her head—D bulge. She thinks it before she can look away. Mortifying. Completely involuntary.

Whoever he is reracks the barbell with no help from Emma at all. Her heart is still racing, a beat too fast, like her body hasn’t caught up yet to the fact that she’s no longer in danger. She immediately scrambles into a sitting position, wiping her hands on her thighs and yanking off her headphones as she whirls around to look at her rescuer.

Dr. Park.

Her breath catches. Her eyes rake over him as if of their own accord, taking in the outline of his pecs through the black, compression-fit shirt he’s wearing. Solid. Defined. Real in a way that feels unfair this close up. His body tapers down to narrow hips. Emma holds her breath as she drags her eyes back up to his face. He’s got one side of his headphones pushed back behind his ear to hear.

“Th–thank you,” she manages. “I—I swear I just lifted it last week…” She cringes, realizing how light the weight was for him. He’d picked the whole bar up off her chest as easily as she lifts a 10 pound dumbbell. 55 pounds. “I’m—I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He leans back against the bench behind him, crossing his arms and moving his headphones down to hang off his neck. “What are you apologizing for?”

“Um, I don’t—”

“We all fail lifts sometimes.” He shrugs. Her mouth falls open a little at how normal he sounds right now. His face is neutral, not annoyed. Voice is calm and even instead of flat and dry. Like this isn’t a big deal at all. It makes her feel slightly more at ease.

“I don’t—I’ve never—that’s never happened to me,” she explains quickly. “I lifted that for eight reps last week easily.”

He doesn’t qualify his next question at all. “Any chance you’re on your period?”

Her eyes widen and her cheeks heat up immediately. As if that’s any of his business. She looks away, wrapping her arms around her stomach. “Um, I’m not sure that’s relev—”

“Hormonal fluctuations throughout the menstrual cycle can cause changes in strength for people who menstruate,” he explains, sounding so clinical that some of her anxiety eases. “Usually people feel weaker during the menstrual phase.” It does not get past her that he says ‘people who menstruate’ instead of ‘women.’ That calms her down somehow. That’s a pretty progressive change of language. Especially for a guy.

She glances up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Do they teach that in medical school?” She definitely didn’t learn it in nursing school.

“That knowledge actually comes from weightlifting forums,” he admits. The corners of his mouth twitch. She can’t be sure if it’s a smile or not. It’s the most expression she’s seen from him yet.

“Uhhhh,” she hesitates. Screw it. He’s a doctor. “Yeah, actually, I am. That was…a good guess.” Her cramps are mixing in with her anxiety, until she can’t tell them apart. Everything low in her abdomen feels tight and unsettled.

He nods. “Take it easy today. Then try going up in weight next week,” he suggests, standing up straight again. “Just don’t put the clips on so you can dump the weight if you can’t get it up.” Her face burns at the innuendo. Which he surely didn’t mean.

Emma glances at the clips used to hold the plates on. “Oh.” Silly. She should have known that.

“Wouldn’t want you to end up in the ED for something besides work,” he says. Holding out his hand, he adds, “Brendon, by the way.” It’s nice to know his first name, though she still doesn’t really know if she should call him by it.

His palm is warm against hers, his grip firm, but not crushing. “Emma,” she tells him, managing to look him in the eye.

“See you around, Emma.” He nods once, and strides away. She stands up to wipe down the bench so she doesn’t get stuck staring at his back again.

Though it’s much sooner than she expects. He must have also only just gotten there because when she moves over to find a bench for shoulder presses and the only open one is next to him. She pointedly tries to focus on adjusting the bench instead of the fact that he’s doing chest presses with 100 pound dumbbells. That should be illegal. It looks effortless. It is not fair.

It feels incredibly silly to be grabbing the 20s, but she does it. She can do this. She can work out next to the hot ortho surgery resident. It’s fine. Eight reps. That’s all she has to do. Then…three more sets of that.

She sits back against the bench—upright but with a slight incline to target her front delts, good for shoulder strength according to Vivi. Which is very important to build according to Jo. Elbows slightly in, just press straight up. One, two, three…

On the fourth rep, her arms begin to shake. She screws up her face, tapping her toes as she pushes. Four…five… Her muscles burn, so she pushes faster, not wanting to fail in front of him again.

Brendon stands up. She assumes he’s done with the bench, except he doesn’t go to put his weight back and he takes his headphones off. He comes to stand behind her. She meets his eye in the mirror and he says something, but she can’t hear him over Megan Thee Stallion. Shaking her head, she pushes into the sixth rep. It’s when she starts the seventh that he interferes.

He reaches out and gently places his fingers behind her elbows and slows her down, forcing her to extend the time under tension. As she lowers the weights, he reaches out and pushes her headphones behind one ear.

“Three more,” he says firmly. What? No. She’s doing eight. She shakes her head as he puts his fingers back under her arms. Then she has to scrunch up her face again as he urges her to push through what should be her last rep. She glares up at him as he more firmly grabs her arms, pointedly stopping her from putting the weights down. But he just looks at her with placid indifference.

It’s annoyingly hot.

He takes on a bit more weight for the last rep before letting her go. When she puts the dumbbells down, her arms feel like jelly as she lifts one hand to take her headphones off all the way. “What the heck were you doing?” She rests her feet on the dumbbells and curls her arms loosely around her knees.

“You don’t push yourself hard enough,” he says, as if that’s a good explanation. “You could go up to 25 if you wanted.” He puts his headphones back on.

She starts to protest despite that. It contradicts his previous advice! “But you said to take it easy to—”

“You should aim for six reps instead of eight with a higher weight,” he suggests, lifting the absurdly large dumbbells he’s using onto his knees. He grunts with the effort of getting them in position as he lays back, then pushes them straight up with more ease than she thought possible.

Mesmerized, she watches him push through six reps, only struggling a little on the final one, before sitting up and setting the weights gently on the ground. He doesn’t drop them and scare everyone in the vicinity like some other lifters. Emma appreciates that. She’s always so jumpy when a weight drops.

It only occurs to her that she’s staring when he looks at her and takes off his headphones, chest heaving slightly. “Your mind fails before your body does,” he says, continuing right where he left off apparently.

“Thanks…Yoda?” Emma shakes her head. “That’s very philosophical.”

He scoffs and she thinks his mouth twitches up on one side for a second. “It’s not a philosophy, it’s just how it works. You think you’re failing at six reps, but you’re actually failing at nine or ten.”

“No, you had to help me through the last two,” Emma argues.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t help. All I did was put my hands on you. I didn’t add any strength to it until the last rep.”

She closes her eyes at the memory of his hands pressed against her arms. Her skin is heated there, like he supercharged her. Like something in her woke up under his touch. “I don’t—”

“You’re stronger than you think you are,” he says, eyes boring into hers. “Women almost always underestimate how much they can lift. Especially upper body.” He reaches for his water bottle and takes a long drink, still looking at her from the corner of his eye.

Emma looks away from the intensity of his gaze. She doesn’t feel that strong. She feels herself trying and failing to push Curtis Larson’s arm off her neck. Every single push day. “I don’t know about that,” she says, quiet enough that he has to lean in to hear her.

He caps his water bottle again. It reminds Emma to take a drink of hers. She’s always forgetting to drink water at the gym. He stands and walks down the dumbbell rack, locating the 25 pound dumbbells and bringing them back to her. Kneeling to set them beside her current weights, he looks up at her. His hands move to take her current weights—where she’s still resting her feet.

“Give me the weights, Emma.”

A little shiver straightens her spine. She isn’t sure if it’s from his hands brushing the soles of her feet as he grips the dumbbells, the fact that he’s kneeling in front of her, or the lowered tone of voice. Does he try to be this sexy or is he completely oblivious to the whole thing? Slowly, she pulls her feet back and he whisks away the old dumbbells.

“You don’t have to…” She trails off as he stands behind her again, giving her an exasperated look. His face doesn’t change much, but she’s starting to see the microexpressions—now that she has permission to look at him. Little shifts she wouldn’t have noticed before. Pressing her lips together, she uses her knees to boost the weights up above her shoulders.

He watches her get through the first three reps, arms crossed. Zero plans of helping until she gets to the fourth rep and her arms start trembling. On the fifth, he presses his fingers lightly against the backs of her arms again. In her head, she knows he isn’t helping. But it tricks her mind enough that she gets the weights up. God, her face is so ugly when she lifts.

It’s on the sixth weight that she truly gets stuck. About halfway, just completely unable to complete the rep. His callused palms are rough on her skin as he slides his hands under her arms and helps her finish it. It feels impossible to even control the weight on the way down, but he catches them with ease before she can wrench her shoulder, walking around and setting the dumbbells by her feet again. She immediately rests her feet on them again.

“Good job.”

And then he goes back and does more stupidly heavy chest presses.

Emma: where do you get your gym clothes again?

Vivi: ooh i like alphalete but ik a lot of people like defyne or gymshark

Vivi: i think gymshark went down in quality

Emma: thanks 💕

Vivi: why?

Emma: no reason, just thought i’d reward myself for being consistent

Vivi: you deserve it! 🫶🏼

Emma spends a little bit of her next paycheck on gym clothes. But it’s really just taking back some of what she puts in savings every month because Jo charges her so little for rent she’s always able to put a lot away. She’s saving up for something—she’s not sure what yet—but feels okay spending $150 on a few pairs of shorts and some compression tops—she doesn’t feel like she’s ready to walk around in a sports bra like Vivi yet. Maybe never on that one.

They take a little over a week to arrive, but when they do, Jo delivers them to her room. “Knock, knock,” she says, pushing open the cracked door with her shoulder. “You have a package.”

“Oooh, yay!” Emma says, reaching out for it. She doesn’t even look for scissors, just tears it open with her hands and dumps the clothes out on the bed.

Jo lays across the foot of the bed on her folded yellow comforter. “What’s all this?”

“New gym clothes,” Emma announces, grabbing a pair of shorts and darting into her closet to put them on. But when she does, she frowns. They definitely don’t look the way Vivi’s do. On Vivi, the same shorts are short on her thighs and define her glutes. On Emma they make her butt look flat, and she didn’t have a super flat butt to begin with. She’s not rocking the influencer glutes or anything, but she’s starting to notice her scrub pants fit a little tighter through the hips after six weeks of consistent lifting.

Frowning, she heads back out to grab her phone. “Well those are cute,” Jo says of the lavender shorts as Emma dials Vivi’s number.

“They don’t fit how I expected,” Emma says absentmindedly as the phone rings.

“What’s up?” Vivi says over the speaker.

“How come on you these shorts make your butt look all cute and round but they make my butt look flat and droopy?” Emma demands without greeting.

Vivi cackles. “Omg yeah, I gotta teach you how to scrunch them up.”

“Scrunch them?” Emma asks, placing the phone on her dresser and turning to face the mirror behind her door.

“Yeah, you gotta like, grab right at the bend of your hips and yank the fabric up,” Vivi explains. “And like, pull tight and smooth it over the front so you don’t get a camel toe.”

Emma tries it. “Now there’s all this fabric around my hips,” she says, distressed. It doesn’t look right at all.

“Right so you’re going to reach behind yourself and sort of pull all that fabric to the back, then scrunch it right up your butt,” Vivi explains, like she’s explaining how to put an IV in. Jo snorts in the background.

“Up my what now?” Emma asks, eyes widening as she tugs on the fabric.

“Right up there like a thong,” Vivi says, laughing.

“What about my underwear?”

“Oh you shouldn’t wear any,” she says immediately. “You’ll have lines no matter what kind you wear. Just pull tight in the front and you won’t have a camel toe.”

“Ugh,” Emma groans and heads back into her closet to take off her underwear and put the shorts back on. “This seems like a lot of work for gym shorts,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she repeats the steps again. It does feel a lot less bulky now though.

“Worth it cause it makes your glutes look spectacular even if you don’t really have glutes,” Vivi says. Emma can hear the smile in her voice. “But yours are coming in pretty nicely.”

She shifts uncomfortably as the seam pulls tight, but when she turns around to look, she forgets all about it. “Oh my goodness,” she breathes.

“Damn girl,” Jo says and wolf whistles. “You got an ass.”

“Send a pic!” Vivi begs. “Lemme see!”

Emma is frozen, tugging up the excess fabric of her t-shirt so she can see better. “Oh my god,” she mumbles to herself, twisting back and forth. Her glutes look…round. Definitely more filled out than she’s used to. It’s like they appeared overnight. Experimentally, she bends over, eyes nearly popping out of her skull when her hamstrings appear. “Oh my god,” she says louder. “I kind of have muscles?” She laughs at the thought.

“Yeah girl you have like, no body fat,” Vivi says. “Not a ton to cut so those newbie gains showed up quick!”

“Newbie gains?” Emma brushes a curl behind her ear and picks up the phone, sitting on the bed again with a leg tucked under her. She’s still not quite used to the seam between her cheeks having never worn a thong before.

“People put on muscle quickly when they first start lifting, especially if they have good genetics,” Vivi explains. “You must have good genetics.”

“My older brothers are both pretty muscular,” she admits. “I just assumed it was easy for them because they’re men.”

“I mean, yeah, true,” Vivi agrees. “But women can have good genetics too. And you’ve been able to progress in your lifts pretty fast.”

“I went up to 25 on shoulder presses,” Emma admits, smiling.

“Twenty-five each arm?” Jo interjects, eyes wide. She whistles again. “Damn, girl, I’m gonna start making you do all the yard work!”

“I’m happy to help with yard work,” Emma promises.

“See, I knew you’d be fine without me,” Vivi says. “Now can you please send a picture?”

“Ugh, fine.” But as she gets off the bed and takes the photo in the mirror, she finds herself wishing she had Brendon’s number so she could send it to him too.

He’ll just have to see at the gym. Emma’s chest warms at the thought, even though she’s sure he won’t even notice.

Because what if he does?

Chapter Text

Brendon notices the shorts. He notices right away. In fact, he almost drops the barbell on his shoulders when he spots her in the mirror—which would have been super embarrassing considering it was only his warm up set. Quickly re-racking the weight, he turns around and leans against the bar, opening his mouth to say something. His breath catches for half a second, the words dying in his throat before they ever make it out. Because Emma just walks right by him.

Like he isn’t even there.

He runs a hand through his hair, knowing it’s going to make it stick up funny, but he’s never really cared at the gym. Just like he’s never really looked at women at the gym. Not any more than a cursory glance and a thought appreciating their physique from a fellow lifter standpoint. An acknowledgement of the hard work it took to get there. Objective. Detached. Efficient. The way it’s supposed to be.

Emma has clearly been putting in some hard work. He swallows, watching her add plates to the Smith machine. She only uses that on her glute-focused leg day. So not only is she going to show up in tiny purple shorts and a tight little compression top, she’s going to repeatedly bend over in front of him. Great. Not that he already knows her gym split or anything.

He cannot afford to be paying this much attention to a new grad nurse. Not when he’s so close to completing his residency. Not when the finish line is in sight. He’s in the final sprint—he should hit the track for sprints at lunch actually. The sports medicine fellowship in Los Angeles is all lined up. He just has another ten months here and then he’s done. Gone. Clean break. No loose ends. That’s the plan.

That’s when his life starts. A year from now would be a great time to notice someone like Emma. But no, he just had to help her on the bench press. She was struggling! How could he not stop? And then correct her shoulder presses. She wasn’t lifting to her full potential! He had to make sure she was pushing herself!

He’s been zoned out staring for way too long. He should add more weight to the bar and get back to his own workout. It’s rude to take up an entire squat rack for too long. But he can’t stop watching her. She moves so much more confidently now, not like when she was following Vivi around like a scared little fawn. Loading plates with ease, laughing as she walks over to someone else to ask if they’re using the hip pad. Oh. She’s doing hip thrusts. Okay he definitely needs to look away.

But he keeps stealing glances as he adds a couple more plates to the barbell, only tearing his eyes away when he actually has to complete a set. Each rep is mechanical, automatic—his focus snapping back to her the second the bar re-racks. He’s leaning against the bar again, sipping water and trying to catch his breath when his buddy, Nate, walks up. He lifts his chin in greeting. “You wanna work in?”

Nate sighs. “Yeah man, real crowded this morning.” Exactly. Which is why he needs to stop staring at Emma and get the fuck back on track. “You okay?”

Brendon blinks and shakes his head. “Yeah. Preworkout just isn’t kicking in.” That’s a lie. The familiar itching is all over his skin and he wants to claw it all off. He needs to get one without beta-alanine next time. Or he’s going to go nuts. Or maybe it’s not the preworkout. Maybe it’s—no. No, it’s the preworkout. He sneaks one last glance at Emma before focusing on swapping out the weights so Nate can warm up and get caught up.

It’s as they’re finishing up the last set that Nate catches him—tracking Emma as she walks across the gym to the dumbbells after finishing her hip thrusts and Romanian deadlifts. She’ll do step ups next. Which he approves of. Good for knee stability while focusing on glute strength. Unilateral movement after two compound hinge movements in the shortened and lengthened positions. Vivi writes a good workout. Again. Not that he knows her split or anything.

Nate whacks him on the shoulder.

“Hey!” Brendon glares at him. “What was that for?”

“You were staring at her ass like you were planning to eat it,” Nate says, snickering. “Which I know you weren’t, since that doesn’t seem like your thing.” It could be, if it was her. “I didn’t think you were the type to have experimented in college.” Frankly, he was too busy double majoring—biomedical engineering and kinesiology. And trying not to screw up the trajectory of the rest of his life.

Brendon rolls his eyes and follows Nate over to the leg press machine. “She’s a nurse at the hospital.” As if that explains his bonkers behavior. “I bailed her out on the bench press a couple weeks ago. Gave her some pointers.”

Nate’s eyebrows lift and he nods. “Right. Yeah. ‘Cause you help people out in the gym so much.”

Brendon shrugs. He just likes to come in, do his work and leave. Usually. Whenever Emma had been in the gym he finds himself lingering longer to watch her. It’s really cutting into his shower time before work. If he keeps this up, he’ll have to start showering here instead of going home in between.

“I’m helping your ass right now by letting you join my workout,” he points out as he loads the last plate onto the leg press. “You wanna go first?”

“Aww, you’re such a gentleman,” Nate says, smiling sweetly. Which drops as soon as he sits down and unracks the 500 pounds they just loaded.

After six reps, Brendon reaches down and pulls Nate to his feet, taking his spot. He met Nate about a year ago, when Nate moved to Pittsburgh from Seattle. Huge change. It took him about five conversations before Nate finally just broke down and informed Brendon straight up that he was hitting on him. Whoops. Luckily Nate continued to hang out with him even after he found out Brendon has no interest in men. Honest mistake.

His quads are shaking as he re-racks the weight after his set—sitting there for a moment until his vision clears. He has to remember there’s no reason to push so hard. He’s just in maintenance. Not bulking right now. But he feels like he’s going to explode—for whatever reason—and a good, exhaustive leg day is just what he needs to get a handle on that.

“Dude, chill out,” Nate says. “Did you start a cycle or something? You’re bouncing all over the place.”

Brendon scoffs, but consciously relaxes back down onto his feet, unclenching his jaw. His fingers press briefly against his thumb, then release. “No idea what’s wrong with me,” he admits.

“I do,” Nate declares as they manage to grab the leg extension machine. “You need to get laid.”

“Excuse me?” Brendon tears his eyes away from where Emma is doing cable kickbacks. He has to stop watching her. It’s getting creepy. Tapping his fingers against the plastic, he forces himself not to look at her again while Nate finishes his set. His gaze still drifts back anyway.

“Look, it’s been a while, right?”

Brendon sits down and ups the weight a notch. Nate raises an eyebrow at him like, really bro? He sighs. “Yeah it’s been a little bit.”

“You know as well as I do, you lift all these weights, you put on all this muscle, you have all this extra pent up energy…” Brendon snorts. This weight is too light. He makes it through ten reps. “...It’s gotta go somewhere,” Nate continues.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, “it goes into freaking surgery.” Does he realize how physical orthopedics can be? Of course not. He’s a civil engineer. He gets paid to stand around and supervise construction sites and whatever shit they do on the computer. For Nate, lifting is about aesthetics. For Brendon, it’s functional.

“Uh-huh.” Nate nods. “So you’re just staring at her because…why?”

Brendon shrugs. “She’s…a friend. I guess.”

“Mmhm.” Nate grunts with the effort of the heavier weight. “Nothing to do with the fact that she stopped wearing clothes that hid how hot she is,” he says through his teeth. “Nothing to do with the fact that now ten other guys are checking her out.”

“Nope,” Brendon insists, though now that Nate has pointed it out, he clocks at least three just near the cable machines sneaking peeks at her ass. His jaw tightens. “Just…keeping up with her progress.”

Nate stands up and pats him on the chest. “Yeah, bro, I’m sorry but you don’t even keep up with my progress.”

Brendon has to admit he’s right. It’s getting weird. It’s getting out of control.

But he still doesn’t talk to her.

Mom: Did you register for your exam?

Brendon: Yes.

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Mom: Dinner at 6 on Sunday.

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Dr. Cross—the R3 currently at Brendon’s shoulder—apparently had salmon for lunch. He’s been able to smell it on her breath for the entire surgery. And she’s been right next to him, peering around his shoulder as she holds tension in the threads on the tibial end of the ACL graft they’re currently inserting. They’ve already pinned the bone plug into the femur.

He hates seafood. The smell makes him gag. Which, yes, he is aware of the irony of his own nickname. He swallows it down anyway, forcing his breathing to stay even behind the mask.

Gritting his teeth, he begins to rotate the distal end, just slightly before they pin the graft in place. Dr. Hwang—the supervising attending—clears his throat over Brendon’s other shoulder. Right as he finds the angle. Right as everything lines up.

Right. Of course.

He sighs. “Dr. Cross, why do we rotate the graft prior to tibial fixation?”

“To mimic the rotational fibers of the native ACL,” she responds quietly.

“Correct, Dr. Cross,” Dr. Hwang says. He glares at Brendon over his mask. What has he done now? “Perhaps Dr. Park will trade places with you and you can finish securing the bone plug into the tibia.”

It takes an inordinate amount of effort not to protest. He already has the screw in place. She’s already holding the— Fuck it. He exhales sharply as he hands over the screwdriver and takes over holding tension on the graft. His fingers tighten around the sutures, keeping them perfectly taut. If it slips, if the angle’s off— She ducks underneath his arm, her elbow lightly digging into his ribs. He was in the zone and Dr. Hwang pulled him right out of it. Out of the clean, predictable sequence.

“Excellent,” Dr. Hwang says, peering over Dr. Cross’s shoulder with his hands behind his back. He isn’t scrubbed in, just observing. “That’s perfect. Fantastic job, Dr. Cross.” He nods once at her, presumably smiling behind his mask. Of course it is. Brendon set it up. He did the whole damn surgery. “You can go ahead and test the graft with Dr. Wiatrek.” Waving over the intern watching from down near the foot of the table. “Then close up. Dr. Park, please step out with me.”

Brendon exhales in annoyance as he passes off his tools to the intern and follows Dr. Hwang just outside, holding his hands out to maintain sterility as much as he can in case they fuck it up. “What?”

“Dr. Park, you are a senior resident now,” Dr. Hwang says. “You have been for a few months.”

How is that relevant? He already knows that. He’s been counting the months. “Yes..?”

“You are expected to be a teacher now,” Dr. Hwang continues. His glasses are sliding down his nose. He doesn’t push them back up. He just lets them sit there. Brendon’s fingers twitch.

“I was teaching,” Brendon protests.

“No, you were testing,” Dr. Hwang corrects. “I meant for you to let Dr. Cross rotate the graft and finish pinning it. I should not have had to step in and suggest you let her perform some of the procedure.”

Brendon grits his teeth, inhaling sharply. “I was just—”

“Look, you’re an excellent surgeon, Dr. Park,” Dr. Hwang says. “One of the best I’ve ever taught.” Oh. His chest expands a little under the praise. “But you need to figure out how to work with other people—or you’ll never find success in this field.” Damn. He deflates some. “Hospitals will not hire attendings incapable of teaching.”

“I have a fellow—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Dr. Hwang says, waving a dismissive hand. “Your fellowship in sports medicine. The Kerlan-Jobe clinic. Very prestigious.” He shakes his head. “But what about after?”

Frankly, he’d always expected to go into private practice after. But it doesn’t seem to be the most appropriate moment to mention that. Instead he nods once. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

“Do that,” Dr. Hwang agrees. “Go make sure they haven’t torn that poor girl’s knee to pieces.”

Brendon sighs and pushes back into the OR with his shoulder. Luckily, they seem to not have screwed up while he was gone. Maybe they are more competent than he thought.

Jesse: Venmo’d you for rent

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Jesse: Back in town Thursday

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Emma appears beside the cable machine as he’s working rear delts one day, looking a little sheepish. She rocks back and forth, eyes darting around. He lifts an eyebrow and slowly lets the weight down. His grip lingers on the handle a second longer than necessary.

She takes a deep breath. “Can…Iworkinwithyou?”

That did not compute. He leans down a little to hear her better. “Sorry, say again?”

Another sharp inhale. “Can I work in with you on the cables? None of them are open and I only have cable stuff left,” she explains, a little more slowly and clearly. “And you’re the only person I feel comfortable asking.”

“What are you working?” It should be easy enough. Cable machines work on pins and attachments.

“Pull day,” she explains. “I have face pulls and straight bar pull throughs, then bicep curls.”

“You got a rope?” She holds it up. He steps back, grabbing his water bottle to get it out of her way and taking a long drink, watching her add the attachment. She has on black shorts today with a light blue top. It’s such a beautiful color against her skin, he can’t tear his eyes away. At least she asked to work in—so he has an excuse to stare.

“Sorry I feel like I’m ruining your setup,” she says, even though she isn’t even adjusting the level he had it at. His chest level, her chin level.

“You’re not. I wasn’t even using an attachment,” he explains.

“What was that exercise?” She moves her feet around before she plants them, like she’s feeling for exactly the right spot on the floor. Like she’s calibrating herself.

“Just targeting the rear delts,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone so he can start his rest timer and record the set. “Like what you’re doing but more specific.”

“Why be more specific?” She screws up her face as she pulls back for the first rep, the double-ended rope splitting as she pulls the cable towards her face—hence, the name of the exercise.

“Just personal preference I guess,” he says, watching her carefully. He can’t help it. Looking out for what could be optimized with her form. “Uh, try pulling like you’re aiming for slightly above your head.” His hand lifts slightly, then drops.

“Like this?” Another rep.

“Yeah, much better.” It puts her elbows at a wider angle, engaging her traps more.

She lets the weight settle back down after four, shoulders slumping. There’s a sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, two curls that never made it into her braids clinging to her skin. “God that makes it so much harder.”

“Last two,” he tells her. When she glares up at him, he just presses his lips together—suck it up. He doesn’t look away.

“You’re way less fun to work out with than Vivi,” she informs him. Ouch. But nevertheless, she resets and gets through her last two reps. When she turns to look at him, sweat has gathered on her forehead and upper lip. His hand twitches, fighting the urge to wipe it off. He flexes his fingers instead. “Like, way less fun.”

He fights a smile. “Really? You only did one set with me.” Then his watch vibrates to let him know his rest time is up, so he reaches over her to take off the rope attachment, then puts the weight back up. He turns to face her, grabbing the cable and pulling it across his body. “And I fixed your form.” Though he actually has a few more adjustments.

She reaches down for her water bottle, playing with the cap. “Yeah, I guess you did.” Looking up at him, she takes a long drink from her water, suppressing a smile as she swallows and looks away. He almost drops the weight. Grunting, he brings his free hand up to his chest to support his shoulder through the last three reps.

“Have you been lifting more?”

She lifts her chin, standing up straight again. “Oh, um, yeah. I added a little to all my lifts.”

“Good.” He turns around and goes to work on the other side, so he can’t see her for a minute, but he feels her gaze burning into his back. It makes him work a little harder, stand up straighter. Longest set of his life. He counts slower just to make it last.

When he turns back to adjust the height of the cable, she reaches out and wraps a hand around his forearm. “Wait—” Her grip is light but it still stops him completely.

“If you have it a little higher than your head,” he explains, “so you’re pulling slightly downward, it’ll force all the muscles in your upper back to work together at once.” Face pulls are actually a great lift because of that. He should put them back in his program next time he changes it.

“Oh, um, okay,” she agrees. He takes the rope from her and reattaches it, holding the ends out to her. “Thanks.”

She adjusts the weight back and resets her feet. When she pulls, it shows on her face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together with effort. It’s really cute actually. “Feel it back here?” He presses on either side of her spine at the base of her shoulder blades with his fingers and thumb. The muscles tense beneath his hand as she pulls again, and she inhales sharply through her nose.

“Uh huh.”

He swallows. Steps back. The sound goes straight through him. Okay. Maybe this is why he doesn’t lift with women. Thank fuck for compression shorts under his sweats because the noise she just made, combined with her expression and the sweat glistening on her skin was a little too intimate. A little too easy for him to imagine drawing that noise from her mouth in other ways. He exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself.

“Good,” he nods, “that’s really good.”

He should walk away when he finishes with the rear delt flies and let her have the cable machine. He should do that. That would be the smart thing to do. Because hanging out with her while she looks up at him with wide brown eyes—he’s a sucker for brown eyes, probably because everyone in his family has blue ones—and asks him how he’d recommend she adjust her form for lat pullovers is definitely going to get him too attached. Which he can’t afford to do.

Look, nobody ever said he was smart, okay?

Well, they did—they do. But he’s not thinking with his head right now. Once he sets her up with the lat pullovers, he walks away to go find some dumbbells. He can do lateral raises that way and not have to change the setup of the cable. Emma looks up from her phone when he gets back and her eyes light up. Like she was waiting for him to come back.

“Oh! I thought you were just done talking to me,” she admits, laughing lightly.

He frowns. “You thought I was just walking away?”

“Uh, yeah, you didn’t say anything,” she says, pursing her lips a little and scrunching her nose. Freaking adorable.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I just didn’t want to move the cable around so—” He lifts the weights up to start his set and her eyes nearly pop out of her head.

“You use 25s for lateral raises?” Her voice sort of carries and a couple people glance at them. “I use like, 10s!”

He huffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been lifting a long time.”

“How long?”

“Like ten years.” He sets the weights down.

She furrows her brows. “Wait, how old are you? You’re a senior resident, right? So you went to med school right away…you’re like, twenty-nine or thirty. Depending on when your birthday is.” It takes her less than four seconds to talk through this train of thought. He blinks.

“I’m four years out of med school,” he explains. “Ortho residency is five years.”

“Ohhh,” she nods, “it’s only four in the ED.”

“I know.”

She swallows. “Right, sorry.”

He tightens his jaw. It didn’t come out so harshly on purpose. It just bugs him when people tell him stuff he already knows. But of course she doesn’t know that. Moving on. “I’m thirty though. I’ll be thirty-one in November.”

“I’m twenty-two,” she offers. He gathered that—based on the information that she recently graduated. “Twenty-three in February.” Then she pauses. “Wait are you a Scorpio?”

“I…guess?” He shrugs. “November 7th.”

“Omg you’re a Scorpio!” She lights right back up. “I’m a Pisces! February 25th!” Nodding approvingly, she adds, “We’re super compatible.” Before he can even begin to process that, she says, “Wait, so you started lifting when you were like, twenty or something?”

“Yes.” He nods towards the cable. “Do your next set.” She’s been standing there for too long. Looking right at him. Twirling the end of her braid around her fingers.

As she turns back and sets her feet for the next set, he’s able to process what she said. We’re super compatible. He flexes his hand, pressing his thumb to each fingertip over and over. Obviously, she’s fairly intelligent. She probably doesn’t actually believe in astrology. Right? It doesn’t mean anything—the alignment of the planets at the time you were born doesn’t mean you’re predestined for anything in particular. His rest timer goes off and he picks up the dumbbells again. Still thinking about it.

The weight clangs a little as she lets it settle, popping up with a smile on her face again. “I feel like I’m not able to progress as much anymore,” she admits. “Like at first I could go up in weight every week and now it takes a couple.”

Okay, a problem he can solve. Variables. “How much are you eating?” This is good. He can focus on this instead of how pretty she is in this light.

She blinks, mouth falling open slightly. Her teeth are imperfect—never had braces. Brendon runs his tongue over his own artificially straightened teeth. Two rounds of braces. He thinks hers look better. More natural.

“I, um, don’t really think about it,” she admits. “I just sort of eat whatever? I’ve been hungrier since I started lifting but I, like, never have time to eat at work so I always just eat a ton when I get home and on my days off.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work in the long run,” he says immediately. “If you want to build muscle—is that your goal?” He realizes that he should ask before he starts this lecture on nutrition.

“Uh, I guess.” Emma shrugs. “I didn’t really think about how I look, I just…wanted to get stronger.” She wraps her arms around herself. “But like, it is nice. You know, to see in the mirror.”

It’s very nice to see. But he’s not going to tell her that. He clears his throat. “You should focus on your protein intake and eating in a surplus,” he suggests. Glancing over her, he asks, “What do you weigh? Like 125?” She’s not malnourished, but she isn’t very big either. He’s estimating automatically.

She blinks, eyes going wide. “Uh, maybe? I don’t know. I never weigh myself.”

“How are you tracking if you’re putting on muscle?”

“Uhhh, the mirror?” She lets out a cute little huff through her nose, a sound that might be a laugh. It makes his chest feel weird.

“Do your next set,” he tells her, pulling out his phone. “You’re like, 5’4?”

“I’m 5’6.” He can never tell anyone under about 5’10 anyway. Close enough.

“Your maintenance is probably about 2000 calories,” he guesses, as she goes through her set and he pulls up a TDEE calculator. It's saved under his favorites. “Maybe higher since you’re on your feet all day at work.”

“Never thought about calories in my life,” Emma says, breathless as she sets the weight down. “Or protein. Or whatever.”

“Yeah,” he nods affirmatively, showing her his phone. “About 2000 for maintenance. If you went up to 2300 and ate 125 grams of protein a day, you’d probably add muscle pretty fast.” He slips his phone back in his pocket. “You’re pretty consistent with the gym.”

“Uh, thanks.” She rolls her eyes a little as he picks up the dumbbells to go through his own set. “Seems like a lot of work.”

Tracking everything he puts in his body and all his work in the gym comes so naturally to him now, he doesn’t even think about it. “I guess when I first started, maybe it was,” he admits. His shoulders are burning, but he forcibly drops them, trying not to let his traps take over the lift. “You don’t have to, some people just sort of guess. Follow the suggestions about portion sizes and eyeball it.” He exhales sharply as he sets the weights down. “But it gets a lot easier to eyeball portions if you weigh your food and track it for a while first.”

“Weigh my food?” Emma repeats, deadpan. “You want me to weigh my food.”

He shrugs. “I’m just telling you what might help. Eat the right amount of protein and carbs—eat enough—and you’ll feel a lot better in your lifts.” Taking a drink of water, he adds, “But you don’t have to follow my advice.” It really doesn’t affect him either way. He can’t make her do it. She has to decide to do it for herself. It’s her body.

She scrunches up her nose. “I literally don’t even know where to begin with that.”

That makes him say something tremendously stupid. “If you want, you could come over sometime and I’ll cook dinner for you and we can talk about it.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Her face lights up, sunshine on a cloudy day, just beaming. “That’d be so fun! Thank you!”

Like he said, stupid. Way too late to take it back now. She’s already putting her number in his phone.

Mom: Making spaghetti

Brendon: Sounds good.

Mom: Can you pick up some garlic bread?

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“Hey Attie,” Brendon says softly as he kicks off his shoes just inside the door of his parents’ house. The golden retriever is pressing a plush toy against his thigh, practically vibrating with excitement as he wags his tail. He reaches for the toy and tugs on it, gently shaking Atticus’s head back and forth. The dog growls softly, leaning back through his heels to pull on the toy.

“Atticus!” His mom’s voice comes sharply from the kitchen. “Come eat!” Atticus’s attention is torn away at the sound of his kibble falling into his metal bowl, leaving Brendon with the plush toy. A stuffed shark. Of course.

Sighing, he drops the toy and heads around the corner into the kitchen. His mom—Sharon—is already back at the stove, stirring the sauce while his sister—Brooke—is leaning on the counter nearby, munching on the veggie tray his mom always puts out. Her fiance—Spencer—is sitting at the table. He nods at Brendon as he comes in and sets down the garlic bread. No one stops talking.

“Brendon, honey, can you slice that up for me?” Sharon asks.

“Sure.”

Brendon collects a cutting board and the bread knife from the wooden block by the stove. As he walks by, his sister continues the conversation they were clearly having before he arrived. He slides into the space beside them like an extra pair of hands, not a participant.

“Okay but I just think a sweetheart table is so isolating,” Brooke says. “I don’t want to be lording over the room like we’re on thrones.”

“Yes, but if you do a head table,” Sharon replies patiently, “you won’t be able to sit your wedding party with their plus ones. Which is fine for like, Josh, because he can sit with Aunt Linda and Uncle Jim, but what about Evan and Sean? Where do we put them if Sierra and Jenna are at the head table?”

“We can put them with our friends who aren’t in the bridal party,” Brooke suggests. “Like Isaac and Melissa.”

Brendon starts slicing the garlic bread. He doesn’t know any of these people. Well, he knows Josh, their cousin Lindsey’s boyfriend. And Aunt Linda and Uncle Jim. And Sierra, her best friend. Okay, he’s keeping up. Barely. The names pass back and forth too quickly.

“You really want to ask your friends to sit apart from their partners?” Sharon asks.

“Mom, we’re paying for their dresses and hair and makeup and lodging, I think they can sit apart from their boyfriends for one dinner,” Brooke says. She crunches on another carrot.

It’s how every Sunday dinner goes since Spencer proposed in April. Every time they get together it’s all about flowers and dresses and now seating charts. An endless stream of details that somehow always seem to matter more than the last. He glances up at Spencer, wondering if the groom has any opinion on the subject at all. But he’s just scrolling on his phone, sipping a beer.

He likes Spencer. Nice guy, clearly loves his sister to death. Spencer even asked him to be a groomsman, which he wasn’t sure was going to happen, but he’s happy to do. It just feels as if the wedding is Brooke and Sharon’s, not Brooke and Spencer’s.

The debate continues as Brendon and Sharon finish up the meal. He falls into washing up dishes and loading the dishwasher, getting out plates and silverware. Rinse. Stack. Dry. Set the table. Useful things are easy. Finally they conclude that they can try putting the head table down the center of the room so people can sit on both sides and include the bridal party’s plus ones. It isn’t until they sit down that anyone even asks Brendon about himself.

“Should I put down a plus one for you?” Brooke asks him just as he takes his first bite of pasta.

He lets out a breath of annoyance and chews. No, he doesn’t have a plus one and she knows that. But maybe it would be nice to have the option of potentially having someone in eight months. Eight whole months away. A lot could change in eight months. Maybe with…

Except it won’t. Because he’s leaving in nine months.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says. “Save you $250 for the plate.” The catering quote had ignited a heated discussion about the guest list two weeks ago. It remains stubbornly at 200 people.

“Okay!” She says, “I mean, I thought so, but just wanted to make sure.”

“Well, hey now, don’t count him out,” Spencer speaks up, “it’s eight whole months away.”

Brendon appreciates the defense, but waves him off. “Nah man, I’m leaving in June. No sense in getting involved with someone here.” Better to shut that door before anyone gets ideas. Before he gets ideas.

“What happened to that friend of Mrs. Kawtoski’s daughter?” Sharon asks. She takes a bite of spaghetti, perfectly twirled around her fork, and levels him with a look. “Did you call her?”

He did not. Completely forgot. “I’ve been really busy,” he explains. “You know, residency wrapping up and all.” Not that he wants to get coffee with Mrs. Kawtoski’s daughter’s friend. She’s probably lovely. Just like every other woman his mom or sister tries to set him up with. It’s like they think if they can get him to start dating someone here, he might decide to stay. Like the solution to all of this is just finding him the right anchor.

But that’s not happening.

Before Sharon can respond, their dad—Greg—comes in from the garage, quietly moving to serve himself a plate and sit down at the end of the table. “How you doing, Brendon?” He asks.

“Good, good,” he nods. “Work’s fine, the gym is good—” He actually has something to say about both of those things.

“Oooh!” Brooke interjects. Brendon sighs, clenching his jaw. “I really want to get in the gym.”

He glances at her. “Really?”

“Yes! I want my arms to look really good for the wedding,” she claims. Brendon sits up a little straighter. He can help with that. It’ll fun, writing up a lifting plan. Maybe they can spend some time together on it. If it’s what she wants for her wedding, he can contribute. Something concrete. Something he knows how to do well.

“You’ve got enough time to build some muscle and drop body fat—”

“Wait, don’t tell me I’m fat,” Brooke interjects.

“That’s not what I said,” Brendon explains, sighing. “If you want to be able to see muscle, you have to cut body fat. Everyone does. That’s just how it works.” It’s a neutral statement. Mechanical. Simple.

“Yeah but I’m not trying to get like, super muscular,” Brooke says. “I just want to tone up.”

Which means…build muscle and lose body fat. But people who don’t spend all their free time in the gym won’t know the phrase, body recomposition. Brendon shrugs. “Eat at maintenance, high protein, lift weights, do cardio,” he says. He’s explained this to her before. He can feel the answer flattening out the second it leaves his mouth.

She waves him off. “I don’t want to do all that food tracking you do.”

Okay, then don’t look the way you want to at your wedding. He rolls his eyes down at his plate. “Why even ask me if you’re not going to listen to my advice?”

“I mean,” she scoffs, “I barely have time to sleep. Do you know how hard it is to be an associate?”

Probably about as hard as being a surgical resident, but Brendon manages to bite his tongue. “Guess it’s just not that important to you.” He takes another bite of pasta and stays silent for the rest of dinner. The interest drains out of him all at once, leaving only the familiar dull irritation. For a moment, it’s just forks scraping against plates before Greg clears his throat and asks Spencer how work is going. The conversation moves on easily enough without him.

It’s all about priorities.

Emma: sorry i’m late, i forgot the bus doesn’t run as often after 8

Brendon: No worries. I can give you a ride home.

Emma: that’s ok! be there in like, 20

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“Oooh, your house is so nice,” Emma says, glancing around as she walks in. “Do you live alone? Is it a rental or…? I like that painting on the wall.” She nods at the painting of Atticus his mom commissioned and then decided didn’t fit her own decor as she kicks off her shoes, arranging them neatly beside the rack. Her socks are mismatched, yellow with polka dots on one foot, plain light blue on the other. He tries not to let it drive him nuts.

“My, um, my parents own half and I own the other half,” he admits. “My sister is getting a wedding and I got a house.” He shifts uncomfortably, not quite liking discussing the fact that his parents not only put both of them through undergrad and grad school without debt, but were able to help out even more. If he isn’t honest though, it feels even worse. Like he’s hiding something. Like he’s lying.

“Oh! That’s nice of them,” she says, quickly collecting her face and smoothing over the surprise. “You have a sister? Older or younger?” She recovers so quickly it almost makes the awkwardness disappear.

“Younger,” he says, turning to head up to the second floor, where the kitchen is. “She’s twenty-seven.”

“Do you like her fiance?”

“Yeah, he’s a nice guy.” Brendon shrugs. The door to the second floor patio is open, letting in the late summer evening. Warm air brushes in, carrying the smell of cut grass and somebody’s charcoal grill from down the row.

“My brothers have always been really tough on my boyfriends,” she explains. “I don’t know if I’ll ever date someone they approve of.”

Boyfriends? Brothers? Interesting. “Well…what was wrong with the guys you were dating?” He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Asking as an older brother, of course.” Not your older brother though. Just someone’s. Yikes.

She giggles. “Really just the guy I was seeing at the end of high school and into college,” she explains, “they thought he wasn’t ambitious enough.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, was he?”

She shrugs. “He never really studied, I guess. I mean, he went to college but, like, never applied himself.” Sighing, she adds, “The dumbest part is he broke up with me and told me it’s because I made him feel stupid.” She suppresses a smile. “He said I use too many big words.”

He snorts. “I think I agree with your brothers.” Why was she dating a loser like that? The thought comes fast and mean and startlingly protective.

“Most people do,” she says, sighing. He watches her for a minute before realizing he’s the host. He actually has to carry on the interaction. This is his house. He can’t just stand there and stare at her like an idiot.

“Oh, sorry, do you want something to drink? I don’t keep any alcohol but like, water, tea…” He opens the fridge. “...Celsius?” Too much caffeine for 8:30pm.

“Literally just water,” she says, “I had to walk a couple blocks.”

“You should have told me, I would have picked you up,” he says, grabbing a glass. “Ice or no ice?”

“Ice.” Like most people. He’s the weirdo who prefers room temperature. “How was work today?”

“Two surgeries,” he says. Nobody ever really cares, so he doesn’t elaborate. Until he hands over the water and she looks at him expectantly. Waiting. Not filling the silence. Just waiting for him to continue if he wants to.

“Thanks, what surgeries?”

“Oh.” Okay. Maybe she does care. “A hip replacement and a meniscus repair.”

“That sounds really fun,” she says, smiling enough that he actually believes she means it. “I got to help on a dislocated shoulder today!”

“Yeah?” He’s seen quite a few of those, but it’s fun to see it all again through her eyes. Fresh perspective. “How was that?”

“It’s really fascinating how it just slides back into place when you put it at the right angle,” she tells him, twirling her braid. “And how it’s just instantly better.”

“Sore the next day though,” he reminds her. “I dislocated mine once.”

“Yeah? Doing what?”

He pauses, caught up for a moment in her eagerness to ask him questions. Not just about work. Not just about the gym, but about him. It puts a funny feeling in his chest, realizing how long it’s been since someone seemed interested in his life. His thumb finds each of his fingertips over and over and over, faster and faster. He forces his hand still against his thigh.

“Ah, football,” he says quickly. Time to pivot. “You eat meat right?” He should have asked that before he went to the store.

“Oh, um, yes, I do,” Emma says, her face falling slightly.

“Is steak okay?” He’s fairly confident in cooking steak. They’re already in the marinade. The grill on the deck is already heating up. The sweet potatoes are in the oven. Twenty-five minutes left according to the timer.

“Yeah, that sounds excellent.”

She follows him out onto the deck and leans over the rail. “Lovely view you have.”

He snorts as he gets the steaks settled on the grill—the sound of the meat searing fills the space between them. “Not really.” His townhouse faces three other townhouses. The only thing his deck overlooks is his neighbors’ decks. One of them has string lights up year-round. Another has a dead potted fern nobody’s thrown away.

“I know,” Emma turns back, “I was joking.” Of course she was. “I like your house a lot,” she continues on. “It’s nice you have your own space.”

“I do have a roommate,” he explains quickly. “But Jesse works in supply chain management and he’s always traveling.”

“So it’s basically your own place, but he pays rent,” Emma concludes. “Like I said, that’s nice.”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s probably here two nights a week.” Brendon shrugs.

“How’d you guys meet?”

“Facebook.”

She turns around. “Omg that’s how I met my roommate! She’s awesome, she’s this retired flight attendant who’s been everywhere and she let me have the spare room at her house for like, basically nothing.” She bounces up and down on her toes, buzzing around him. He tries to focus on the grill instead of her constant motion. Good thing she didn’t take anything caffeinated.

Then he processes what she said. “Wait, retired?”

“Oh yeah, she’s like, seventy-five.” Emma giggles. “She keeps getting on me about being a homebody who knits on the weekends.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he says. He flips the smaller steak over. It’s cooking faster.

“She says I should be in the club. That I’m wasting my youth.”

“If you’re happy, who cares?” Not him. Why would it matter to him what other people spend their time doing? It’s never occurred to him to police what people do. Not unless they ask for his opinion.

“I guess she just wants me to have new experiences and try things,” Emma concludes. “Which isn’t, like, a bad thing.” She suddenly steps up closer to his shoulder. “Actually I should probably be talking to you about food, right? That’s why I came over.”

He can’t really think because now that she’s standing beside him, her perfume washes over him. Light, crisp, kind of citrus-y. It takes an extreme amount of willpower not to lean over and sniff her. He settles for a deep inhale instead.

“Yeah, but really, with putting on muscle, there’s actually not much to it,” he explains.

Her shoulder brushes his. The strap of her overalls is falling off, rubbing against his arm. His hand twitches at his side. Impulsivity wins out. He hooks a finger beneath it and puts it back up—his finger dragging over her bare skin. In her tank top, he can in fact make out the slight definition in her back when she shifts. Muscles that could easily be brought out with the right fuel. She tenses slightly, inhaling a little quickly. His own breath catches with hers.

“It’s just thermodynamics,” he continues when she glances up at him. “Calories in versus calories out. You eat more than you’re burning and you’ll add mass. If the food you’re eating is high in protein and you lift, that mass will be muscle. Otherwise the body stores the extra energy as fat. But you know that, right?”

She nods. “Essentially. We didn’t cover a ton about nutrition in nursing school but I get the basic concept of macronutrients. I just never thought of, like, utilizing it to change my body.”

He tries not to continue dumping information, he really does, but it’s so interesting. The science! The math! The satisfaction that you accomplished something. The control. The way numbers become visible on a person if they’re consistent enough.

By the time he’s pulling the steaks off the grill, they’ve covered macronutrient ratios, when to prioritize carbs versus protein, and have moved onto supplements.

“I mean, everyone who lifts should be taking creatine,” he says. “Everyone.” They’re back inside and sitting at the table. Emma is listening intently, nodding along, but mainly she lets him talk. Except for occasional questions that only end up sending him down side trains of thought. She never looks bored. He keeps waiting for it. But it never comes.

“I’ve heard it’s not good for you,” she says.

“No,” he shakes his head, takes another bite—he’s barely paying attention to the food—swallows, and says, “it’s one of the most researched supplements. It’s very safe, you just have to drink a ton of water.”

“I’m not very good at that,” she admits. Then sheepishly reaches for her water and takes a sip. “I get busy at work and forget to drink anything for hours.”

“Can you carry a water bottle?” He suggests. She shakes her head. “Leave it at the nurses station?”

“Nobody has a permanent desk,” she explains. “I only get to put my stuff in my locker.”

“Hm.” That stumps him. He’ll have to think about that. There has to be a workaround.

“Guess I could wear like a Camelbak all day,” she suggests, her voice lilting upwards. This time he’s able to pick up on her joke and laugh.

“Now that’s an idea.”

“Totally wouldn’t get in the way at all,” she continues.

He sits back. “Do you feel like you’re settling in okay at work?” Suddenly she's the most interesting topic on the planet.

She nods. “Oh yeah, it gets easier every week. I think the strength training is really helping!”

“Yeah?” He wants to hear more. Needs to.

“Yeah, especially like, moving patients around,” she explains, “and my stamina is way better.”

“See, that’s why I want more people—especially women—to strength train,” he says, leaning in. “It feels so good to be able to—”

“To like, just pick things up,” she interrupts. “Yeah, exactly. One of my friends told me she can’t actually lift her suitcase into the overhead compartment on planes.”

“Oh jeez.” His chest twinges at that one. “That’s unfortunately so common in women.”

“Jo—my roommate—has had both shoulders replaced,” Emma explains, “and she said her surgeon told her strength training could have prevented her osteoporosis.”

He nods. “Sounds like me. Where’d she have the surgery?” He flicks through patients in his head, but it gets hard to remember names after a while. It could have been before he even finished med school.

“I have no idea.” Emma shakes her head. “She sent me a bunch of studies on it.”

“There’s a bunch of benefits and very few downsides,” he agrees. A deep satisfaction settles in his bones. Good meal. Good company. Got to talk about his favorite topic. It’s been a great night. He hasn’t thought about the time once.

“You pitch strength training like a salesman,” Emma says, but she’s smiling, not a bad thing. “You’re really passionate about this, huh?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I just…like it. I like being able to change variables and see the results. I like having control over all of it.”

She nods. “I think that’s part of why I’m doing it.”

“Yeah?” This always interests him. “What got you in the gym that first time?”

She sighs and turns her head away, crossing her arms as she sits back. “I was strangled by a patient on my first day of work.”

Wait. “What?” He feels like the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. “What h—”

“Some guy came in, drunk and combative.” She shakes her head. “He was supposed to be sedated. I went to check his vitals and he woke up and strangled me.” Her hand comes up to touch her throat. “I fought so hard to get him off,” she says, her voice breaking a little, blinking hard. “And just…nothing happened. Didn’t budge an inch.” She sniffles and shakes her head. “I just never want to feel that weak again.” A sigh. “Anyway, we found out later he’d also ingested cocaine.”

Cocaethylene formation. Causes impulsivity and aggression. And memory loss. His mind supplies the information automatically, uselessly. None of it changes what happened to her.

“Emma, I’m so sorry.” He puts his hand on top of hers, the one still on the table, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. There isn’t anything else to say that will comfort her. He wishes he could say it’ll never happen again—but nobody can guarantee it. Honestly he can’t believe she went back.

“Thanks.” She squeezes his hand and smiles a little. “It’s…it is what it is. I just…want to feel like I can…I don’t know, at least try and get out of a situation like that again. At least have a chance.” She lets out something between a laugh and a sob. “I never told anyone besides Vivi that’s why I’m doing it. My parents and Jo don’t even know it happened.”

“Why not?” He should let go of her hand, but she’s clinging on so tightly he can’t. He doesn’t want to either. Her fingers are small and warm and tense inside his.

She scoffs. “Oh they’d move me back to Michigan so fast,” she says quickly. “Take it as proof I should be living at home.” She rolls her eyes. “They wanted me to keep living with them basically until I get married.”

He pulls back abruptly. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Getting married.” The clarification comes out harsher and faster than he means it to. Why does he care?

She laughs. “If I am, it’s a long way off.” Scrunching her nose up, she says, “I just…want to figure out who I am without them all over me all the time.”

Me too. That’s why I’m going to California. He wants to tell her he understands. But the words get caught in his throat.

“Oh shoot,” she glances at her phone, “it’s like 10pm. I need to get home.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says, standing and grabbing their plates to dump in the sink. He can clean up the kitchen when he gets back. Movement helps. Action helps. Helps keep him from picturing her being attacked again. Hands wrapping around her throat.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m driving you,” he says firmly. “It’s late. I don’t want you to ride the bus alone.”

She relaxes, he can feel it when he puts his hand on her back to send her down the stairs first. “Okay,” she agrees. “I feel bad though.”

“Don’t. I don’t have to be in until 8am,” he explains as he grabs his sneakers and sits on the stairs to put them on.

Emma slides on her sandals. “Yeah but I know you. You’re going to the gym before that.”

She does know him, jeez. He chuckles. “Yes, but note I absolutely want to drive you home. I’ll come right back and crash.”

“Okay.”

It’s not a long drive to her house. He turns into the driveway behind an ancient VW Beetle and throws the car in park. One hand still on the wheel, he peers out her window at the house. It’s small but it’s…a lot. Wind chimes and overgrown plants and just way too much stuff. It looks like the opposite of his place.

“Nice house,” he says.

She giggles. “Yeah it’s a lot more, uh, lived-in than your place.” He snorts. That’s putting it lightly. “Anyway, thank you for dinner. And for the nutrition lesson. And for driving me.” She talks faster with everything she adds. His mouth twitches. It’s really cute. “I appreciate it sooo much.”

Then she leans forward and presses her lips against his cheek. His hand tightens on the steering wheel as his heart jumps into overdrive. Everything in him goes still.

“Okay, good night!” She opens the door.

“Y–yeah, good night,” he manages to get out before she shuts it.

His fingers come up to touch the spot where she kissed him, watching carefully as she fumbles with her keys before unlocking the door. Only relaxing when it shuts behind her, leaning back and pushing his hands into his hair. The whole night rearranges itself in his head all at once.

Oh shit.

He read this completely wrong.

Chapter Text

Emma: I miss you, Maman 💛

Emma: Can you send me some of your recipes?

Maman: I will send them by email

Maman: Are you eating enough, ma chérie?

Maman: You work too hard. You need to take care of yourself.

Emma: Yes! Just miss your cooking

Maman: Love you

Emma: Love you too!

“Girl, that is so much food,” Vivi says in the breakroom two days after her date with Brendon. “Like, way more than I’ve ever seen you eat.”

Emma swallows. “Apparently I’m bulking now,” she explains. And Vivi is right, it feels like an absurd amount of food. Too much, honestly—like she’s forcing it down just to keep up with the prescribed amount of calories. But it’s just chicken, rice, and veggies. Easy enough to eat at work. When she gets home though, that’s another story. That’s when she falls apart.

She’s been trying to figure out some of her mom’s recipes—ones she brought over from Guadeloupe. Her mom is such a lovely cook, but Emma has never been able to quite replicate the taste of her Columbo or riz et pois. The chicken she’s having for lunch is supposed to be poulet boucané, but it tastes…off. Flat. Missing something she can’t figure out, no matter how closely she follows the steps. She's prioritizing fitting her macros and that seems to be the problem.

“What do you mean you’re bulking now?” Vivi asks. “You’ve never seemed serious about the aesthetic part of lifting.”

Emma shrugs. “It’s a nice side effect I guess,” she admits. Nice feels like an understatement, but she doesn’t want to say that out loud. Doesn’t want to admit how much she’s started noticing her own body in mirrors. “But I mentioned to Brendon that I wasn’t progressing and he suggested I eat more. Focus on my protein.”

Vivi blinks at her. “Who is Brendon?”

Oops. “Um…Dr. Park?” She winces as Vivi shrieks. Not super loud, but loud enough to draw the attention of Dr. King as she walks by.

“What the hell have you been doing in that gym since I’ve been injured?” Vivi asks, bouncing up and down.

“He bailed me out on a lift,” Emma explains, shrugging.”

“And?” Vivi stares at her, wide-eyed.

Emma feels her neck getting hot. Heat crawling up under her collar, into her cheeks, impossible to ignore. “And then it was super crowded and I asked if we could share the cable machine and we were talking and heaskedmeoverfordinner.” She shovels more food in her mouth so Vivi won’t ask her to repeat herself, chewing rapidly.

“Girl—” Vivi’s mouth hangs open. “You went to his house.”

She nods. “He cooked steak.” It was actually pretty good. She sort of expected him to be a bland cook. It wasn’t Caribbean food but it wasn’t bad either.

“Oh he likes you,” Vivi says, reaching out to pinch her arm. “He’s trying to put some meat on you.”

“He’s just being nice!” Emma protests.

Vivi scoffs. “One thing I know about gym guys—they like women with some weight on them.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Gotta prove how much they can…you know…handle.”

“Ugh, stop,” Emma says, shoving her shoulder. She digs back into her lunch, trying to finish before Dana catches her not working. “It was nothing.”

Except it didn’t feel like nothing. Not the way he looked at her like she’s the most interesting person in the world. Like he was studying her. Like he liked what he saw. Not the way he leaned into her when she stood next to him. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, steady and solid. Or fixed her overalls—his fingers dragging over her shoulder. Slow. Deliberate. Like he couldn’t not touch her. Definitely not when he grabbed her hand. Warm. Firm. As if he wanted to keep her there.

She thought for sure he might kiss her when he drove her home, but he seemed anxious—which she found cute. Endearing, even. Like she made him nervous. Her brother, Evan, once gave her some dating advice. If you want a guy to know you like him, you have to hit him over the head with a brick. She figured a little kiss on the cheek would get the job done. And hurt a lot less. But she was too chicken to stick around for his reaction. Her heart was pounding for like, twenty minutes after she got inside. Every time she replayed it, it got worse—better—both at once.

“Nah, girl,” Vivi insists, “that’s not nothing. He could have talked to you about that stuff at the gym. He didn’t have to show you his house—it’s a house right?” Emma nods. “Didn’t have to show you his house, didn’t have to show you he can cook—wait was it good? Not gym bro type of food?”

“It was great.”

Vivi scoffs. “Yeah, uh, and then let me guess, drove you home in the Beamer?”

Emma clicks her tongue. “Jeez, it’s like you were there.”

Vivi shrugs. “I dated a doctor before I got with Kai.” Her fiance. “Men love to show off what they can provide.” She smirks again. “Sounds like he’s trying to add some mass to that ass too.” She puts her hands out like she’s holding two soccer balls, nodding suggestively.

“He was not, oh my god,” Emma says, laughter escaping anyway as she looks around to make sure nobody can hear them. Her ears are burning but it feels good. Embarrassing and warm and a little bit thrilling. Maybe Vivi is right. She takes the last bite of her lunch.

“You know he’s got those massive hands,” Vivi muses. “Gotta put enough muscle on to fill those up so he has something to hold onto while you’re living your best cowgirl life.”

Emma chokes, coughing for a minute to clear her throat. Her eyes water before the food finally slides down her throat and she turns and puts her plate in the sink, leaning on the counter. Her pulse is racing now, for an entirely different reason. “Oh my god, do not put that idea in my head when I still have five more hours of work,” she hisses, suppressing a smile.

“Just material for your spank bank,” Vivi says brightly. She pats her on the shoulder as she heads out of the break room. “Enjoy thinking about it for the next five hours!”

She does enjoy it. For much longer than five hours.

Brendon: Are you working out tomorrow morning?

Emma: yes are you?

Brendon: Yeah, I’ll come find you

Emma: ok 💕

She spots him right away as she’s walking past the front desk, heading for the spot on the wall where she warms up with her now very familiar stretching routine. He’s doing weighted pull ups and he’s got that ratty, old Penn State hat on again and he looks delectable. Like he always does. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing except she knows he isn’t even trying.

And he wants to talk to her. She knows it instantly—something in the way he glances over, the way his focus shifts. She looks away, trying not to smile. Her whole body feels loose, like jelly, warm and tingly and soft. Like something good is about to happen.

Chewing on her lip, she gets through her warm up and heads for the hamstring curl machine. Brendon suggested she do that before the hack squat to help with the knee pain she was developing as the weight went up. It totally worked. Having him around is awesome. He’s like a doctor and a personal trainer. And maybe a boyfriend? Her stomach flips at the thought, light and hopeful and a little bit ridiculous.

Naturally, Brendon waits until she’s halfway through Bulgarian split squats—her third exercise—to approach her. Despite the fact that they’ve been circling each other in the gym for an hour while she works quads and hamstrings and he does back and biceps. And of course he wore a tank top, so she got a full view of his lats and traps engaging while he used the same weight she uses for RDLs for barbell rows. It felt like he was teasing her. Like he wanted her to notice. Like he liked that she was noticing. The tension in the air is so thick it feels like she could eat it with a spoon.

She puts down the dumbbell in her hand and stands up, finding him right in front of her, fidgeting with his water bottle. Silent. Clenched jaw. “Hey…” She says, stepping back an inch for a little bit of space. He smells delicious and she smells awful. Her skin suddenly feels too tight, too damp, too aware of itself. She runs her thumb over the calluses developing on her palms, fingertip snagging on the rough skin, trying to calm her breathing. Trying to keep it from turning into something obvious. Something he could hear.

“Hi.” His tone is clipped. Neutral. Even. That…can’t be good. The softness drains out of her instantly, like someone flipped a switch. “I need to clear something up with you.”

Emma turns and reaches for her own water, avoiding the intensity of his eye contact, boring straight into her. Her fingers don’t feel steady around the bottle. “Oh…kay.”

“I think I may have…accidentally…given you the impression that dinner the other night was…a date,” he says, slowly and carefully.

Emma’s mouth falls open. “Accidentally?” She repeats. Then she scoffs. Ouch. The word hits her like a slap—sharp, immediate, impossible to soften. This can’t be happening. She forces herself not to start hyperventilating as she looks around, trying to find an escape route. But there isn’t one. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Not with him standing right there. Not with people all around them.

“Unintentionally,” he clarifies. His gaze shifts from her face to over her shoulder, tapping his fingers. Like he can’t even look at her. Like he’s thinking about how to get away. “And I wanted to apologize because that wasn’t my intention.” He exhales sharply. “You’re great, Emma. Really great and you’re beautiful and—” He presses his lips together, as if to contain the words getting away from him. His jaw clenches again. “I just should be clear that I’m leaving Pittsburgh in June because I have a fellowship lined up somewhere else and I don’t think it would be fair to you if we got involved romantically.”

Emma’s entire face is burning by the time he finishes with his little speech. Her heart is pounding, blood rushing through her ears. Too loud. Too fast. Everyone must be able to hear it. She glances around, wondering if anyone just heard all of that, but it seems like everyone is lost in their own little worlds—focusing on their reps, headphones on. Not paying attention to her humiliation. Which somehow makes it worse. This is all happening in plain sight and still no one notices.

She takes a step back, knocking into the bench behind her and stumbling slightly. Brendon reaches out and steadies her upper arm. That’s when the heat of embarrassment turns to anger. Rage she has to contain in public. How dare he? She shakes her head and pushes his hand away before taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, letting it fill her with serenity…then she opens them. Her own jaw set. He blinks and steps back as she glares at him. Good. Let him feel it. Even a fraction of it.

“I appreciate you making yourself clear,” she says hotly. “And now I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish my workout.” She keeps her voice steady. Too used to pushing it all down and holding herself back. It’s always like this. Always. Why would he be any different?

He steps back and nods once. “Of course. I’m sorry about any confusion.” As if he’s clarifying what he said in an email to a colleague. Heat flares in her chest again. Not the arousal she felt feeling him approach. This is searing anger—hurt—burning through her entire body. Burning through every place he touched. Every memory she thought meant something. Her eyes flick over him. She shakes her head and bends to pick up her weight again.

When she finishes the next set, quads already screaming at her, she drops the weight and laces her hands behind her head, forcing herself to keep going without it until her quads burn as badly as her heart. Until the pain evens out. Until she can’t tell the difference between the two.

Emma: whelp. i read that completely incorrectly.

Vivi: what happened??

Emma: he just walked up and told me he’s sorry if he led me to believe our dinner was a date

Vivi: the FUCK?!

Vivi: what the hell is his problem???

Emma: penis haver moment.

Vivi: yeah TOTAL penis haver moment

Vivi: i’m sorry bestie

Vivi: want me to bring you ice cream after work?

Emma: ...yes please 🥺

Jo comes home from her Mahjong game to find Emma curled up on the couch, still in her gym clothes. She’s halfway through Love Island UK season three. There’s an empty bag of cheetos on the coffee table. The TV is still playing, bright and loud, but she hasn’t really been watching—just letting it fill the silence.

“Okay,” Jo says, lifting Emma’s feet and sitting down with them in her lap, “what happened?”

Emma looks at her. Her eyes are already glassy again, because she never really stopped crying. “I’m having my allowed twelve hour pity party because a stupid penis haver very clearly asked me on a date and then today showed up and told me it wasn’t a date and he’s sorry he led me to believe that it was.” She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. It sounds ridiculous when she says it out loud.

Jo laughs, throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, babygirl, ‘penis haver’ is a hilarious way of putting it,” she says. “I’ll have to use that one.”

“You don’t think I’m stupid?” Emma asks. The question slips out before she can stop it, small and fragile and too honest.

“No,” Jo shakes her head and pats Emma’s leg, “and who says your pity parties can only be twelve hours?” Emma’s mother. “That man sounds supremely stupid. Have a twenty-four hour pity party!”

She sniffles. “I can’t, I have work tomorrow.” Oh goodness, what if she sees him? Her stomach twists at the thought—at the idea of facing him like nothing happened. Like she didn’t make a fool of herself. Turning over, she pulls her legs out of Jo’s lap and curls into a ball as she starts crying again. Tighter this time. Smaller. Maybe she can make herself disappear.

“Oh babygirl,” Jo says, clicking her tongue. She reaches out to rub Emma’s leg again. “I wish you wouldn’t let this man make you cry.”

Emma’s throat tightens. “Me too,” she says, fighting the tears. “But I just feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Jo assures her. “You have a big heart and you wear it on your sleeve. It’s not on you.”

“I just thought he liked me,” Emma complains stubbornly. Like if she says it enough, it might still be true. She’s so sure of it. So sure she’d even told him about the assault on her first day—and she doesn’t talk about it lightly. Sitting up, she turns right over and lays her head in Jo’s lap. Her sure fingers brush curls back from Emma’s face. The familiarity of it only brings a wave of homesickness for her mom—and she starts crying again. The kind that aches in her chest, not just her throat.

“Oh, sweet girl.” Jo wraps her arms around Emma and hugs her. “You deserve so much better.”

“The dumbest part is I can’t even actually be that mad at him,” Emma says through the tears. “He never said it was a date! I just assumed! And he did come to clear it up instead of leading me on!” Like that’s supposed to make it better. Like that erases everything else. But it still feels especially cruel for him to have acted the way he did—touching her casually, looking at her so intently. Like she mattered. Like he wanted her. None of the men in her family are very open with their affection or emotions. She can’t even remember the last time one of her brothers said ‘I love you.’ The only physical comfort she ever got was from her mom.

Her hand aches with the memory of Brendon’s squeezing it. Phantom warmth lingering in her palm, like her body hasn’t caught up to reality yet.

“Oh you can be mad at him,” Jo insists. “Be as mad as you want. Never take any shit from a man,” she declares.

Sniffling, Emma sits up. Slowly, because it takes effort to pull herself back together. “What should I do when I see him again? We work together and go to the gym at the same time.” She swallows, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Maybe I should go in the evening. Or change gyms.” The words come out small, already knowing how they sound. Already knowing she hates them.

“Fuck no!” Jo says immediately, looking horrified. “You aren’t going to change a damn thing for him. When you see him again, you’re going to hold your head high. And you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Emma glances at her. “I am?” It feels impossible. But also—relieving. Like being given permission.

Jo nods firmly. “Yes. From now on, he’s not worth another ounce of your time or energy. He had your tears.” She reaches out with both hands and forcefully wipes the moisture from Emma’s cheeks, squeezing her face slightly. “He doesn’t get anything else from you.”

Emma nods. Something in her chest shifts—still sore, still raw, but steadier. Her mouth twitches a little, trying to smile maybe. “Thanks, Jo.” She inhales slowly, deeper this time, bracing herself for what comes next. She can do this. She went back to work after being strangled on her first day. Going back to the gym after a boy dumped her is easy compared to that.

“Anytime, babygirl.”

Vivi: you feeling okay going to the gym? i could come and just stretch while you lift

Emma: nah i need to be able to face him

Vivi: the offer still stands for me to beat his ass

Emma: i appreciate you being my pit bull lol but i’m good

Vivi: if you ever wanna buy me a collar i like pink

Emma: only if you promise to wear it to work

Vivi laughed at a message

Emma’s stomach drops when she walks through the door to the gym because Brendon is signing in at the desk right in front of her. Because of course he is. Of course he’s arriving at exactly the same time as her and will be there throughout her entire workout. Of. Course. Like the universe is setting this up on purpose. Like she’s being tested.

She rolls her shoulders back and lifts her chin, averting her eyes as she remembers Jo’s advice. You’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist. Darn right she is. She can do this. It’s not that hard. He’s just a guy.

The pen slides a little as she signs her name in the log. Right below his.

Park Brendon
Nolan Emma

The names sort of blur together as her eyes unfocus and just for a moment, his last name lines up with her first name. Oh for Pete’s sake. Absolutely not. She shakes her head to clear it and turns away. Time to get it together. Time to work. Pity party is over. He doesn’t exist.

Except he does. Because he’s dumbbell chest pressing again and she can see him in the mirror when she sets up for hip thrusts on the smith machine. A reminder that the only reason she uses the smith machine instead of a free barbell is because he suggested it was more stable and put more tension on her glutes. A reminder that he’s everywhere in this stupid routine now. Everywhere she looks. Tangled up in her mind.

Which only makes her think of Vivi in the breakroom. He’s trying to put more mass on that ass. She might not believe it, except as she re-racks after her second set, she catches him looking at her in the mirror, nodding approvingly. Like he can’t help himself. Like whatever he said the other day didn’t change that part that wants to see her succeed.

It only gets worse as she finishes up RDLs. That’s when the pump sets in. Which is the best part of glute day. Regardless of the very attractive man who continues to keep looking at her even as he moves into chest flies, nothing makes her feel sexier than a glute day. And she refuses to give him credit for that. Refuses to let him have anything to do with how good she feels right now.

She’s always been sort of bleh about her body. Which maybe has something to do with her ex-boyfriend’s complete disinterest in having sex with her. She just assumed maybe he didn’t find her very attractive. Sure, she’s pretty slim, but her boobs are only okay and her butt was nothing to write home about. Especially compared to all her cousins on her mom’s side. Whenever Maman took her home to Guadaloupe, everyone always asked her if she was hungry.

So—to quote Vivi again—putting some mass on her ass has really made her happy, solved a bit of an insecurity she didn’t even really realize she had. She feels desirable now. Though just looking at her glute pump in the mirror and thinking that she feels that way plants guilt in her chest. Like she’s not supposed to enjoy being looked at.

It doesn’t feel like she’s allowed to feel that way about herself sometimes. But it just creeps in. Especially because she’s been catching more people looking at her. Usually it’s pretty obviously a moment of mutual respect for hard work in the gym, but sometimes she can tell it’s in a less professional way because they look away too fast when she catches them. It makes her feel funny inside. Warm and unsettled all at once.

Except when she catches Brendon doing it. Every time it happens, she has to remind herself what he said. That wasn’t my intention. She scoffs to herself as she drags a bench over to the squat rack for step ups. Not his intention. If it wasn’t his intention, he should have kept his eyes off her. His hands. How the hell was she not supposed to read his behavior as attraction? The way he said it, like she should have known he only invited her over, cooked for her, and touched her as a friend. Men are so stupid. Except he somehow made her into the stupid one. And she’s not going to let him do that again. Not here. Not ever.

Her quads are burning too much. Grunting, she shifts and leans forward on her next step down, slowly driving through her heel. This time her glute medius engages. She grits her teeth and pushes through four more, panting hard as she sets the kettlebell down and sits. Good. Something she can control. Something that makes sense.

“Solid correction.” Her head whips up to see the guy leaning on the rack beside her nodding. He’s far too old, probably her dad’s age, but super muscular. He reaches out for a fist bump, which she returns shyly. She’s still getting used to the language of gym bros.

“Thanks,” she says, chest heaving as she reaches for her water bottle. Grateful for the distraction. For something uncomplicated.

“Not an easy exercise to get the form right on,” he continues. “So, nice.”

“Yeah, uh, it was a struggle at first,” she agrees. At least this kind of attention is simple. Easy. It doesn’t come with mixed signals and apologies.

Movement across from them catches her eye. A—you guessed it—very muscular guy is walking purposefully across the gym to the smith machine where a tall girl with long braids is doing RDLs. He bends down and reaches for the girl’s water bottle, picking it up and taking a long drink of it. His eyes are trained on the cable machines on the other side and Emma follows his line of sight.

There are two other guys shrugging and turning away from the girl and…her boyfriend? He’s walking away now, back to where he was working. Emma tilts her head to the side as he picks up his own water and takes another drink.

The guy who fist bumped her laughs. “It’s like the gym bro equivalent of giving a girl your class ring or something,” he says, turning back to do another set.

Emma doesn’t know about class rings. But when she was in high school, girls used to ask their boyfriends or guys they were talking with to hold their scrunchies—put them on their wrists—to signal they were taken. Guess people have always had different ways of claiming their partner. In the gym, it’s drinking from their water bottle to show you swap spit.

She shrugs and picks up the kettlebell again to work on the other side. Doesn’t really matter to her. There’s nobody in the gym she’s kissing anyway. But at least it’s entertainment for her to watch between sets. There’s always some good people watching at the gym.

That’s something she can focus on between sets. Keep her mind—and eyes—from drifting over to Brendon. Even when she can feel him there. Watching her. Even when she knows, without looking, exactly where he is.

Evan: You know what pisses me off at hockey games? When an adult catches a puck and everyone just expects you to give it to the nearest kid

Emma: felt

Emma: why is their experience more important than mine

Emma: i’d still probably give the puck to a kid tho

Evan: If it ever happens I'm just gonna go with "IT'S MY FIRST GAME PUCK"

Evan: No matter how many pucks I have

Evan: Hey, the Habs are playing in Pittsburgh right after Thanksgiving

Emma: okay?

Evan: If I come to visit can we go?

Emma: i’ll ask jo if you can sleep on the couch

Evan: Siiiiiiiiick

“Life is so boring without Love Island,” Vivi says with a dramatic sigh. Her breath is hot on Emma’s knee, head resting in Emma’s lap, with her feet draped over her fiance, Kai. Emma’s fingers keep moving through Vivi’s hair, automatic, grounding—something to do with her hands so her brain doesn’t wander where it wants to go.

“You’re an ED nurse and you think life is boring?” Kai says.

“Yes!” Vivi lifts her head. “I have nothing interesting going on in my dating life because you’re so fucking perfect, Emma hasn’t talked to a guy in weeks because she’s little miss perfect and can actually hold a boundary with the guy who fucked her over—” Emma stiffens and tries to swallow the lump in her throat, her fingers pausing for just a second while Vivi's head is gone, “—and now I can’t even enjoy the drama of trash reality TV.”

“What about Love is Blind?” Emma suggests. Eager to redirect. Her hand comes up to stroke Vivi’s hair again automatically as she lays back down. Vivi curls her lip.

“No, I think they’ve proven love is not blind by now,” she claims.

“What about the drama of the Pirates sucking?” Kai suggests, flipping over to the baseball game.

“Even Paul Skenes can’t save us,” Vivi says with a sigh.

“He sure is pretty though,” Emma sighs. She’s mesmerized by how gracefully he moves for such a large man and how precise his pitches are. Fully-focused. Unfortunately, he does remind her of Brendon. The same kind of locked-in intensity. The same way his body moves like it knows exactly what it’s doing. His…passion for what he does. Except Paul Skenes has a beard—which she’s surprised she likes. Safer to think about. Harmless. Not…complicated.

None of them point out that they’re actually currently beating Colorado 5-2. If they mention it, the Cardinals—who suck only slightly more than the Pirates—will definitely find a way to make a comeback.

“Does Paul Skenes have a girlfriend?” Vivi wonders.

Kai snorts. “Are you planning to hit him up?” There’s not an ounce of anxiety in the question. That man is completely secure in his relationship. He’s not much taller than Emma, but he’s super ripped from jiu-jitsu and the gym. Everything about him oozes masculinity and confidence. But at the same time, he watched Love Island with them all summer and lets Vivi dress him like her own living Ken doll. Uncomplicated. Easy. Nothing like the tight, confusing knot sitting in Emma’s chest every time she thinks about—no. Stop.

“No,” Vivi scoffs, reaching for her phone, “I was thinking Emma should.”

Now Emma laughs. “He’s dating that gymnast, Livvy Dunne.” She shows them the photo she was working on pulling up on IG.

“Ohhhhhh,” Kai and Vivi say in unison. All three of them look at it for a moment. Kai tilts his head to the side. “How does that even work?”

“How does what?” Emma asks, setting her phone back down.

“The height difference,” he clarifies. “She’s like a foot shorter than him.” Don’t think about how tall Brendon is. Don’t think about how you barely come up to his chin. Don’t think.

“Definitely on my ‘I wanna see it’ list,” Vivi says, nodding.

Emma furrows her brows. “See wh—ohhhhhhh!” Her eyes fly open. She puffs out her cheeks, holding her breath as she fights laughter. Grateful for the distraction. For something that doesn’t hit too close.

Vivi looks up at her. “You know when you see a couple that’s like, so hot, you’re just like, ‘I wanna see it?’”

She’s never talked this openly about sex before with anyone. Her parents avoided giving the talk to her until she was seventeen and by then it was too late, she’d heard horror stories from girls on the softball team and had to piece together how it worked on her own. Her parents never even explained the mechanics. They also didn’t explicitly say they expected her to wait until marriage—but the implication was very much there. Rules without explanations. Expectations without clarity.

If it wasn’t for her best friend Cameron, she’d be a total prude. But Cameron’s parents were super open about sex. Her mom—Anna’s—philosophy was ‘don’t buy a car without test driving it.’ And to Emma that seemed much more logical than waiting until you’re legally—and if you really believe in it, spiritually—bound to someone forever. Divorce isn’t an option in the Catholic church she was raised in. Half-heartedly. More culturally Catholic than practicing.

By her senior year of college, she’d been basically cured of her true fear of sex. She’s not going to be struck down by God for having it before marriage. And it seems like far too important of a part of a relationship to skip over while you’re building it. Too important to misread. Too important to get wrong.

Now, hanging out with Vivi, that anxiety is still there sometimes. Like when she makes a risky joke and she isn’t sure how it’ll go over.

Emma nods. “Yeah, you guys,” she says. They both laugh, but she’s really only half-joking. It’d be…interesting. Easy to joke about when it’s not her. When it’s not something that could go wrong.

“Sorry to bring him up again, but you and Dr. Park are totally on the list,” Vivi claims. “I wanna see it.”

Like that. Emma tenses, a peal of nervous laughter escaping her throat. “It’s weird that you call him Dr. Park,” she says, trying to avoid the topic of them having sex. Trying not to think about it. Trying not to picture his hands on her. Failing a little. Failing a lot.

“Sorry he’s technically a superior,” Vivi laughs, “I’m not gonna call him Brendon.”

Kai chuckles. “It’s a strangely unsexy name,” he agrees.

“I mean, I wasn’t thinking like that,” Vivi explains, “it just feels weird to call the doctors by their first names.” She reaches up and pats Emma’s shoulder. “Emma’s the one who has to scream it out during climax.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Never gonna happen.” Too fast. Too firm. Like if she says it hard enough it becomes true.

Vivi sits up and stretches, curling up against Kai and resting her cheek on his shoulder. She looks back at Emma. “You sure?”

“Yep.” 100%. Absolutely. No question. Not even a little bit.

“What would it take?” Kai asks. “Hypothetically.”

“A lot,” Emma sighs. “Like a lot a lot. Probably nothing could change my mind,” she claims. Saying it out loud makes it feel more firm. Holds her accountable. Builds a wall she can hide behind.

“Not even if he throws himself at your feet and grovels?” Kai asks, teasing. Emma extracts a pillow from behind her back and halfheartedly throws it at him. He catches it easily.

“Maybe if he did that,” she concedes. But there’s no way that’s happening. And even if it did…she wouldn’t. She shouldn’t.

Vivi agrees with a snort. “Yeah, would love to see the day Park the Shark gets on his knees and begs.”

Emma thinks she’d love to see that too. A strange feeling twists in her chest—warm and sharp all at once. But she never has to worry about that happening.

Emma: literally all of my workout tops are in the wash 😩

Vivi: why do you need one? 😏

Emma: i cannot just work out in my bra like you

Vivi: what’s stopping you??

Vivi: you’re hot as fuck

Vivi: get yourself a new gym crush 😝

Emma: i’ll consider it 😅

She chickens out at the last minute and throws a hoodie on. An old one from where her brother went to school—Wisconsin. She’s had it since the day they all went to campus to move him in and now it’s well-worn and soft. Which means it’s really not acceptable to wear anywhere but rotting on the couch and the gym. Safe. Anonymous. Invisible. Exactly what she wants.

It’s push day again. In the month since her not-a-date with Brendon, he hasn’t spoken to her once. He’s still there, lurking. She hasn’t been oblivious to the fact that he’s watching her. But at least he’s left her alone. No further embarrassment. And she hasn’t seen him in the ED for an ortho consult either. It’s nice of him to give her space. Polite. She guesses. The burning rage she felt the days after their confrontation has died down to a low simmer. Something she can live with. Something she can finally move past.

Which reignites when she sees him on the cable machine doing chest flies. Annoyingly hot, as per usual. Something flickers in her—why did she ever think he’d be into her? He’s a surgeon. Who looks like that. She was stupid to think he liked her. Stupid to let herself want it. Stupid to miss him.

At least there’s a couple benches open. She sets her water down beside one to mark her territory and walks off in search of a band to warm up her shoulders and arms. Focus. Stay in your lane. He doesn’t exist. When she gets back, there’s a guy loading plates on the one next to hers. He pulls out an airpod when she walks up.

“Sorry, were you using this one?” Emma shakes her head. “Great.” He smiles. It’s a really cute smile, with dimples and slightly protruding front teeth. Warm brown eyes. A silver hoop through his left earlobe. She continues sneaking glances at him as she goes through her warmup. Nice. Normal. Available. Not complicated. Benching 185. Nice arms. Solid chest. A little small.

She scoffs to herself. Get it together. That man isn’t small. He’s just smaller than Brendon. And he needs to stop being the standard for her. He’s not the standard. He doesn’t get to be the standard. Shaking her head, she drops the band—intending to return it later—and starts loading weight on the bench press. She’s up to 70 pounds now.

She sits up after her first set and can’t help but glance over at the guy next to her. He gives her another wide smile and holds out his fist. “Nice.” She knocks her knuckles against his, smiling even as her chest heaves. It was tough, but she could probably go up by 5 pounds. See? This is fine. This is easy. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Standing, she goes to grab the little 2.5 pound weights to put on each side, when the guy waves her down. She pulls off her headphones. “What’s up?”

“I’m Nick,” he says, all friendly. “Let me know if you need a spot.”

Her heart starts beating a little fast, skin suddenly too hot. “Oh, um, thank you! I think I’m good.” Normal nerves. Normal attraction. Nothing loaded behind it. “And, um, I’m Emma.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He lays back for his second set.

No longer caring about it—it’s too hot—Emma unzips her hoodie to get some air flow across her sweaty chest and stomach. She fans herself with the fabric and rolls up her sleeves, not quite confident in taking it off yet. Laying back, she pushes through the heavier set, her back arching slightly as she presses her shoulders into the bench and drives her heels through the floor. Strong. In control. Herself again.

“You’ve been working out here a while, yeah?” Nick asks when she sits back up.

“Oh,” she pants, wiping her forehead, “uh, yeah. Like, three months now I guess.”

“Nice job,” he nods at her, crossing his arms, “you look great.”

“Thanks!” She turns away from him, hiding her face as she suppresses a smile. Behind her, she hears Nick unrack the barbell for another set. Be cool, be cool, be cool. This is good. This is what moving on looks like.

Once her heart rate slows again, she gets into position for her third set. Now the bar feels heavy, and as she’s pushing through the fifth rep, someone comes and stands at the foot of her bench. Probably waiting for her to be done. Stupid. They could just ask Nick, but no, the woman lifting a hundred fewer pounds has less of a right to use the bench press.

As she’s reracking the weight, out of the corner of her eye she catches Nick quickly unloading the bar. By the time she sits up, he’s hightailing it out of there. And yet, the person waiting for the bench remains there. She opens her mouth to tell them off.

Oh goodness.

Brendon is standing at the end of her bench. Drinking from her water bottle. He lifts his eyebrows once as she stares at him, then lowers the bottle from his mouth and hands it to her. She watches his throat bob as he swallows.

Rage. Instant and hot. Flames licking up from her chest into her throat, igniting every part of her body, climbing out along her arms and spreading through her legs. Her vision blurs slightly—it goes a little red as she stares at him. Her heart has never been so loud. There it is. All of it. Every bit she thought she’d gotten over.

“Absolutely not!” She snaps, standing. He takes a step back, eyes wide.

“I just—”

“No! No, no, no.” She shakes her head. “Absolutely not.” She’s speaking loudly enough that people walking by turn their heads towards them, but not quite yelling. His shoulders lift slightly, hands coming up defensively. “You don’t get to do this.” You don’t get to walk back into my space like nothing happened. Chase off the new guy I could move on with.

“Emma—”

“No, it’s my turn to talk,” she says, pointing at her own chest. It’s heaving. Where this bravery is coming from, she has no idea. Maybe it’s hanging out with Dana and Vivi. Maybe it’s the confidence from all her hard work paying off. Maybe it’s how daunted Brendon looks right now, his eyes darting around as more headphones come off, more heads turn towards them. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally the one on the back foot. “You had your turn,” she reminds him. “Now it’s mine.” Something hot burns in her throat. Vindication. Power. It crackles under her skin, unfamiliar and addictive all at once.

He crosses his arms, shifting back and forth. “Okay, Emma.” He says her name like he’s being careful with it now. Like he doesn’t quite know what she’s going to do next, but he’s giving her his full attention. She’s going to enjoy having it.

Her nose wrinkles. “You don’t get to act like that with me,” she starts, gesturing to the water bottle still in his hand. “Like we’re friends or—something else. Not after you made it perfectly clear you have zero interest in me.” She scoffs and turns away, hanging her head. Turning back, she continues, “Didn’t talk to me for a month but the second some other guy did you have to come over here and, what? Mark your territory?” She lifts her eyebrows, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “You made me feel so stupid for thinking you were into me—which, might I remind you, you asked me on a freaking date!” He flinches as the words lash through the air between them. She steps closer, fists clenched by her sides. “Oh, but that was—what word did you use again?”

He coughs. “Unintentional.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Unintentional.” Shaking her head, she exhales sharply. “I may not be a surgeon, I might just be a nurse, but let’s be super clear, there’s only one person between the two of us who can’t read between the lines and it’s not me!” She closes her eyes, chest heaving. God, that felt good. Better than good. Because she’s finally catching up to something that’s been building in her for weeks.

“Are you done?” He asks quietly. His eyes are fixed on the floor, like he can’t look at her. She hopes he feels as much humiliation as she did. Good. Look down. Stay there.

“No!” She snaps again, eyes flying open. “You don’t get to act like a caveman scaring off every guy I talk to when you’re the one who broke it off with me!” A breathless, airy laugh of disbelief escapes her throat. “Don’t touch my stuff,” she says, snatching back her water bottle. “Don’t come near me. Don’t talk to me.” Shaking her head, she lets out all the air she was keeping in. “Now I’m done.”

The heat dissipates into steam. All of it, all the embarrassment, hurt, and anger she’d been holding onto is outside her body now—lingering in the air between them. She sighs and takes a drink of her water, somehow managing to keep staring at him as she puts her mouth right where he put his. Petty. Deliberate. And a little bit…thrilling. Watches his eyes flick over her face, her neck, and back up to her eyes. Watches his pupils dilate even in the low light. There it is. That look. Undeniable. Unmistakable. Scientific proof that he wants her. She snorts, lowering the water bottle and wiping her mouth.

It’s the closest he’s ever going to get to her lips again. He had his chance and blew it. And she’s going to make sure he feels that.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. Wait, she is? “And I deserved all of that.” She turns back to face him, crossing her arms. When he hesitates, she raises her eyebrows. Talk now. He sighs, pushing a hand into his hair. The other one is flexing by his thigh. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself under her attention. “I definitely shouldn’t have done that,” he says, gesturing to the water bottle. “And I also realize I handled things poorly last time we talked.”

“You think?” Emma tilts her head to the side.

He presses his lips together. “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing by being honest, but I—” he sighs, “I realize I wasn’t being honest.”

She stands up a little straighter, listening.

“I—” He hesitates again, looking anywhere but at her. “I…do like you. I really do. So you shouldn’t feel stupid.” He winces. “I shouldn’t have made you feel stupid,” he corrects quickly. “And I’ve missed talking to you. I just—” He runs his hand through his hair again. Carefully choosing his words. “I am moving to California in July.” Finally. Eye contact. Probably the saddest eyes on the planet and for a second, Emma’s chest twinges. “I…panicked.”

“You panicked?” She repeats.

He nods, swallowing. “Yeah. I panicked because I’m not supposed to like someone now. Here. In Pittsburgh. That’s not part of the plan. And I felt like…I was losing control,” he admits. “Of the plan.”

Emma nods slowly, processing. He doesn’t say anything else, or elaborate further on his feelings. Just ‘I like you’ and ‘I panicked.’ Not…her favorite things to hear a guy say. The first one is great, except when it’s delivered in the tone of voice someone uses to announce they have terminal cancer.

She shakes her head again, once, like she’s trying to clear it. “Wait so—so you—you decided you messed up last time we talked and what? You were just going to sit on that but I started talking to another guy and you couldn’t let that stand? You just had to stake a claim?”

He shifts his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kind of…yeah.” At least he has the decency to look cowed when he says it. A little flicker of heat comes back…low in her belly. Okay, maybe she likes this honesty thing. Likes what it does to him. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t back away as he takes a step closer. “And since I’m actually being honest today,” he lowers his voice as he leans in until his mouth is right by her ear, “I’ve never been so turned on as I was when you were yelling at me just now.”

Sheesh. Emma inhales deeply, that familiar post-workout smell that immediately reignites every memory she has of him. She might feel the same way. The way he’d just stood there and taken the verbal lashing has been kind of…sexy. The way he didn’t fight back. The way he let her let him have it. The way he’s still standing here. But that’d let him off too easy. She puts both hands on his chest and shoves—hard. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily,” she tells him. Even as something warm curls low in her stomach at how solid he feels under her hands—and the way his heart thumps under her palm, fast and hard.

He resists for a split second before letting her push him back. A little surge of power goes through her at how easily he gave in—bending to her will. Oh, she could get used to that. Very easily. His eyes are a little more hopeful now. “So there’s a chance I’m getting off the hook, then?”

Emma frowns and turns away. She sits back down on the bench and lays back under the bar. Maybe. If he works for it. Which he already seems to be willing to do, considering how fast he scrambles to get in position to spot her. Of course he does. Of course he listens now. Now he’s willing to admit what he wants.

“Let me take you out,” he says, helping her guide the bar off the rack. “I want to this time. For real.”

Emma scoffs as she presses up for her first rep. “No.”

He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Okay. Um…”

“Before you get that chance again,” she says, slowly, breathless as she pushes through the exercise, “you have to prove to me you like me.” Re-racking the weight, she sits up and turns to look at him. “Because I currently don’t believe you do.” And she’s not going to make it easy for him to convince her otherwise.

“I told you—”

“No, I’m talking,” Emma interrupts calmly. He clams up. Oh, she definitely likes this. The way he stops. The way he listens. The way he waits. “I believe you want to sleep with me,” she clarifies. “I don’t believe you like me.”

He scrunches up his nose, clearly uncomfortable at being called out. “Fine.” Inhaling sharply and rolling his neck around, he asks, “What do I have to do to prove it to you?”

“You can start by unloading that barbell and wiping down the bench for me,” Emma says, standing and gathering up her stuff. His mouth falls open slightly. “But I’ll text you a list of the rest of the tasks.” Absurd things. Stuff he’ll never do. No way he follows through. That’s the point.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious?”

Emma walks towards him, smiling. She puts her hand on his chest, just to feel him tense under her palm, and looks up at him. Feels his breath hitch. Feels it. “As an amputated leg, Dr. Park.” She pats him twice and walks away, knowing he whipped around to watch her. Of course he does. Of course he watches her go. He never stopped watching her.

This is going to be so much fun. And if he actually does it—if he actually shows up and does every ridiculous thing she plans to throw at him—her pulse kicks up at the thought. Goodness. That would be…something.

Chapter Text

Emma: you’re in charge of my meal prep for the next week

Emma: has to fit my macros. has to taste good.

Brendon: Fine. What do you want?

Emma: i’ll let you off easy with this one

Emma: i like the way you cook steak

Emma: you can deliver it to the nurses station

Brendon: Seriously?

Emma: i might give you bonus points if you bring me breakfast too

Emma’s head snaps up as the tupperware clangs against the desk next to her elbow. Brendon stacks a cup of Greek yogurt on top of it. One side of her mouth twitches up—unable to hide that she’s impressed. That tiny reaction hits him harder than it should, a quick, sharp pulse of satisfaction in his chest—proof that he got something right. She glances at the time on the computer.

“7:05.” She nods. “If only you’d been here five minutes before the start of my shift so I could actually eat.” Turning back to the computer, she asks, “What’d you bring me?”

“Greek yogurt—”

“Yeah, obviously.” Damn. His chest twinges at that. He did exactly the thing he hates people doing—stating the obvious. He knows better than that.

“With,” he continues through his teeth, “granola, chia seeds, pumpkin seeds, flax seeds, blueberries, raspberries, and pomegranate seeds. 550 calories, 50 grams of protein, 15 grams of fiber.”

She’d texted her requirements, likes, and dislikes after telling him what his first task was. It was a ridiculously long list—something that she must have actually spent some time on. Included information about when during the day she can eat and which days she’s working this week. Specifications about how she liked things prepared. That she doesn’t like meat or eggs in the morning, but she will eat eggs—not hard boiled, but soft boiled is okay—later in the day as a snack.

It was amazing. He loved it. Her incredibly specific parameters. The fact that she hates bananas. Her favorite fruit is kiwi—which is awesome because it’s so nutritionally dense. It was like…an intricate logic puzzle specifically for him to solve. Every constraint, every preference, every tiny rule felt like a clue she’d handed him—something he could study, memorize, get right. He spent all of his last day off planning, grocery shopping, and getting started. But he didn’t actually meal prep—he wants to make sure everything is fresh for her. Because she matters.

It only adds to the level of difficulty that he has to work around his own work and gym schedule while finding time to feed himself. Not that he really notices—his own meals have already started to feel like an afterthought compared to hers.

He’s sure she thinks he won’t get through all her little requirements to prove his feelings for her—but she doesn’t know him that well yet. He’ll do them all and he’ll do them perfectly. Just like every assignment in med school. Every bit of grunt work he did as an intern. And every single surgery he performs now. He doesn’t fail at things he cares about. And right now—this—feels like the most important thing he’s been handed in a long time.

He just won’t think about July ticking closer and closer with every passing day. Won’t think about the clock running down on something he’s only just gotten back. It just means he doesn’t have any time to waste. He already wasted a month he could have been with her. Talking to her. Kissing her. Learning everything about her. A month he can’t get back, no matter how perfectly he does this now.

“Sounds great,” she says, not even looking at him. “See you at lunch.”

That’s all? He scoffs a little, leaning against the desk. “You don’t have any notes for me?” What can I do better? What else do you need? Tell me and I’ll do it. Give me something I can fix.

She glances up, her mouth open slightly as she holds back laughter, the corners pulled back in an incredulous but elated expression. She’s enjoying this a little too much. But that’s okay. If this is what it takes to keep that look on her face, he’ll play along all day. “You did what I asked you to do. What I expected. Nothing more.”

His eyebrows lift. “Okay.” He nods, glancing around. Luckily, nobody’s paying a lick of attention to them. “Thought you said breakfast was for bonus points?”

“Would you like to spend those points or save them for later?” This time her lips twitch into a real smile. Oh, this is a very fun game. He feels it settle into place between them again—rules, structure, something he can hold onto. He peeks at her screen to make sure there’s not something funny on there. Just night shift notes though.

“Hm.” He taps his fingers on her desk. “What are my options for spending them?”

“I guess that depends on what you want,” she says, sighing as she leans on her hand. He reaches out to touch one of the curls hanging in her face and she jerks away. “You touch my hair and you’re going to be amputating your own hand.”

He withdraws, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Noted. I—”

“Dr. Park!” His head snaps up, tearing his eyes away from Emma. Dana strides over and puts her hand on his shoulder. It takes a supreme amount of energy not to shrug her off. “I hope you’re not harassing my nurses.”

“I would never, Dana,” he replies, standing and slipping out of her grasp even though it puts her between him and Emma. “Just—”

“He’s down here to look at that kid in North 2,” Emma says quickly, jumping up. She smiles brightly at Dana. “Wrist fracture.” Brendon lifts his eyebrows, impressed by her quick thinking. Effortless. Like she does this all the time.

Dana looks back and forth between them. “No reason to call ortho all the way down here for that.” Oh no.

Emma shrugs and grabs her breakfast. “He was already down here, so I snagged him.” She leans in to whisper, “Nervous mom. It’ll make her feel better.” Nice save. With her free hand, she reaches up and grabs his sleeve, tugging him along after her. “Come on, let’s go.” The contact is brief, but he holds onto it, the way her fingers tighten in the fabric.

He follows her, shooting a look back at Dana he hopes is innocent, like, What can you do? But she only narrows her eyes, hands planted on her hips as she watches them go. Yeah, she’s not buying it. He doesn’t particularly care.

There is, in fact, a kid with a broken wrist in North 2, but one of the ED doctors is already in there fitting a cast. Emma leads him straight past them to the break room, where she reaches up into one of the cabinets for a bowl, then digs in a drawer and comes up with a spoon. Brendon leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and watching her carefully. Taking in the small, automatic movements—the way she knows exactly where everything is, the way she moves like she belongs here. It’s clear she does.

He wants to tell her again that he’s sorry—that he really thought he was doing the right thing when he broke it off. That he was keeping her from more pain in the long run. He still wonders if he isn’t causing her more harm by getting her hopes up. But based on how she’s acting, the only one getting their hopes up is him. And that realization sits heavier than he’d like.

Because it hit him about five seconds after he walked away from her a month ago, what a massive mistake he was making. He’d never felt like that before—that emptiness. Immediate and overwhelming. Like he’d lost his left lung.

But he’d already let her go. What was he supposed to do? Turn around and say never mind? Actually I am really into you. You’re super cool and kind and smart and you might be the hottest person I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m just a coward. And an idiot. He wanted to say all those things for a month, but never had the balls to until she was talking to some other guy and he realized he might actually miss his chance. He still wants to say it all now. It sits right there, just under his tongue, heavy and impossible to shape into something that wouldn’t make everything worse.

But instead he asks, “Wanted to spend more time with me?” He glances at his watch. He needs to be upstairs in seven minutes. But he’s a little too hopeful she’ll say yes. Because he’ll do whatever she asks of him to get back on her good side. No matter how ridiculous the request. No matter how far it pushes him out of the careful structure he’s built for himself.

“Just saving you from Dana’s wrath,” she sighs, spooning her yogurt into a bowl. When it’s sufficiently mixed, she looks over at him, licking the spoon—first one side, then the other. Fuck’s sake. Wherever this newfound confidence she has came from, he’s into it. More than into it. It makes something low and warm twist in his chest.

“How very kind of you,” he says, nodding once. Careful. Controlled. Like he’s not affected at all.

“Brendon?”

He looks up at her again. “Yeah?”

“Get out of the ED now,” she says, smiling sweetly.

“Right, yeah, okay.” He nods, feeling dismissed. Standing up straight again, he starts tapping his fingers against his thumb. “See you at lunch.” Turning back he asks, “What time do you want it?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs and takes another bite. He has to wait for her to finish chewing before she adds, “At some point.”

That’s vague. That’s hard to work with. But she’s not wrong. The ED isn’t like surgeries—they’re not meticulously scheduled and arranged. She doesn’t have a set lunch time. Which means he’s going to have to guess. And get down here without arousing suspicion between either of their superiors. Shit. This is going to be harder than he thought. He runs a hand through his hair, tapping his fingers a little faster. Uncertainty. Variables. No fixed window. He’ll have to account for all of it.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Whatever you want. I’ll be back.”

“Can’t wait.” Doesn’t sound like it. But her mouth twitches just enough that he knows she doesn’t entirely mean that either.

On his way back to the elevator, Vivi falls into step beside him. “Hello, Dr. Park,” she says coolly.

“Vivi.”

“What are you doing down here?” She asks, not looking at him. He walks a little faster. Why is the elevator so far away? She matches his stride as they pass the Hub. “Are you bothering Emma?”

He chuckles. “Why does everyone assume I’m bothering her?”

“Because you were a jackass,” she shoots right back. When he glances down at her, she’s looking at him with complete revulsion. Yikes. “You really fucked her over, you know that right?”

“Yes, I know,” he agrees, sighing. “I’m very aware.”

“And am I tripping or did I not hear through the grapevine that you have a fellowship in LA next year?” She asks as they skirt around trauma one.

“That…is also true,” he tells her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody’s watching or listening. The timeline presses in again, unwelcome and constant.

“So…why are you getting her hopes up again?” Vivi demands. “Do you have some kind of fetish for fucking with women’s feelings? Boosting up just to bring them crashing down?” She darts in front of him as he presses the up button and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t—I didn’t—have any intentions of hurting her,” he says simply. The only opinion he cares about is Emma’s. And she wants him to prove his feelings for her are real. So that’s what he’ll do. Intent doesn’t matter. Outcome does. He knows that better than anyone. Because this isn’t the first time he’s hurt someone with his own good intentions.

Vivi crosses her arms. “If I see her crying again and find out it’s because of you, just know that I’m not afraid of you. Everyone else might be, but not me.” She lifts her eyebrows and glances down at his hand, fingers still tapping against his thumb. “So if you want to keep being a surgeon,” she looks him in the eye again, “don’t fuck with my friend.”

The elevator door opens. Brendon nods once as he slides past her, turning back around to say, “You should ask her about it, Vivi.” He smiles. “If anyone’s fucking around with someone’s feelings—it’s not me.”

The elevator doors slide shut before she can respond and he exhales slowly. This is going to be quite the week. And for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how it’s going to go—and he doesn’t entirely hate that.

Emma: bonus points earned for managing to reheat the steak to medium and getting it here while i was between patients 👏🏽

Brendon: How many points do I have now?

Emma: are you keeping track?

Brendon: I would be if I knew the point system.

Emma: not gonna spend the time coming up with them for this

Brendon: Please?

Emma: maybe if you earn enough

Brendon loved a message

“So you’re just doing…whatever she wants for…a week?” Nate says as he stands at the head of the bench press, arms crossed, no intention of helping with the 245 pounds on the bar. His tone makes it sound ridiculous—like Brendon’s lost his mind—but there’s a sharp curiosity under it too.

“For as long as it takes,” Brendon corrects as he pushes through the fifth rep. Muscles straining, breath catching—he’s a little too focused, a little too tight. On the sixth, he gets stuck. “Dude, can you actually spot me?”

Nate curls one hand under the bar, exerting as little effort as possible. “You know sometimes I wonder if pussy really is that good,” he says. “Is it really worth all that? Because I’d never do this much to get with a guy.” The barbell clangs back into the rack and Brendon sits up, frowning.

“Okay, one, don’t talk about her like that,” he says, shaking his head. Nate raises his hands defensively, shrugging. “And two, that’s because men aren’t worth shit.”

Nate laughs. “That’s true. You’re right.”

“Including me,” Brendon mutters as he reaches for his water bottle before standing so Nate can take his spot. It slips out before he can stop it.

“You did what you had to do,” Nate says, sliding onto the bench and adjusting his grip. “You’re leaving. Now you’re being a fucking idiot.” He grunts as he lifts the bar. “Because you’re still leaving.” Each word lands in time with the reps—heavy, unavoidable.

“I’m aware,” Brendon says through his teeth.

Nate re-racks the weight. “So what, you’re just going to screw her over in nine months?” He laughs dryly. “Force her to move across the country for you? Or worse, long distance?” The options sound worse out loud.

All of the aforementioned scenarios have been running through Brendon’s mind for the last week. He won’t ask her to move. But long distance never works. He’ll get busy with work. She’ll meet someone new. They’ll break up in three months. The only good option is to look for a different fellowship. Something in Pittsburgh. But it’s the Kerlan-Jobe clinic. It’s one of the top sports medicine fellowships in the country. They work with professional athletes from every team in LA. It’s a dream spot. A once-in-a-career kind of opportunity. The kind you don’t turn down. The kind everything else is supposed to come second to.

He really doesn’t want to give it up.

“I don’t know, man,” he sighs as he gets back in position for his second set. “I really don’t fucking know and I hate it.” Hates not having a clear answer. Hates not knowing the right move.

“So why are you screwing with the plan?” Nate asks. “All you talk about is the plan. Not messing with the plan. Sticking to the plan.” He hooks his hand under the bar again to help with the final rep. “I told you to get laid, not start calling her mommy.” He says it like a joke, but he’s watching Brendon closely now.

Brendon scoffs as he sits up. “What the hell makes you say that?”

Nate fights a smirk. “Dude, have you met your mom? Or yourself around your mom?”

Brendon pulls back, automatically shaking his head. Immediate denial. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He stands, staring at Nate until he explains. “I genuinely don’t understand the connection here,” he admits. And he doesn’t—but he doesn’t like the implication either.

Nate laughs. “So this has never happened before?”

“What has never happened before?” Brendon repeats. He starts tapping the tips of his fingers against his thumb. Something is tightening in his chest, the feeling he gets when someone knows something he doesn’t. Especially something about him.

“You’ve never been with a woman who stands up to you,” Nate explains. He gestures to Brendon’s general direction. “You’re super hot, drive a nice car, and you’re a surgeon—almost guaranteed a pretty damn nice salary once you finish that fellowship.” He clicks his tongue. “I bet you’ve never had to work for it before.”

Brendon shifts. “You know I didn’t always look like this, right?” He narrows his eyes. “I had to work pretty hard to get in shape. I wasn’t like you—I wasn’t just skinny and only needed to put on muscle,” he reminds him. “I had a bunch of weight to cut.”

Nate waves him off. “Yeah well, were you getting laid before that?”

“No,” Brendon says. “I was like twenty. That’s…normal.” Average age males in America start having sex is seventeen. Roughly half of people have sex between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Which means the other half have it either before or after.

“So since you got all muscular and sexy,” Nate says, leaning his elbows on the barbell. He huffs out a laugh. “Have you ever had any trouble getting laid?”

Honestly, no. Brendon shakes his head. Usually if he likes a girl at a bar or something, he just walks up, asks her about herself and if he can buy her a drink. It’s always been straightforward. He says as much to Nate.

Nate opens his palms, shrugging. “I promise you, you’re having it easier than most guys.” He waffles a bit, then concedes, “But I do think it probably helps you treat them like people.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He scoffs. “They are people.” The idea that that’s unusual bothers him more than it should.

Nate smiles. “You’re a rare man, bro. I promise you, they’re falling all over you because you’re hot and you’re nice.” Standing up, he adds, “So this is the first time a woman has made you work for it.”

“Yeah but it’s not work!” Brendon exclaims. Forcing his voice back to a normal volume, he says, “It’s…fun.” And it is. That’s the problem.

“Oh my god I think I finally have an opportunity to say this,” Nate says excitedly, standing up again. “You’re whipped!” He grins. “I feel so straight saying that.” He looks way too pleased with himself.

Brendon frowns. “I’m not…whatever. I just like her. And I feel bad for jumping the gun before I figured that out. I’m just making it up to her. And we’re having fun,” he insists. “It’s like a game.”

“A game?” Nate asks.

“Yeah,” Brendon reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, “she…comes up with some ridiculous, tedious thing she wants me to do and then she pretends not to be impressed when I do it perfectly.” Even as he says it, there’s a flicker of something else—something less clinical, more charged.

Nate nods. “You ever been to a gay bar?”

“No.” What does that have to do with anything?

He explains, “So I meet a lot of people. Back in Seattle, I used to go to this leather bar, you know, cause the guys were hot and the drinks were great, right?”

“I’m not following,” Brendon admits. He doesn’t really want to ask what a leather bar is, but he thinks he gets it. “How does this connect?” He’s already pretty sure he’s not going to like where this is going.

“Do you know what a leather daddy is?” He can guess. Brendon hesitates, then nods. Nate smirks. “You remind me of the guys they kept on a leash.”

Brendon protests immediately. “No, no, it’s not like that at all,” he tries to explain, even as a flicker of uncertainty goes through his chest. He taps his fingers faster. “It’s just…for fun! It’s not even a sex thing, she’s just making me prove I think she’s worth all the trouble. Which she is,” he adds firmly. He’s sure of that. That part, at least, isn’t up for debate.

Nate pats him on the arm as they swap positions again. “Maybe you guys don’t put on the costumes, but, dude,” he shakes his head, still smiling, “that’s about as domme and sub as it gets.” He says it casually, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Brendon’s face.

The flicker of uncertainty doesn’t leave Brendon’s diaphragm. Not through the rest of the workout, not on the way home. Not through his shower or his rounds or the whole way down to the ED to bring Emma her breakfast. It sits there, low and persistent, impossible to ignore.

She liked the yogurt bowl, so he kept making them for her—only asking for him to take out the chia seeds because they get stuck in her teeth. Dana eyes him suspiciously as she’s been doing every time he walks by the Hub looking for Emma. Today she finally calls out.

“She’s with a patient in Central Nine, Dr. Park.”

He stops. Turns. Takes a deep breath. “I promise, I’m not taking up her time. I understand how busy the ED is.”

Dana takes off her glasses and puts her hand on her hip. She sighs. “Put it in the break room, label it with the post it notes on top of the microwave,” she tells him, “then take your expertise to trauma two because we called for ortho a half an hour ago.”

Oh. Well, shit. They probably never planned to respond to that—half the time if they wait long enough, the ED fixes whatever it was or trauma goes down and it turns out to be non-surgical. It’s not a good system, but it’s just how the attendings operate. But not his problem to solve. He nods once and starts walking away. “I’ll be right back.”

He manages to get Emma’s food to the break room and slip past Dana up the west elevator. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time for a consult on a non-surgical fracture. There’s a real surgery upstairs.

Emma: can you drive me to Greensburg on Sunday?

Brendon: Of course. What for?

Emma: pick me up at 10:30

Brendon: I’ll be there.

Brendon is parked in Emma’s driveway at 10:27am on Sunday, wondering if he should go and knock on the door. He checks the time again even though he already knows it, thumb tapping once against the steering wheel—early, but not too early. He’s halfway out of the car when the front door opens and she appears. Oh no. Every thought in his head just…stops. He swallows, eyes scanning her bare legs. Slowly, before he can stop himself.

Her lacy white skirt rides up her thighs as she bends down slightly to lock the door behind her. The movement is small but it pulls his focus in. With it, she’s wearing a soft-looking yellow sweater that’s a little too big on her, sleeves pooling around her wrists. As she turns and walks down the steps, she pulls the cuffs over her hands. Frilly white socks poke out of the tops of her boots and he takes it all in again as he drags his eyes back up to her face. She stops beside the passenger door and looks at him.

“Where’s your car?”

He glances down at the green truck between them. “Oh, I traded vehicles with my buddy, Nate.” He swallows. Trying to sound normal. Casual. Like he didn’t just forget how to speak for a second. “Just in case you were picking up something big.”

There’s a flicker of something he can’t read in her eyes. Amusement? Suspicion? He can’t tell—and that bothers him more than it should. She presses her lips together, spreading her shiny lip gloss. “Do I have to open the door for myself?”

“No, no, of course not.” He scrambles around the hood of the truck to reach around and open the door for her. He should’ve already been there. Nate’s truck isn’t super tall—it’s an old Chevy Colorado—but he offers her his hand anyway. She doesn’t take it, smoothing her skirt underneath her legs instead and arranging her tote bag near her feet. “Comfy?”

“It’s chilly,” she admits. “Turn the truck on.”

“Yes ma’am,” slips out before he can stop it. Shit. He shuts her door and shakes his head at himself. Nate’s words have been playing in his head the past few days. There’s nothing…sexual about what they’re doing. It’s just him proving himself to her. The fact that whenever she gives him a new task he feels hot all over and when she tells him he’s earned points—which she still hasn’t developed a system for or told him what he can use them on—all that heat gathers at the base of his spine is completely irrelevant. Just a physiological response. Means nothing. He refuses to examine it any closer than that.

He opens the door, grabbing his phone from his pocket before he sits. “Do you have an address?” He asks, opening maps and handing the phone over.

“Mmhm,” she says, taking it and typing carefully. His iPhone Pro Max is too big for her hands. He’s always liked that the size was comfortable in his palm, but she doesn’t type as fast as he’s seen her type on her own, smaller phone. “Here you go.”

“Also, Nate put in a modern radio with Bluetooth,” he points out. “It’s a bit of a drive, do you want to play music?”

She sits up a little straighter, grabbing her phone from where she’d stashed it under her leg. “Will do.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s very happily driving east on 376, listening to soft pop music he’s never heard before, but is enjoying nonetheless. Especially when she starts singing along, first softly, beneath the speakers, then louder by the end, as she settles in. Her voice layering over the track, warmer, closer—his attention drifting from the road for half a second too long before he forces it back. It’s always hard for him to parse out the lyrics of the verses on the first listen of a song, but he gets most of the chorus. Just come be the man I need. Tell me you got something to give, I want it. He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, sitting up a little straighter. That feels pointed. Too pointed. If she’s going to be that on the nose, he should pay better attention.

She sits with her knees angled towards the center of the bench seat and he wishes she’d move over to the middle—the armrest goes up to form a third seat—so she’d be right next to him. He could easily reach out and put his hand on her knee, but he hasn’t tried to touch her since the day she threatened to bite off his hand. Boundary. Noted. Respected. Even if it’s getting harder. Maybe she wore that skirt to torture him.

The next song is one he actually recognizes, because he was still in college and paying attention to music releases when it came out. “This was such a good album,” he comments, sitting back as the birds chirping and alarm in the intro fade into the plucky synth and piano before the drums come in. The familiarity settles him a little—something he already knows.

Emma looks over at him. “You know it?”

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “This came out when I was finishing up my third year of undergrad.” He laughs dryly. “I love the song but it always felt like it came out too late for me.”

Emma giggles. “Yeah, opposite experience for me because I was thirteen and it felt, like, aspirational almost. You know?” She turns to look out the window. “I wasn’t really a teenager yet so, I think it gave me ideas about what high school was going to be like that failed to come true.”

“What do you mean?”

He catches the movement of her shrugging her shoulders out of the corner of his eye. She pauses to sing the chorus before answering—he’d join her, but he’s a terrible singer and he’d just ruin how lovely her voice is. That’s the lie of an American teen…

“I dunno, I thought I’d have this big friend group and we’d be like, sneaking out and drinking and kissing boys and stuff and none of that…happened,” she says softly. “I mean, obviously I was in the spring of my sophomore year when Covid hit, so I spent the rest of that and all of junior year doing school online. But even before that I didn’t really have any friends,” she admits.

Brendon can’t really imagine that if he’s being honest. That she didn’t have any friends. Everyone loves her. She lights up every room she enters like a walking ray of sunshine. How could she not have been surrounded by people? This girl who exudes kindness and throws herself into everything with keen determination? How could people not flock to her? It doesn’t add up with the version of her he knows now—the one who draws people in without even trying. He goes with the safest response.

“I’m sorry about the pandemic,” he tells her softly.

She nods. “Yeah, I mean, I just lowkey didn’t mind.”

An ache settles in his heart. That’s not the answer he expected. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t, like, being forced to go to school and interact with people I didn’t really like every day,” she says. “I got into knitting.” She holds out her arm. “I made this sweater.”

He looks at her in shock. “You made that? Holy shit, that’s awesome.” His hand hovers near her arm, heart pounding as he asks, “Can I feel it?”

“Sure.”

The material is a little scratchy under his palms, but not unbearable. The heat of her body beneath the knit is the truly heavenly part. Warmer than he expects. He has to pull his focus back from that. “Wow,” he says softly, because the knit is so tight he thought it was machine-made. “That must have taken a long time. It looks so good.”

“Thanks!” She pulls her arm back, running her own fingers over the knit as she curls in on herself slightly. “It took like, two months, but I did it.”

“That’s…incredible,” he says. So much time spent agonizing over every stitch and she just casually gets to wear it now. He suddenly wishes he had a creative outlet like that. The only thing the gym produces is his body. That’s not creation, just a scientific effect of his work. Still an accomplishment, but not one he particularly likes to show off. “You’re so talented.” He means it in a way that feels deeper than just the sweater.

She turns her face away, shoulders creeping up. “Thanks.” It comes out softer than the first one. Like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of attention.

He leaves her alone as the song ends, glancing at her typing—much faster—on her own phone. The next one is bright, with a sort of marimba-style synth layered over acoustics. It’s fun, even when the vocals come in—which he can’t understand.

“Is this in French?”

“Yeah, it’s like, French EDM,” she says. “One of my friends back home got really into this artist. I just find this song super calming.” Then she nearly takes him completely out when she starts singing along—in perfect French.

Every time he gets a tidbit of information about her, every time he learns something new, it only makes him hungrier. Not satisfied—never satisfied—just wanting more. “You…speak French,” he concludes when she stops again.

“Yeah, but not like, France French,” she explains. “My mom’s from Guadeloupe, so it’s a French creole that we speak at home.” She gestures to the radio. “But I understand it in the song.”

Okay. So…she’s out of his league. Not that he ever really thought he was good enough for her, but as it turns out, she’s way cooler and smarter than him. It makes the memory of her spitting, I might not be a surgeon, I might only be a nurse, at him hurt even more. Because wow, he really did fuck it up completely with this incredibly sweet, incredibly intelligent woman because he couldn’t get his own head out of his ass. He didn’t just misread her—he underestimated her.

He asks, “Do I have to spend my points to compliment you again or am I just allowed to?” Which earns him a laugh, just a little one, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything she gives him.

“You can compliment me,” she acquiesces. Twirling one of her curls around her finger, she adds, “Just can’t promise I take it well.” Ouch. Well then, he has to use this wisely.

“I really like how your brain works,” he tells her. She looks over at him, eyes all wide even as her eyebrows pinch together when he glances at her. “And I like finding out more about how you think and what you like because you keep surprising me.” Because he can’t predict her—and for once, he doesn’t want to be able to. He likes giving that up—enjoying the surprises.

“Yeah?” She says it softly, like she’s checking if he’ll double down on it.

He taps his thumb against the steering wheel. “So, something about how my brain works—I don’t really say things that aren’t true.”

She shifts, sitting back against the window to look at him, hands folded in her lap. “Go…on,” she says slowly.

“Obviously, there are situations where you have to lie a little,” he explains, “like when someone asks ‘How are you?’ and you’re having a shitty day and you have to lie because they don’t really care?” She nods. “I have to be really careful because I have to feel like I’m not lying.”

“Is that what was happening when you decided to tell me you didn’t mean to ask me on a date?” Her voice is soft, but guarded. “You couldn’t feel like you were lying?”

He swallows. “Kind of. I mean, it’s not…wrong. When I asked you over for dinner, I wasn’t thinking about it as a date,” he admits. “I just wanted to keep talking with you, because you’re really fun, and you were asking about stuff I could talk about for hours.” And he didn’t want that to end.

“Yeah,” Emma scoffs a little, “you did.”

“But I wouldn’t have,” he says, “if I was thinking about it as a date.” He looks between her and the road, trying to catch her reaction. “I would have asked you a lot more about yourself. I wouldn’t have monopolized the whole thing.” He sees it clearly now—too late.

She nods, pressing her lips together. “I honestly didn’t feel like you did,” she says. “I just like being around you.” She shrugs. “Or I did. Until, you know, you basically told me I was delusional.”

“You were never delusional,” he says firmly. “You weren’t reading my behavior wrong. I wasn’t thinking about it because you make me feel comfortable enough to relax—so I just…acted without thinking.” He swallows. “And when I act without thinking around you, I act like I like you, because that’s how I feel.”

She nods, looking away from him. “I just hope you can understand how hard that is for me to believe.” Her mouth twists as she considers her next words. “I was sort of trying to explain why I think it’s hard for me to believe you when we were talking about Covid.”

He nods as the connection forms in his brain. “Oh, okay, I see.” Sort of. A little. Not really, but he’s going to try. “Kind of,” he admits. “You might have to explain what you’re connecting here.” He doesn’t want to get this wrong again.

She smiles a little. “Appreciate the backtrack into honesty there,” she tells him. “I just like, didn’t have many friends and sort of floated between groups in high school.” She tugs on the cuff of her sleeve. “Nobody ever really asked me to dances or anything, like not even as a friend,” she admits. “And even my college boyfriend just never seemed interested in me.”

“I wanted to say this before,” he interrupts, “but what a loser. Sorry, go on.” He can’t help it.

Her smile widens a little, and she sits up a little straighter. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I don’t know why I dated him.” Sighing, she continues, “I also just sort of drifted through college, except for Cameron—my best friend.” He knows who Cameron is. She mentioned her a bunch before. “But I didn’t really feel like people wanted to be around me until like, recently.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Vivi’s like, definitely already one of my best friends,” she explains, and his stomach sinks a little at the proof that she wasn’t talking about him. Even though he’s glad she feels like people want to be around her now. Still—he wants to be part of that list. “And even though I miss my family, I really like what I have here, in Pittsburgh, with work and the gym. You know?”

Oh fuck. He absolutely doesn’t. All he’s ever thought about is getting out of Pennsylvania. So he has to do the thing where he doesn’t answer the question so he doesn't lie. “I’m really glad you found that here.” True—he just wishes he could stay and be part of the community she’s building for herself. He taps his thumbs faster as the song changes and she leans in to turn it up. The truth sitting heavy in his chest, unsaid.

“Ooh, I love this song.” She sings along to all of it but only the chorus sticks out to him.

Did I build this ship to wreck?

Mom: Don’t forget dinner at 6.

Brendon: Skipping this week. Helping out a friend.

Mom liked a message

“I think this is the place,” Brendon says as he turns carefully into the small space left in the driveway. Emma stiffens as she looks out through the window, sitting up straight and folding her hands in her lap. The shift is immediate—subtle but unmistakable—and it pulls his attention fully to her. The rest of it is taken up by a Dodge Ram, a beat up old Ford Taurus, and a Harley Davidson. He peers over Emma’s shoulder at the American flag hanging off the porch, noticing her trying to take slow breaths. Controlled. Measured. Like she’s actively trying not to react. “Do you…want me to come up with you?” He asks.

Emma nods quickly. “Yes please,” she says quietly. No hesitation at all.

The yard is well-kept, leaves raked into a pile but not disposed of yet. There are four not-yet-carved pumpkins on the steps leading up to the porch, which creak under his feet. It’s all very suburban, just a little worn down. Normal on the surface. Nothing he can point to. Emma’s breathing a little fast as she pulls open the screen door and knocks on the one behind it. Stepping back, she bumps into his shoulder, mumbling, “Sorry,” as she steps aside.

“It’s okay,” he says, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on her back. Careful this time. Slower. Giving her time to pull away if she wants. She tenses briefly, then relaxes as he lets his thumb stroke up and down her spine. The tension bleeds out under his hand, little by little. She takes a deep breath and lets it out just as the door opens.

“Hi! Are you Lynn? I’m Emma,” she says quickly and brightly, taking a step back towards the door. Voice pitched just a touch higher than usual—polished, practiced.

The woman is a little shorter than Emma, with stringy blonde hair that might be a little gray, and watery blue eyes. The corners of her mouth are firmly turned downwards as she looks Emma up and down. A long look. Appraising. Not subtle. Her eyes flick over to Brendon and she tilts her head to the side. Emma brings her hands together, twisting the ring on her index finger. A small, repetitive motion—something to do with her hands. Only after she seems to have taken him in does the woman paste on a smile.

“That’s me,” she confirms. “Wait here, I’ll go get it.”

She leaves the door open as she turns back into the house, so both of them peer through the screen door. Lots of half-packed boxes and knick knacks all over. They seem to be arranged into categories on the shelves behind the couch. Lynn reappears carrying a wooden box. It’s decently large, but not big enough that she should be straining under the weight of it as much as she is.

“Here it is,” she says, shoving the door open with her shoulder. Emma rushes to take it from her, hefting it easily from her.

“Thank you sooo much, it’s so beautiful!” She exclaims, holding it up to look it over. Now that he can see it better, Brendon realizes it’s a jewelry box. One half of it is glass with frosted flowers printed on the door, the other half is drawers with little heart-shaped windows and brass handles. Emma examines it carefully, testing the door and drawers. One of them sticks a little, but she doesn’t seem to worry about it. “How much again?”

Brendon automatically reaches for the box when she hands it to him, holding it carefully as she pulls her wallet out of her tote bag. The snap doesn’t seem to work, but it’s also overstuffed. He shifts the box for a better grip so he doesn’t drop what is clearly very old and precious. The wood still smells fresh, oak maybe. Solid. Well-made. Meant to last.

“Twenty-five,” Lynn says.

“Here,” Emma holds out three bills, “I don’t have a five. You can keep it. Are you moving?”

Lynn pushes the cash in her pocket. “Cleaning out my parents’ house,” she admits. “Momma passed away so we’re moving Daddy into assisted living.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Emma says immediately. No hesitation. No stumble. Just warmth. Brendon’s chest tightens the way it always does when a social interaction goes off script. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say when a stranger mentions someone close to them died, but Emma does. “Is this your mom’s?

Lynn nods. “She’s had it since she was probably your age.”

Emma smiles softly. “I promise I’ll take great care of it. What was your mom’s name?”

“Emmaline,” Lynn admits, sniffling a little. “When you messaged me to buy it I just thought…it was meant to be.”

Emma’s smile grows, taking over her entire face. There’s that sun beam. Bright enough to change the whole tone of the moment. “Oh, that’s so sweet. Thank you so much. I’ll always think of your mom when I use it.” She leans forward. “Okay if I give you a hug?”

“Oh, thank you,” Lynn says, accepting and rubbing Emma’s back. “You’re so sweet.” She glances at Brendon over Emma’s shoulder and smiles at him. He manages to return it. But just barely. Still caught on the way Emma handled that—effortless in a way he can’t replicate.

Once they’ve settled the box on the floor of the backseat, wrapped in a moving pad so it won’t be damaged, she turns to him. “Sorry for not telling you it was small,” she giggles. “When you showed up with the truck I almost lost it, but I managed to hold it in because I wanted to see your face.” There’s a hint of mischief there—she enjoyed it.

“You’re so good with people,” he says in a low voice. “You…knew exactly what to say to her.” He’s still a little in awe of it.

“Oh,” she wrinkles her nose a little, “I just talk with a lot of people all the time.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “you…you were amazing. That was so kind of you.” He doesn’t let her brush it off. Not this time.

She sighs. “Yeah, well, I guess I try to be as much as I can.”

A lump settles in his throat. The world hasn’t been very kind to her, but still she leads with it. Pours back into the world what hasn’t been given freely to her. Suddenly he understands why she went back after her terrible first day. Because Emma is the type of person who goes into medicine to help people—and because she’s truly good at doing that. He swallows it.

“You do a great job,” he tells her softly.

“Thanks.” She looks away, buckling her seatbelt and leaning against the window.

He sighs, leaving it at that, and puts the truck in reverse. As they’re leaving, he takes a different route. “Not that I think I’ve earned it or anything,” he says, glancing at her, “but downtown Greensburg is pretty nice if you’re interested in lunch.” After the hour drive, he’s a little hungry, but will head straight home if she tells him to. He leaves the choice entirely with her.

She glances at him. “You haven’t earned it,” she agrees. “But I’ll let it slide because I’m hungry.”

Sometimes, she’s too nice to him. Or maybe she just wants to be here too.

They end up at a place called Badges Bar & Grille on Pittsburgh Street. Low lit, wooden bar top, stained glass lamps. Emma tucks her skirt under her thighs as she slides into the antique wooden chair he pulls out for her.

She looks a little out of place in the rustic, masculine space, but it only makes her shine more, her yellow sweater highlighted by the glow of the bulb above them. Like the room adjusts around her instead of the other way around. But when the waiter comes over, she fits right in, not that he expected her to be intimidated. She teases him for ordering his cheeseburger without veggies but accepts his explanation that he thinks they ruin the burger, and lets him finish her fries. The tightness in his chest fades a little every time she laughs, even when she teases him—he knows it’s lighthearted. It’s easy again. Just like it was before.

As they’re walking back to the truck—several blocks from the restaurant—she slides her fingers between his. When he looks down at her, surprised, she’s not even turned in his direction. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “Ooh, window shopping,” she says, dragging him over to the display window of a jewelry store. “I like that pearl necklace.” He’s still trying to process her palm, warm against his, and has to really focus on what she’s showing him.

“It looks like you,” he says, which is true. The pearls aren’t uniform in size, shape, or color—white ones, ones the color of orange sherbet, rose pink ones all together on the same string. “Very pretty.”

“Agreed,” she says with a sigh. “Come on.” She tugs on his hand and he has no choice but to let her drag him away. But not before he looks up at the sign above the door and takes note of the store’s name.

Once they’re back on the highway, he asks, “Did taking you to lunch cost me all of my points?”

Emma laughs, like she wasn’t expecting him to bring it back up again. “You have a few left,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “Would you like to use or save them?”

“I’d like to know my options for spending, please.” He drops one hand from the steering wheel, tapping his fingers against his thigh. Lifting an eyebrow, he glances at her.

“Hmm,” she says, nodding. “Since we’re being honest—”

“I love it when you’re honest,” he tells her.

“I have no idea,” she admits. “I’m completely winging this.”

That makes him laugh, really chuckle. “Perfect. Neither of us have a plan.” And somehow that doesn’t bother him the way it normally would. It feels like they’re a team—figuring it out together. But he—and hopefully she—knows that she’s in charge. She has the final word.

“I’m having fun though,” she adds. “I kind of like telling you what to do. I just…wasn’t expecting so much enthusiasm.”

“Emma. You gave me the most entertaining logic puzzle I’ve ever gotten last week,” he explains. “If you were trying to inconvenience me or something, that’s not a good way to do it.”

“And this week I gave you the task of being in the car with me for two hours,” she muses. “I am really bad at this.” She’s right, it definitely felt like a reward. “Okay well, never mind, you can’t spend your points on anything.”

“What?!” His mouth falls open. “That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” she says primly. “You’ll have to keep working to win my favor back.” Light, but not entirely a joke.

He wants to protest again—say he’s pretty sure he’s won her favor back—but he doesn’t, because that’s not part of the game. And pushing too hard would break something he’s just gotten back. And he wants to keep playing the game. Even if he’s starting to realize it’s not just a game anymore.

Chapter Text

Brendon’s waiting for her to open the door to the gym Monday morning at 6am. Hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, rocking back slightly on his heels like he’s been there long enough to get restless, but not long enough to leave. Looking annoyingly hot as always—gray shorts, blue hoodie that makes his eyes extra vivid, backwards Penn State hat. Like he didn’t even try and still somehow got it exactly right. As Emma walks up, he opens the door for her, stepping back to let her through.

“Long sleeves?” She tugs on the fabric as she walks by, frowning.

“You want me to take it off?” He asks, falling in behind her as they walk to the front desk to sign in. Close enough that she can hear the soft scuff of his sneakers matching her pace step for step.

The heat of him bleeds through the back of her own sweatshirt—he’s standing so freaking close to her. Too close for this early in the morning. Too close for her brain to catch up to her body. She peers at the guy who works the front desk. He glances up from his phone, looks between her and Brendon, then back down at his phone. None of his business.

Emma inhales shakily as Brendon reaches around her to take the pen directly out of her hand. His arm brushes hers, solid and warm, and she has to fight the instinct to lean into it. She’s trapped against the desk as he signs himself in—his thigh pressing right up against her ass. Not even subtle. Not even pretending to be. Her chest heaves against the edge of the counter. She’s not even sure if she’s breathing right anymore.

She’s been on edge since their confrontation at the bench press—feeling hot and achy all the time. Like she wants to peel her skin off. Like everything under it is too tight, too aware, too awake. Now it’s like her internal body temperature has been pushed up by thirty degrees. She looks up at him, only for him to glance down at her and lift his eyebrows. The smile that spreads over her face is impossible to contain.

“You…are really pushing your luck,” she tells him, leaning back against him with some weight behind her shoulder. He gives immediately, stepping back. Supple. Yielding. Terribly sexy. Like he’ll push right up to the line and then drop the second she tells him to.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop,” he promises. “What are you working today?”

“Quads and hammies.”

He grins. “What a coincidence. So am I.” She’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s supposed to be doing something else, but she lets it slide. “May I join your workout?”

Emma knows she can say no. That the second she tells him she doesn’t want him around, he’ll walk away. Because so far, he’s done everything she’s told him to do. Every single thing, no hesitation, no pushback. But if she said no, both of them would know she’s lying. She’s pretty sure she gave herself away on Sunday—that she does want him around. Though she can’t work out if it’s permanent, or if she just likes being in control of something—someone. Likes the way he looks at her when she tells him what to do. Now that she thinks about it, she should use that someone to his fullest potential—to maximize her potential.

She clasps her hands behind her back, turning her shoulders back and forth as she looks up at him, a smile playing on her lips. “You may. In fact,” she pushes up on her toes and grabs the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him down so she can say in his ear, feeling the hitch in his breath when she gets that close, “you get to be in charge.”

His eyes widen as she loosens her grip so he can stand up straight again. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she nods, smoothing the fabric over his chest, letting her hand linger just a fraction too long, “you’ve been doing this longer. You’re the expert here. You tell me what to do for a little bit.” It’s easy to give up control to him here. Because he’s always had her best interests in mind—even the first time they ever talked for real, before he knew her. He’s always taken care of her.

“Okay,” he smiles—as much as he ever does, “let’s go. But I have some questions.” Of course he does.

“What are your questions?” She asks, tugging on the end of her braid to tighten the scrunchie as they start walking over to where she usually warms up. Trying to ignore how aware she is of him next to her again.

“Can I touch you for gym-related purposes?” Practical. Sensible. Polite of him to ask.

“Yes.”

“Great.” He drops his bag by the wall. What is everyone carrying around in their gym bags on the gym floor? “Can I…touch you for non-gym-related purposes?”

Emma braces her hand on the wall for balance as she starts her dynamic stretches. Ten swings forward and back to warm up her hips. Trying to focus on the movement, on the stretch. He steps back a little bit to give her space. “What specifically do you mean?” She asks, starting to get used to his way of defining everything that happens between them. Getting it in the open. Making her say yes or no instead of letting her hide in maybe.

“Say you had a particularly good set,” he suggests, shrugging, “fist bumps, high fives, form checks, all good?”

“Sure,” she agrees. He did all of that before. That’s stuff she does with Vivi even.

“And let’s say some other guy is staring at your ass,” he continues, lowering his voice. Emma scoffs and turns around, getting ready to start warming up the other side. Until she feels him at her back, his breath hot on her neck as he speaks low in her ear. “Am I allowed to grab your ass?” He somehow makes it sound innocent and sexy at the same time.

She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Marking your territory again?” Is his presence next to her not enough? Not that she doesn’t like that he’s a little possessive. He’s not being toxic about it. Just…firm.

“No, I’m afraid I have to make my claim very clear,” he explains, an impeccant look on his face. She can’t see it but she knows he’s flexing his hand and tapping his fingers—itching to touch her now. But even though she just put him in charge, he’ll wait for her go ahead. So, so hot. The restraint might be the worst part. Or the best.

“No,” she tells him, shaking her head slightly. “I think your presence next to me is plenty to show any potential competition that you’re the only guy I’ve got time for.” She giggles and leans back—feeling the way he stills behind her—to whisper in his ear. “So needy.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Fine.” And he steps right back to give her room to keep warming up. Even now. Even after that. Still listening.

As she follows Brendon over to the hack squat, she pulls on the sleeves of her hoodie and drags the zipper down, getting ready to take it off when he turns back to look at her. His gaze catches halfway through the motion, like he didn’t mean to stare but can’t stop himself. “How mu—wow.” He stops, taking a step back and rubbing a hand over his mouth. Like he needs a second to reset. Heat spreads through her chest again as he stares at her.

“What?” She starts to tug the zipper back up, glancing away from the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin.

He turns right back around. “Please tell me now if I’m not supposed to look at you.”

Emma laughs. “I’m not trying to tell you every little thing you can and can’t do!” She moves closer and taps him on the shoulder. “You can look at me, just try not to act like you’re going to have a seizure or something because I took off my hoodie.”

“That,” he turns back, dragging his eyes over her again before forcing himself up to her face, “is a very difficult task.” He glances over her again. “How much do you start with?”

“Like, plus 55.” She shrugs.

Grabbing a 45 and a 10, he starts loading plates. Metal clinks against metal, sharp and grounding. “What if…” He seems to be searching for exactly the right words, “...I…maybe…liked it…” he refuses to look at her now, wholly focused on the task, “...when you tell me what to do? And doing things for you?”

Emma lifts her eyebrows in surprise and crosses her arms. “Are you saying that you do?” This is interesting. She thought he was only so enthusiastic because he wants to sleep with her. He’s so obsessed with controlling every aspect of his life—she never imagined he’d want to give that up in any way. Not even a little.

“Hypothetically.” Brendon shrugs and gestures towards the hack squat. “Do your first set.” She gives him a look as she gets her feet set. He holds up his hands defensively. “You told me I was in charge and also this is a hypothetical discussion.”

“Right,” she scoffs as she releases the weight. The machine slides down with a heavy, controlled glide. She gets to the bottom of the movement and his hand comes down on her quad, forcing her a little lower. She glares at him.

“Full. Range. Of motion,” he reminds her with an equally impudent look. His hand stays on her thigh until she’s back at the top of the movement. When he pulls it away, she very suddenly misses it and the desire to have it back hits her harder than expected.

“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” she pants, then slowly bends her knees again.

“Yeah, well,” he crosses his arms, watching her carefully, eyes tracking every inch of the movement, “I think you like that too. Just like…” he pauses, “...I think you like telling me what to do.”

Emma pushes through three more reps. Her legs burn, but it’s not the only thing. He reaches out to help her on the last one but she shakes her head, speaking through her teeth, “No, I got it.” Re-racking the weights, she slumps, bracing her hands on her knees. Breath coming fast, uneven. After a few deep breaths, she looks up at him. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs and grabs two more 45s, one in each hand. Like they weigh nothing. “You get this giddy little look on your face every time you give me a task or tell me I can’t have something I want.”

“I do?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, adding more weight. Jesus. “I think you’re enjoying making me work for access to you.”

Emma takes a long drink from her water, wiping the sweat trickling down her temple before she responds. Because…yes. He’s right. She does like it. A lot. But only because…she keeps expecting him to fail. Or finally say, ‘No, that’s too ridiculous and you’re not worth it.’ So it delights her that he never does. And then when she tells him it’s still not enough, watching his face set in determination, never disappointment…she just wants to know how far she can push him. How far he’ll go. How far she’ll let him.

And yeah, it turns her on a little. Or a lot.

Which is actually something she’s been meaning to ask Vivi about. Because now that she’s been working out consistently, she’s horny all the time. It hums under her skin, constant and distracting. It’s too exact of a time frame to be anything but correlated. She glances at Brendon. He probably knows why that happens because he’s a total gym nerd. Probably has a study on it to cite.

“Potentially related question,” she says quietly, so nobody around them hears even though everyone has headphones in, “not that I’m avoiding what you just said. I promise to get back to that.”

“Yeah?” He moves the weight on the hack squat like it’s absolutely nothing. Emma glances down at his thighs, watching his shorts ride up and each individual, defined muscle as they all flex together. Controlled. Precise. Effortless.

“How come I’m so much hornier since I started lifting?”

The weight clangs out as he drops it back on the rack and Emma jumps. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him drop or fumble a weight before. The two guys walking by give him an annoyed look. Brendon stands up, panting. “Dangerous spot to be asking questions like that,” he tells her, chest heaving.

She shrugs. “I just thought you’d know the answer.”

He huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I do,” he admits.

Emma coughs into her fist. “Nerd.” But she smiles innocently when he shoots her a look. Fully aware of what she’s doing to him now.

Brendon unloads the weights as he starts to explain. She has to resist the urge to give him direct praise for that. “Basically it’s a combination of factors.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself. “Resistance training temporarily increases testosterone—in both men and women—which can increase libido. But, those spikes are usually only for an hour or so after a workout,” he explains.

“It’s all the time for me,” she says.

“Emma, swear to God—” Brendon laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Please let me get through the rest of this workout with you.”

“Sorry.” She chews on her lip. Not sorry at all.

“There’s also some research from the University of Texas showing that even aside from the testosterone spikes,” he says carefully as he pulls off the last extra plate, “the act of exercising itself can increase arousal.”

“I usually feel it when I do hamstring curls,” she admits. “Like I’m genuinely about to—”

He shoots her a look. “Stop right there,” his voice is firm when he cuts her off. He holds out a hand and looks away from her. “Just stop.” Like he physically cannot handle her finishing that sentence.

“Sorry.” She isn’t. This is really fun.

He sighs. “Do your next set.” Then he mumbles something under his breath she can’t make out but she’s sure wasn’t appropriate for public ears. She unracks the weights again and he keeps talking, quieter now. “Okay, um, there’s…some studies from Indiana University—”

“You’re literally citing your sources,” Emma points out.

“Yes because I’m trying to think about the research and not what you sound like when you come,” he shoots back. Emma’s mouth drops open. “Jesus. Okay,” he continues, “anyway, the studies basically showed people report it happening without any sexual thoughts at all. It’s just because those muscles—in your case, hamstrings, but usually abdominals—are interconnected with the pelvic floor. So when you engage your core tightens, so does your pelvic floor, and when you do it rhythmically...”

“It can trigger an orgasm, got it,” Emma fills in.

“But back to your original question,” he says as she starts her set. “It’s also a little psychological. Your mood is better from the endorphins, lower stress levels, and just,” he shrugs, “more confidence because you like your body more.” As if it reminded him, he pulls off his sweatshirt. Ah, yes, there’s the pec-defining compression shirt. Yummy. “So a little bit of hormones, a little bit of blood flow, and a little bit of just feeling better.”

Emma re-racks the weight, and stands up. She giggles even as she tries to catch her breath. “I knew you’d give me some long, nerdy, scientific answer.” Which is extremely hot in an absurd sort of way.

Brendon rolls his eyes and starts to add weight again. “I live to serve.” Freezing, he swallows, then looks at her. “That was…not supposed to come out like that.” A flush creeps up his neck as he gets back to work. Color blooming fast under his skin.

“So…back to how my scientific question connects to what we were discussing before,” Emma says, taking a step towards him and lowering her voice, closing the space between them on purpose now, “I don’t think this is just you trying to get laid, but,” she takes a deep breath, steeling herself for this admission, “I think you still have to prove it to me.”

“Prove it,” he repeats, slowly turning to give her his full attention. “Okay,” he nods, “what do I have to do?” He glances away, then looks back. “Can we…make it objective?”

Emma tries not to smile, but a laugh bubbles up from her chest anyway. Of course. She should never have said the thing about points. Of course he took it literally. “You mean you want to come up with a point system for real,” she interprets.

Brendon shrugs. “Yeah, why not? That way I know if I’m progressing.”

“And I get to come up with the system?” She checks, reaching up to smooth out his sleeve—which is really an excuse to touch his bicep. Feeling the flex under the fabric.

He nods. “You come up with the system. You’re in charge.”

“Except in the gym,” she reminds him.

“Except in the gym,” he agrees. Then he shifts his gaze to somewhere above her head, thinking. “So that means the gym is the only place I get to do whatever I want?” He’s close enough that she can feel the heat coming off him in the air conditioning.

Oh no. Emma purses her lips. “Within reason,” she says, trying to hold firm and failing a little as a giggle escapes.

“Noted.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Emma barely contains the shriek that comes out of her as his palm slides over her shorts and his fingers dig into the flesh of her ass. His other hand comes up quickly to pull her face in against his chest and muffle the sound, looking around to see if anyone heard her as she dissolves into laughter.

“Shhh, people are going to think I’m bothering you,” he scolds her. “I’m going to get in trouble.” He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest, but he moves his hand up to her hip—a much more acceptable spot.

Still laughing, Emma slides her arms around his waist, fully leaning in and inhaling the way he smells after a workout. Warm. Clean. A little intoxicating. She turns her face to the side, linking her hands behind his back. “They are not the ones you have to worry about being in trouble with.”

Official Point System:

Earning/Losing Points:

Breakfast before 7am = 10 points

Breakfast after 7am = 5 points

Lunch at some point in the middle of my shift = 20 points

Coffee or energy drink delivery around 3pm = 10 points

Comment about your presence from Dana = -5 points

Spot me at the gym without me having to ask = 10 points

If I have to ask you = -5 points

Send me pump pics when you work out but I don’t = 15 points

If you take your shirt off 👀 = 5 extra points (minimum)

Good lighting = 5 extra points

Additional zoomed in shots = 5 extra points

Voice memos instead of texting (esp in the evening) = 30 points

If you say my name = 5 extra points

Text me when you think about me = 10 points

Text me WHAT you’re thinking about me = points will be assigned based on quality of writing

Complaining about assigned points = lose them all

Brendon: “Additional zoomed in shots” ?

Emma: biceps, chest, and back are my favorite muscle groups ☺️

Brendon: What about spending points? You didn’t say anything about that.

Emma: send me a list of what you want and i’ll decide what it’s worth

Emma: ...you have permission to make it horny. but you can’t put sex on the list. you’re not even close.

Brendon’s Requests:

Take you out to dinner

Drive you home from work (when schedules align)

Hold your hand

Permission to touch you (you decide where)

Tell me about your day

Kiss you

Emma: making me feel like the perverted one = -5 points 🤨

Brendon: Fine.

In addition to the above—Brendon’s Revised Requests:

Kiss you with tongue

You send me pump pics

Glute pump pics (probably cost more, right?)

Describe the panties you’re currently wearing

A pair of your panties (clean)

A pair of your panties (worn)

General permission to think of you while masturbating

Phone calls instead of texting

Suck on your nipples

Eat you out

Emma laughed at a message

Brendon: I promise I’m the more perverted one, baby

Emma: hmm, calling me baby when i haven’t said it’s okay = -5 points

Brendon: I’m sorry.

Brendon’s requests with cost in points:

Take you out to dinner = 1000 points

Drive you home from work (when schedules align) = 150 points

Hold your hand = 50 points

Permission to touch you (you decide where) = 100 points

Tell me about your day = 45 points

Kiss you = 300 points

Kiss you with tongue = 500 points

You send me pump pics = 200 points

Glute pump pics (probably cost more, right?) = 300 points (you’re right, +5 points)

Describe the panties you’re currently wearing = 100 points

A pair of your panties (clean) = 400 points

A pair of your panties (worn) = 800 points

General permission to think of you while masturbating = 5 points and you telling me every time you do it

Phone calls instead of texting = 600 points (i know what you really want)

Suck on your nipples no :)

Eat you out not even close

point values subject to change based on my mood

you’re in charge of keeping track :)

Brendon: I can’t believe you’re trusting me to keep track.

Emma: i know you know if you artificially inflate the numbers this is over

Brendon: Yes ma’am :)

Emma: can’t remember last week so how many do you have based on this conversation?

Brendon: -5

Emma laughed at a message

Coming up with a points system for Brendon was exhilarating. But then negotiating it with him and finding out all the stuff he wants from and to do to her? That is truly heart pounding. She’s been rolling around her bed and squealing as every text came in to the point that Jo comes to knock on her door to ask if she was okay. Emma clams up after that, because she’s not ready to admit to Jo yet that she’s talking to Brendon again. Not ready to explain something she can barely explain to herself.

Not two minutes after she reacted to his message:

Brendon: I’m thinking about you.

She giggles, pulling the covers up over her mouth, like that might somehow contain the reaction, and types back.

Emma: do you want some extra points with that?

Her phone goes quiet for a few minutes. She swallows, closes the app and goes on Instagram, but she’s not really thinking about what she’s seeing. Her thumb keeps scrolling but nothing is registering. Instead, she’s wondering what he looks like right now. Chewing on her lip, she goes back to texting.

Emma: if you’re going to tell me what you’re thinking, include where you are and what you’re wearing for extra credit so i can picture you

A voice memo comes through. Something twists low in her belly and she bites down on her lip so she can focus on the pain instead of how intense the anticipation feels. It doesn’t help. If anything it makes it sharper. Her clit is throbbing for friction, aching for something—anything. She puts a pillow down between her legs and rolls on her side before hitting play.

“Okay,” Brendon clears his throat, “I think about you, pretty much all the time, so you should probably get used to getting these because I intend to rack up as many points as possible as fast as possible. But that’s not really what I was thinking about.” He pauses and she hears him inhale, then let it out shakily. That sound alone makes her thighs press together. “I was thinking about…that skirt you were wearing the day we drove to Greensburg.” He groans and Emma immediately saves the voice memo to her phone. No hesitation. “You bent over just a little to lock the door and it came up your thighs and—fuck, Emma, you have no idea what that did to me. So close. I didn’t quite see your panties but…man, I really wanted to put my hand on your thigh. Slide that skirt up just to see. So…” His voice comes back to normal. Wow, she hadn’t realized how low it had gotten. Or how much she liked it there. “That’s what I was thinking about. And also I just saw your text. I’m laying in bed and I’m wearing black Gymshark shorts.”

God, he’s so detailed. She knew he would be.

Brendon: 45 + whatever my grade is, right?

Emma: 25 points for the description and the noises 😮‍💨

Emma: black gymshark shorts and ???

Brendon: Ok 60 points total then.

Brendon: Just the shorts. It’s hot in my house.

Emma: thought you were better at math than that

Brendon: I spent 5.

Of course he did. There’s only one thing on their list that costs five points. And of course he’d use it immediately. No hesitation.

Emma: don’t forget the other part!

Brendon: It’s 11pm.

Brendon: Of course I’m thinking about you.

Emma: say it

Brendon: I’m touching myself.

Power shoots through her as Emma inhales sharply. Like something snaps into place inside her. She swallows, blinking a little too fast as she types her next text, careful not to make any mistakes. Her fingers feel clumsy all of a sudden. Some part of her still wants to make him suffer. Remind him that he screwed up and he’s still groveling. That even though they’re having fun with this little game…she doesn’t trust his feelings yet. Not fully. Not enough to let him off easy.

Emma: orgasm = 100 points

Three dots come up as he types. They disappear and she waits. Heart pounding. Chest heaving. Desperate to hear his response. Desperate to see what he’ll do with that.

Brendon: That’s…so much harder than you think.

Brendon: But…fuck, that’s so hot.

Brendon: I promise I won’t come.

Her hands shake as she types the next two words. Two words that have been on the tip of her tongue for a week, right on the edge of slipping out. But she wasn’t sure if it would go over well. Wasn’t sure if he’d take it the right way. Part of her is scared to send the text at all, but she knows now if she says it, he’s going to be in knots. Knows exactly what it’s going to do to him.

Emma: good boy

Brendon: You are the sexiest person I’ve ever met.

Points earned as of October 19: 65

Points spent as of October 19: 5

Points total of October 19: 60

“So you’re like, talking to him, talking to him,” Vivi says as they’re restocking supply carts during the 2pm lull. The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, the hallway quieter than usual, like the whole floor is holding its breath.

“Yeah,” Emma shrugs, trying for casual and not quite landing it, “he seems genuinely sorry about it. So I’m just giving him a chance to…prove himself.”

“He’s groveling,” Vivi translates, shooting her a look. “Good. As he should.” She scoffs. “I mean, obviously like—” Emma’s phone vibrates in her pocket for the fifth time in three minutes. Vivi glances at it. “Okay, dude, someone is obviously trying to get a hold of you.”

“Brendon probably just got out of surgery,” she says, sighing as she tries to close an overstuffed drawer. Shoving it harder than necessary when it sticks.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Vivi asks as her phone vibrates again.

Emma hesitates, chewing on her lip.

“Okay, spill it,” Vivi demands, turning towards her. “Something’s going on.”

“He texts me every time he thinks about me,” Emma explains. “So I…get a bunch of texts when he gets out of surgery.” Like clockwork.

“I’m not following,” Vivi narrows her eyes, “that would annoy the shit out of me.”

“It’s fine,” Emma says, shrugging as they move to the next cart. It’s not fine. It’s intoxicating. “I told him to.”

Vivi snorts. “Does he do everything you tell him to do?” She suppresses a laugh, clearly assuming Emma is joking.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Seriously?” Vivi furrows her brows. “What the hell else are you having him do?”

Emma giggles, looking around to make sure nobody is listening. Lowering her voice instinctively. “Do you want to see our points system?”

“Points system?!” Vivi exclaims a little too loudly. Emma shushes her, looking apologetically at the elderly woman in the bed they’re passing. The woman blinks at them, unimpressed. “Points system?” She repeats in a whisper.

“Yeah,” Emma explains, “he earns points for doing what I want, and then he can use them on rewards.” Her chest tightens. It sounds worse out loud. It sounds like too much. “It sounds so much more like dog training when I say it like that,” she adds quickly, “but I just joked that he could earn extra points and he…wanted an actual numerical system.”

“He did?” Vivi asks, eyes wide. She leans in, grabbing Emma’s wrist. Her grip is warm, grounding. “You’re telling me, that you, Emma Nolan, have Dr. Park the fucking Shark following you around like a dog and doing whatever you tell him to?” Emma’s a little offended by the disbelief in her voice.

“Well I wasn’t just going to let him back in without making him work for it,” she says defensively. Like she has to justify it. Her phone vibrates again. This time she gets it out and checks it. Vivi peers over her shoulder.

Brendon: Out of surgery. Thinking about you.

Brendon: Mainly that I like how you styled your hair today. With the little curls in front.

Brendon: I know you do that every day but I really like it.

Brendon: Sorry for being brief and I understand if that reflects in the points. I’m rushing between cases.

Brendon: Do you have time to eat lunch?

Brendon: Probably not since you’re not responding.

Brendon: Thinking about you.

“Oh…my god,” Vivi says. She quickly scrolls up across the screen, too fast to be reading, but it shows the sheer amount of gray text bubbles compared to blue. “Girl.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, fighting a smile as she types back. Her lips keep twitching anyway. She inhales a little quickly as skin heats up from his attention. Her stomach twists in delight.

Emma: 15 points and it’s not 10 points per text thinking about me

Brendon: Recording 25 then.

Emma liked a message

“Okay, let me see the points system,” Vivi demands, grabbing for the phone. Emma swipes to her notes app before handing it over. A little bit of anxiety pools in her stomach—both that Vivi will think she’s weird and that Brendon might be upset she shared this with her friend. She clenches her jaw as Vivi scrolls through it. “Holy shit.” She stares at Emma. “You’re so mean to him!”

Emma shrugs. “He has to earn it.”

Vivi scoffs. “It’s gonna take him forever based on the points earned per thing versus the price per thing,” she says, frowning as she scrolls through it again. “How do you know how many points he has?”

“Oh.” Emma takes her phone back and swipes over to the shared Google Sheet. “He keeps track,” she explains, “but this way I can see it and check him.”

Vivi glances at it. “He’s not spending any points.”

Emma shrugs again. “Nope,” she agrees. “He’s not.” She knows why. It’s because taking her to dinner costs 1000 points. And that’s what he originally asked for when they started this. And he’s still working toward it. Still choosing that.

Vivi hands the phone back and takes a deep breath. “I think you might be my hero,” she admits. “This is very badass and sexy of you.” Emma lifts her shoulders up to her ears as heat creeps up her neck. Flustered in a completely different way now. “I’m serious!” Vivi insists. “You should write books, start a podcast! A Tiktok channel!”

“I don’t even know why he’s acting like this,” Emma admits. Because that’s the part that doesn’t make sense. “It’s like I activated something in him when I chewed him out that day.” She’d told Vivi what happened when she saw Brendon bringing her food the next day. “He just like…is really determined to prove that he likes me.”

“Girl I would say he’s in love with you,” Vivi scoffs. “I can barely get Kai to unroll his socks before putting them in the laundry.” She looks up at Emma and adds, “Please tell me your secrets.”

“I don’t know!” Emma throws up her hands. “I was just kinda mean to him! And it just made him like me more.” She refuses to unpack that.

But Vivi doesn’t. “Why did this come up?” She asks. “Why are you still making him work for it?” Gesturing to Emma’s phone she adds, “This would totally be enough for me.” She pulls back and looks Emma in the eye. “But…that’s me. Not you.”

Emma swallows. Her phone vibrates again as she slips it back in her pocket. Ignoring it this time feels harder. “I don’t know. I just…in my gut—” She gestures to her stomach. That tight, twisting feeling. “He’s…you know, him. And I’m…just me.” The last part comes out as a whisper. “Why would he like me?”

Vivi softens. “Why wouldn’t he like you?” She protests. “From what I’m seeing, he does like you! What’s stopping you from believing that?”

I think I may have…accidentally…given you the impression that dinner the other night was…a date.

Accidentally?

Unintentionally…I’m sorry about any confusion.

Emma shrugs again. It’s really becoming her favorite move. “I don’t know. I just don’t.” She sighs. “I mean, you even said it—he just likes my ass.”

“Girl, NO!” Vivi says firmly enough that it feels like it echoes throughout the entire ED. She puts her hands on Emma’s shoulders and shakes her. Hard enough to snap her out of it. “He likes your ass because it’s attached to you.” She shakes her head. “Look at that point system again,” she says, pointing at Emma’s pocket again, “you know what I noticed?” She raises an eyebrow. “The first six of them he sent? That’s what he wants from you.”

Emma shakes her head. “No, no he was just saying that because I accused him of only wanting to have sex with me,” she explains. “Which I think is true. He’s—”

“You think he only wants to have sex with you but you’re the one who came up with the weird sex game where he sends you shirtless gym selfies and sexy voice notes when he’s thinking about you,” Vivi says flatly. She closes her eyes, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. “Be so for real.”

“I am,” Emma says, though it comes through the knot of anxiety in her throat. “I’m so serious.” Even if it doesn’t sound convincing.

Vivi looks at her sympathetically. “Okay, well, I’m telling you as your friend I think you’re wrong.”

“Can we change the subject?” Emma grumbles as they move on to stocking the central supply cart.

“Yes! Let’s talk about my Halloween party and how you’re going to invite Dr. Park and I think you should make him dress up as a shark,” Vivi says firmly. She smiles at Emma. “For my entertainment.”

Emma groans. “Only if you’ll please stop calling him Dr. Park! It’s weird.”

“No,” Vivi shakes her head, “the weird part is you calling him Brendon.”

“That’s his name!” Emma throws a roll of gauze at her.

“It’s a fuckass name!” Vivi says, throwing it back.

Emma: are you working the night of the 29th/the next day?

Brendon: No surgeries on the 30th and I should be out on the 29th by 8pm or so. Why?

Emma: vivi is having a halloween party

Brendon: Okay.

Emma: this is me inviting you

Brendon: Oh!

Brendon: Sure, I’m in.

Brendon: I don’t like wearing costumes though.

Emma: i think you should dress up as a shark 🙃

Brendon: I…no?

Emma: Not even for 250 points? 🥺

Brendon: Maybe.

Points earned as of October 23: 560

Points spent as of October 23: 5

Points total of October 23: 555

“Emma?” Jo knocks on the cracked door and pokes her head in. The door creaks softly against the frame. “Oh! Well look at you!”

“It looks okay?” Emma asks, standing up and smoothing out her suede shorts. Her hands linger there a second too long, like she’s double-checking herself.

“You look amazing!” Jo gushes. “Did you use eyeliner to bring out your freckles more?”

“Yes!” Emma sits up straighter and smiles. A little proud, a little shy. “Do you like the spots too?”

“I like all of it,” Jo says. She reaches out above Emma’s head. “Where’d you get the ears?”

“I made them!” Emma says, proud of herself. Brendon earned himself a hundred points driving her to Michael’s to pick up supplies. Her lips twitch at the memory.

“Cute.” Jo nods. “Oh, you know who’s really going to like this costume?”

Emma frowns. “Who?”

Jo laughs dryly, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. “The really hot guy dressed as a shark in our living room.”

Emma’s heart drops into her stomach. Her eyes widen. “Jo! You should’ve said he was here!” She jumps up, feeling around for her lip gloss on the table and quickly applying some, smacking her lips together a few times to spread it.

“Is this the guy who had you over for dinner and then walked it back?” Jo asks, eyes narrowing.

“Uhhh, yes,” Emma says absentmindedly. No time to explain. Whirling around her room, she scans the floor—covered in various items of clothing and accessories she tried on and discarded—finally locating her knee high brown boots and sitting back on the unmade bed to tug them on. Nearly tipping over in her rush.

“He’s very handsome,” Jo says casually, “but why is he in our house?” Emma likes that she calls it their house.

“Because he’s groveling for another chance,” she explains quickly. Her fuzzy brown sweater is falling off her shoulders but she doesn’t bother to tug it back up. She even added white spots to her upper back—testing the limits of her shoulder mobility. The sleeves pool around her wrists. “I feel like I’m forgetting something,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. Her brain running too fast to keep up with her body.

“Perfume?” Jo prompts, leaning against the door frame.

“Yes!” Emma hisses, darting over to her dresser and grabbing the bottle she planned to wear, it’s a darker, more feminine one than what she wore all summer. A few sprays on her neck and wrists. The scent blooms immediately, warm and a little dangerous. “And…” she lunges for her lip gloss again, ready to go in Brendon’s pocket. “Okay I’m ready.”

“Well don’t keep him waiting,” Jo says, waving her through the door. “And make sure you dance on at least one table,” she continues as they walk into the living room. To Brendon she adds, “You! Male…person, you make sure to catch her if she falls off the table!”

Brendon, looking deeply confused, says, “Um, okay, will do.” Like he’s not entirely sure what he just agreed to but he’ll do it anyway.

He is, in fact, wearing a very fluffy shark onesie, but doesn’t have the hood up. Emma presses her fingers over her lips to stifle a giggle, because he should look ridiculous—and he does—but she’s also never been more into him in her life. It’s unfair, honestly. He actually did it; she didn’t think he was going to.

“You, stay sober. Make sure you get her home safe,” Jo tells him. Turning to Emma, “Drink as much as you want,” she says, “I have a massive supply of zofran and gatorade for your hangover tomorrow.”

Emma shakes her head. No matter how much she explains this to Jo, she still doesn’t seem to get it. “It’s just a kickback! I probably won’t even drink.”

“Your generation has no idea how to have fun,” Jo says flatly. Her disappointment is painted all over her face. “What is the point of having a body like yours if not to use it for dancing?” She looks at Brendon like, can you believe her?

“Okay I’m going now,” Emma says to Jo. “Have fun at your wine night!”

“Don’t be boring!” Jo calls after her as she drags Brendon out the door.

Once they’re out on the porch, she finally stops to take a breath, squeezing his hand—hard. “I am…so sorry,” she says to him. “She can be…”

“You look so beautiful,” he interrupts quietly. Soft enough that it cuts right through everything else. “And thank you for getting me out of there,” he adds, glancing at the house as they walk to his car.

“She can be a lot,” Emma explains apologetically. “But she has good intentions.” Even if those intentions are…loud.

“She cares a lot about you,” he observes as he opens the door for her. Emma drops his hand—she won’t charge him for it since she grabbed it, not the other way around. “I got an earful before she went to get you.” Like he expected it. Like he took it. Just like he took the one from her.

“Of course you did,” Emma mutters as he shuts her door and heads around to the driver’s side. She hits the unlock button for him before he gets there. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I just—”

“No, it’s okay.” He shakes his head as the engine roars to life. “I deserved it. She’s right.”

“What was she right about?”

His hand comes up to the back of her seat as he looks over his shoulder. It’s terribly sexy that he’s a good driver too. Everything about him feels dialed up tonight. “That I don’t deserve another chance after making you cry,” he says without an ounce of decipherable inflection in his voice.

“Oh,” Emma says softly. She’d never told him she cried after he came to talk to her—not wanting him to know how much of a slap to the face that had been. “It’s okay,” she says automatically.

“It’s not,” he tells her, looking over, “but I appreciate you letting me…” he searches for the right words, “earn that second chance back.”

Emma swallows. She doesn’t really know what else to say when he’s being all serious like this. The whole thing has gone a lot further than she expected. It’s past the point of a game because at the rate he’s been earning points, he’ll have enough to take her to dinner in a couple days. And then she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. Because some part of her hoped he wouldn’t get there. Hoped this could stay contained. Controlled.

But a bigger part really hoped he would. And that scares her. A lot more than she wants to admit.

“I’d like to lay out some ground rules for tonight,” she says, changing the subject before she starts crying again. Her voice steadier than she feels. “I’m…giving you some leeway.”

“Yeah?” Brendon glances at her with an unreadable expression. But his fingers tighten slightly on the wheel, like he’s bracing for impact.

“You can touch me at the party,” Emma begins. “You can touch me like I’m your girlfriend. You can touch my waist, my back, my legs, hold my hand, all that stuff.” She thought of this while she was doing her makeup. Because even though he’s been sending her the pictures and the sexy voice notes—she’s still not getting any physical action. He’s too patient to spend his points that way. Too careful. Too controlled. It’s driving her a little crazy.

Except, he asks immediately, “Can I kiss you?” Proving how desperately he wants to. The question comes out like he’s been holding it back for days.

“No,” Emma says firmly. “Not on the lips,” she clarifies. “Or anywhere on my face or my back where I have makeup.” Clinging to something she can still control.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming,” he says, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. He’s practically vibrating with it, thumbs tapping incessantly on the wheel. Energy buzzing off him in waves.

“You can kiss me anywhere I don’t have makeup on,” she tells him. “So my neck, my hands, wherever, just don’t mess up my makeup.” Her pulse jumps just saying it.

“Yes ma’am,” he answers, lips twitching into a smirk. Like he’s already cataloging every available inch of skin. “I appreciate the flexibility in the rules.”

“Everything goes back to normal tomorrow,” she tells him. “This is a one-night privilege.” A boundary. A safety net.

“Of course.”

“And it’s only because people will think it’s weird if I bring you as my date and you don’t touch me,” she explains. Also I desperately want to feel your hands and mouth on me. But you can’t know that. Her throat tightens around the truth she doesn’t say.

“Fair enough.” He glances at her. “So does this only start at the party or…”

“Oh my god, go ahead.” She rolls her eyes as he slides his hand over her bare thigh, squeezing slightly. Warm. Immediate. Claiming. When she looks up at him, he looks back at her with barely contained glee. Like he’s been waiting for permission this whole time.

Vivi and Kai’s apartment looks completely different for the party. The TV has Spotify open and spooky rock music is pouring from the speaker system, loud enough to hear, but not so loud people can’t talk. There are fake cobwebs stretched across the TV and over to the lamps nearby. It’s also draped over the lamps on the tables by the couch—and as Emma looks around, apparently on every available elevated surface.

The overhead lights are off and orange and purple string lights provide dim, flickering lights. Everything washed in warm shadows. Little fake spiders are scattered among the cobwebs and there are several carved pumpkins on tables—mostly classic jack-o-lanterns. The kitchen table has a dark green tablecloth and is laden with snacks, while an essentially a fully-stocked bar covers the counter.

There’s a few people she doesn’t know in the kitchen and noise coming from the spare bedroom that sounds like people might be playing beer pong. Kai is nowhere to be seen but Vivi’s by the snack table.

Brendon slides his hand around her hip as she walks over to Vivi. Holding her against his side as he continues to look around. “Girl, this is sort of insane,” Emma says, “you went all out.”

Vivi grins. “Yeah it’s the only party we throw all year so, might as well send it!” She glances up at Brendon. “Dr. Park.”

“Hello, Vivi.”

Emma groans. “Please, I’m begging you,” she reaches for her friend’s hands, “use his first name!”

Vivi looks up at him. “It’s either Dr. Park or I’m full-naming him.”

“What?” Emma frowns.

“Dr. Park or Park the Shark,” Vivi says, shrugging. “Those are the options.”

“Why do I feel like a dog being named right now?” Brendon asks. Emma elbows him lightly in the ribs.

“Oh my god,” she groans, “please be normal.” She doesn’t know which one of them she’s speaking to.

“I am!” Vivi insists. She smiles. “Love how the makeup turned out by the way. You’ve gone full Bambi on me.” She reaches out and tugs on Emma’s sweater. “Soft. I could pet you all night.”

Brendon must agree because his hand slides across her stomach, fully pulling her back against his chest. She grabs his forearm, for some reason terrified he’s going to move it up her body. A nonsensical fear she has to swallow. “You look super hot,” she manages to tell Vivi as she strokes her thumb over his skin where he’s pushed his sleeve up. Grounding herself in the contact.

Which, she does. She’s wearing a black slip that barely reaches the top of her thighs, red boots, red gloves, and a white faux fur wrap with black spots. A cigarette extender dangles from her hand, but she’s smoking a blunt instead.

“Thanks!” She curtseys. “I thought since I have the split-dye this year, why not?”

“What’s Kai dressed as?” Emma asks.

Vivi laughs. “He’s a dalmatian of course.”

“Oh my god. I love you guys so much.” She feels Brendon’s arm tighten around her waist as she laughs, his fingers finding their way under her sweater somehow. Skin on skin. Electric.

“Okay well, go on,” Vivi says, dismissing them with a flick of her fingers, “grab drinks, snacks, don’t worry about your macros tonight.”

“Oh I already fucked up with a cupcake at work,” Brendon admits, locking back into the conversation. “One of our scrub nurses does these dessert decorating classes on her days off and usually I say no but the pumpkin ones were really cute so I had to have one.” He nods happily. Emma snorts, turning her face into his shoulder. Breathing him in without thinking.

Vivi narrows her eyes at him. “And yet I’d be shocked if you didn’t still have visible abs,” she says flatly. “One cupcake,” she scoffs as she walks away.

“What?” He asks as she wiggles out of his grasp and heads over to the makeshift bar.

“She’s just messing with you because you’re so perfect with your macros all the time that you act like one cupcake’s going to throw you off track,” Emma tells him. “And yet,” she turns around to face him, running her hands down his chest and feeling the hard planes of his stomach, “you’re not going to gain an ounce of body fat from it.” Her palms lingering because he doesn’t seem to mind.

He lifts his shoulders sheepishly. “I don’t know, I do have to be pretty careful. My genetics don’t steer me in the direction of low body fat percentage like yours,” he explains.

Emma turns back around and reaches for a cup from the stack. “Oh yeah?”

His hands slide around her waist again, trapping her against the counter. No space. No escape. Not that she wants one. She can feel his mouth against the back of her head, hear him inhale sharply. “Yeah, I was always sort of chubby growing up,” he admits quietly. “Not like, a lot but, you know.” She feels him shrug as she reaches for the rum. “Enough that it was hard to lose and it’s not as easy as you’d think to keep off.”

“I bet you were always very handsome,” she says, counting to ten as she pours like her mom taught her. He leans down and kisses the side of her neck as she mixes in orange soda. It feels like she’s right back in college.

He ignores what she said, humming against her skin instead, “Mm, you smell so good.”

For a second, she almost lets herself enjoy it, leaning back against him and taking a sip of her drink as he moves his mouth softly over her neck. Letting herself sink into it. Just a little. Then it all goes to hell.

“Oh. My god.”

Emma opens her eyes to possibly her worst nightmare. Everything in her body goes cold and hot at the same time. Santos, Whittaker, and Javadi are all standing on the other side of the counter. Santos looks smug. Whittaker looks terrified. Javadi’s mouth is open. Of course it would be these three. Of course. She digs her elbow into Brendon’s side and pulls his arm off her waist. He takes a step back and she misses the heat of him immediately.

“Hey guys,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. Like this is normal. Like she didn’t just get caught with his mouth on her neck. She didn’t even think to wonder if Vivi invited other coworkers before asking Brendon to come. “How’s it going?”

“You do not have to stop on our account,” Santos—Trinity—says as she shucks off her jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch. Emma feels like she should think of them by their first names—if she can’t do that, then she’s a hypocrite with the way she’s been pushing Vivi about Brendon. And somehow that’s the thought her brain grabs onto in the middle of this humiliation spiral. “We were just coming to get a drink,” Trinity continues, reaching for the tequila. She doesn’t stop looking at them as she pours, first past Emma to where Brendon is leaning against the other counter, then back to Emma. “What’s, uh, what’s going on?”

“Um, not…much, really,” Emma says, tapping her fingers on the counter almost as fast as her racing heart. Her pulse is everywhere now, skittering and impossible to hide. She eyes the shot glasses laid out next to the alcohol, thinking about the draw of the fast-acting social lubricant—but she shouldn’t. She takes a sip from her drink instead and steps away as Victoria and Dennis join Trinity in mixing their own drinks.

Brendon’s hands come back to rest on her hips automatically, pulling her back against him. Like he forgot for a second that anyone was watching. Or worse—like he doesn’t care. She lets out a shaky breath, staggering her feet with his because that’s the only way to stand this close to him. His touch is both terrifying and grounding at the same time. Mortifying and exactly what she needs.

Dennis must have made eye contact over Emma’s shoulder while trying to avoid it, because he nods once, chin down. “Park.”

“Whittaker.” His voice is flat in her ear and Emma furrows her eyebrows. It almost seems like…Dennis is scared of Brendon. Which seems absurd to her. Trinity and Dennis are doctors, so she always defers to them at work. But…they’re an R2 and an intern respectively. Brendon is a senior resident.

They defer to him.

Emma takes another sip and glances at Victoria. She’s pouring vodka very carefully, but slips and dumps in way too much when she glances up at Emma. “Oh my god.” Her eyes go wide as she stares at the cup. “What do I do?”

Trinity looks at her like she’s nuts. “Drink it.” She scoffs and looks back at the selection of mixers, frowning at them. Emma wonders if anything ever impresses her. Probably not. Certainly not this.

“I—what? No, I—I can’t drink this much,” Victoria stammers. “I—I’m a very small person and I just turned twenty-one and I’ve never drank that much and—”

“Give it here.” The voice comes from behind Emma, sharp and commanding and very surprising. The whole room seems to shift around it. She’s pushed forward slightly as Brendon stretches out an arm to reach for the cup. Victoria’s eyes are wide as she hands it to him.

Emma watches in fascination as he raises it to his mouth and takes two long swallows. Just like that. Doesn’t even make a face. He looks down at the cup and nods, then hands it back.

“Thanks,” Victoria says hesitantly as she takes the cup back with about half left.

Emma turns to whisper in his ear. “Thought you weren’t drinking because you’re driving?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be sober again in an hour and a half,” he assures her. “One shot of vodka is nothing.” Shifting to grab her hand, he tugs her out of the kitchen. “Come on,” is all he says, not acknowledging her coworkers at all. Like he can feel her spiraling and is ending it before she can.

Emma does though, waving goodbye even though they’re staring at her like she’s a zoo exhibit. Which, honestly, fair. Dennis manages to wave but Victoria and Trinity just watch them go. She’s not even out of earshot before Victoria says, “Did you guys know that was a thing?”

“Yeah,” Trinity scoffs, “he brings her lunch like every day. Where have you been?”

Emma is so caught up in what just happened and worrying about what’s going to happen at work on Saturday that she doesn’t even notice Brendon let go of her hand until she hears someone say his name—looking up to see him doing that strange guy greeting where they slap hands and then sort of hug each other. The kind men seem to execute with total confidence and no explanation.

“What’s up, what are you doing here?” The guy asks. He’s about Brendon’s height, equally as muscular, but that’s where all the similarities end. His friend has rich dark skin and deep, friendly brown eyes. His features are soft and round and only makes Brendon look more angular standing beside him. Emma lets out some of the breath she was holding. Relief loosening something in her she didn’t realize had been tight for a while.

“Emma works with Vivi,” Brendon says, “she invited me.” He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Kai’s my guy on the days I don’t lift with you,” his friend says with a deep laugh. It effuses out of him, as vibrant as his smile. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Oh, fuck, right,” Brendon says, running a hand through his hair and turning back to her. A different version of him all of a sudden—looser, younger, less controlled. “Emma, this is Nate, Nate, this is Emma.” He smiles—so restrained compared to his friend, but just as happy.

“Nice to meet you,” Emma says, offering her hand.

“Girl…” Nate drags his eyes over her, but it doesn’t feel predatory at all, “you are even hotter up close.” Emma squeaks, tensing up as he continues to shake her hand. Not offended, just startled. Brendon whacks his shoulder with the back of his hand, giving him an appalled look. Nate rolls his eyes and clears his throat. “Brendon probably won’t tell you, we started lifting together because I was hitting on him,” he shoots a glare at Brendon, before turning back to Emma, “and he was completely clueless about it.”

Emma relaxes completely as her hand slides out of Nate’s. Oh. That explains a lot. “Ah,” she nods, “I see. In that case, thank you very much and um,” she lifts her eyebrows, “good taste.”

“You too,” Nate says, holding out the bottle in his hand. Emma touches the rim of her glass to it before taking a drink. “Heard you didn’t end up needing my truck last weekend?”

“Oh, yeah,” Emma laughs, feeling the rum start to loosen her up. Thank God. “I probably should have let him know it was a small item,” she admits, “but it was really funny. And your truck is really nice!”

“My parents actually drove us across the country in that truck when I was six and it was brand new,” he explains. “Still kicking.” He takes a drink.

“Across the country?” Emma repeats, eyes wide.

“From Baton Rouge up to Seattle,” he says. “Thank God they got me out of the South. I could not handle those hot summers. I do not like the heat.”

“Oh my god, me either,” Emma agrees. She glances at Brendon, who is watching them carefully, but clearly doesn’t feel the need to butt in. He just stays there, listening, letting the conversation happen. “I’m from northern Michigan. I can’t wait for the first snow.”

“Northern Michigan? Do you like hockey?” Nate asks.

He and Brendon are mirrors of each other, both leaning against the wall. Emma feels small standing between them. Looking back and forth, they move the same. Nate must be one of his closest friends. So this is really interesting—he’s drawn to people who are more emotional and expressive. Like her. Warmth spreads through her chest. Unwelcome and impossible to stop.

“Uh, yeah,” she nods, “my brother’s actually coming to visit for the Habs game after Thanksgiving.”

“Really?” Nate leans in, eyes sliding over to Brendon. “Do you have tickets yet?”

“I haven’t looked,” she admits.

“Well, I can see if my boss is using his for that game,” Nate offers. He nods at Brendon. “Or Brendon can ask his dad.”

“Hm?” Emma glances up at Brendon to find him shaking his head. Too quickly. He’s grinding his teeth. She puts a hand on his arm. “Brendon?”

He jumps a little and turns towards her. “Nothing, Nate’s just being a dick.”

“Yeah, yep,” Nate corrects, nodding quickly. Something just passed between them that she isn’t privy to. “Sorry, mixed him up with another friend.” He looks over Emma’s shoulder and grins. “Aaah—must have been this guy,” he says, worming his way between Brendon and Emma to greet Kai. Emma watches, sipping on her drink as Nate hugs Kai, lifting the shorter man clear off the floor. Easy and bright and totally unbothered. Not at all like Brendon.

Emma glances up at him. She wants to ask what that was about—but whatever it was, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s just staring down at the floor, tapping his fingers against his arm one by one. A rhythm. A tell.

She swallows the lump in her throat and glances over her shoulder, meeting Vivi’s eye as she sits on the couch—surrounded by a few other people. Vivi smiles and pats the empty space beside her.

“Come on,” Emma says, grabbing Brendon’s wrist, dragging him towards the couch. His pulse is jerky under her fingers. Definitely bothered by something. More than he’s trying to show.

“Where are we—” She pushes him to sit down next to Vivi. He frowns up at her, until she perches across his lap, then his face relaxes completely as he wraps his arms around her.

She leans in to whisper in his ear. “Everything’s fine. Just sit there, kiss my neck occasionally, and you don’t even have to talk,” she promises. Her lips brush over his cheek as she pulls back.

He relaxes completely beneath her, smiling before pressing his face against the back of her shoulder, his arms tightening around her waist like she’s a cuddly toy he’s holding for comfort. Emma suppresses a smile as she turns to Vivi and her friends, laughing and giggling as the other women compliment her costume and bring her into the group.

Brendon’s thumb strokes rhythmically over her thigh and occasionally he presses his mouth against her skin. But mostly he just holds her—either sitting back and staring at her or resting his face against her back. She keeps her hand on his wrist, feeling his pulse—slow and rhythmic now. Eased back into something steady. By her.

One of the knots in her chest starts to loosen.

Points earned as of October 29: 1010

Points spent as of October 29: 5

Points total of October 29: 1005

Chapter Text

Brooke: What are we doing for your birthday?

Brendon: I have plans.

Mom: What? With who? Doing what?

Brendon: We can have dinner on Sunday.

Brooke: Ha. What’s her name?

Mom: Invite her to dinner!

Brendon: No.

Brooke: You’re NO fun.

Mom: Invite her to dinner or don’t come at all.

Brendon: Okay.

Points earned as of November 6: 1565

Points spent as of November 6: 5

Points total as of November 6: 1560

Brendon’s working out alone today. Emma’s working and Nate’s on a site visit out past Somerset all weekend. He was deeply apologetic to be missing Brendon’s birthday tomorrow, but it couldn’t be helped. He’s working on getting his PE so he’s taking as many hours as he can for his experience record. Brendon understands. He has the Boards coming up himself. Everyone’s moving forward. Clocking hours. Logging time. Building toward something. It makes the ticking in his own life feel louder.

Without a lifting partner, his workout goes by a lot faster—and gives him more time to think. Too much time, probably. No one to talk to between sets, no one to spot him—just the rhythm of metal and breath and his own thoughts circling back on themselves. Los Angeles and his fellowship are still seven months away—but the last month went by in a blur. Like he’s already on the moving walkway and didn’t realize it until it picked up speed.

Every day seems to come at him faster and faster. He could have sworn his family was just harassing him about throwing a party for his thirtieth birthday—he said no. Now they’re harassing him about meeting Emma just because he said he has plans on his birthday.

Not that he’s actually asked Emma to go out to dinner with him. He can tell she’s getting antsy about it. She jumps about a half a mile away from him when he comes down to the ED—though he’s starting to get really good at evading Dana. Timing his entrances, taking different stairwells, learning the flow of her shifts like it’s a system he can optimize. Her responses to his texts are fewer and far between since the Halloween party.

He’s pretty sure something external is going on with her, because when they have managed to get to the gym together she’s been very forward. Confident hands, direct eye contact, suggestive comments. So it can’t be a lack of feelings for him on her part—she has them, she’s just keeping the deep ones to herself. Guarding them. Testing him. Making him earn access instead of handing it over. Which is understandable given his previous behavior.

But that’s what he wants to prove to her—that he isn’t going to leave this time. At least…not right away. That he can be attentive to her. That he isn’t inherently selfish. That when she reaches for control, he won’t take it back from her. That he can stay exactly where she puts him.

Of course, the truly unselfish act would have been to cut it off and stick with that. Because now he’s going to have to hurt her again. One way or another, they’ll have to make a choice. End it now or end it later. Because he isn’t staying. And he can’t ask her to give up her life here—not when she’s built the community she told him she always longed for. Her life is in Pittsburgh. His isn’t.

Resting before his final set of bicep curls, he composes a text to Emma. Thumb hovering for a second longer than necessary, like the act itself carries more weight than it should. Even though he sends this text several times a day.

Brendon: I’m thinking about you.

Her response comes in almost immediately. Which means she’s laying in bed avoiding getting up for her shift. He can picture it too easily—buried in blankets, phone in hand, eyes still half-lidded.

Emma: what about me?

Brendon: Wondering if you have plans Saturday night

Emma: i do not

He puts his phone down and takes his time finishing up the last set of bicep curls. His arms are burning, but that’s the best part of it—pushing himself past the limits. The pain and endorphins rushing in. It’s better than any drug. Simple. Predictable. No ambiguity, no consequences beyond muscle fatigue and recovery time. He returns his weights and wipes down the bench before sending his next text—his heart pounding from more than just the workout.

Brendon: Would you like to have dinner with me?

Emma: isn’t your birthday on saturday?

Of course she remembers that. Of course she does—she remembers everything he tells her, even the things he doesn’t think are important. Especially those.

Brendon: It is.

Emma: you want to spend it with me?

Yes, obviously. That’s why he asked. Because there isn’t anyone else he wants to sit across from. Because the idea of doing anything else feels like a waste.

Brendon: Who else would I spend it with?

Emma: your family? nate? someone important to you?

He can’t with her.

Brendon: You are important to me.

More than he should probably admit. More than is convenient. More than makes sense given the timeline he keeps trying not to think about.

It takes long enough for her to respond that he’s halfway home before her message pops up on Carplay. He hits the button so it will read it to him, thumbs tapping the steering wheel. Restless energy with nowhere to go now that the question’s been asked.

Emma: okay…if you really want to

He really, really wants to.

Emma has to work on his birthday, so they make it a late dinner—so she has time to shower after her shift. He spends most of the day catching up on stuff around the house, cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming, laundry. His scrubs are laundered at the hospital so it’s just endless piles of workout clothes. Mindless tasks. Linear. Start, finish, done. The kind of work that doesn’t leave room for overthinking—except he does it anyway. Every wiped surface just another place for his thoughts to land.

Jesse comes in—copper curls plastered to his forehead—sweating from a midday run, just as Brendon's fluffing the pillows on the couch. “Damn dude, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were having a girl over.” He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water from the fridge as Brendon comes and leans against the counter.

“She’s probably not coming over,” he admits, “but I have a date tonight.” The word still feels strange in his mouth. Too simple for what this actually is. Too casual for the way his chest tightens around it.

“Ah,” Jesse nods and smiles, “stress-cleaning then.”

“Yeah.”

Jesse takes a long drink of water, draining the cup before going back for more. “Well, I’m gone again Monday,” he says. “You can always have her over then.” He laughs. “Not that you can’t have her over when I’m here—it’s your house—I just figured you’d prefer I not be here.”

Brendon shrugs. He frowns, realizing something. “You know you can have people over too, right? You pay half the mortgage,” he points out.

Jesse scoffs. “With my schedule? I couldn’t keep up with a relationship. It’d be like doing long distance.” He shakes his head. “No thank you. I don’t even know how you have time to date.”

“She’s a nurse in the emergency department,” Brendon explains. “Out of the two of us, I actually have the more stable schedule.” The point about long distance sticks in his head. Hooks in and stays there. “You don’t think long distance works?”

Jesse shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I know people who’ve managed it. But I just don’t think I could. Why?” Before Brendon can answer, he nods, realizing. “Ohh, right. Yeah, the fellowship.” He makes a sympathetic face. “Three hours is a pretty decent time zone difference and what’s that flight like?”

“Five hours,” Brendon says immediately. He looked it up. Multiple times. Like the number might change if he checks often enough.

“Probably costs a bajillion miles too,” Jesse says, staring at the wall for a minute. He shrugs. “I don’t know, man, maybe she’s worth it.” He starts to head upstairs, adding over his shoulder, “I can’t tell you. You gotta figure this one out on your own.”

Worth it. Like it’s a calculation. Like there’s an equation he’s supposed to solve where she either balances the cost or she doesn’t. He hates that framing immediately—and also can’t help running the numbers anyway. Time. Distance. Seven months. Five hours. How many flights? How many missed days? How many times does he ask her to meet him halfway before it becomes asking too much?

“Appreciate the talk,” Brendon calls after him.

“Always.”

He stands there for a second longer than necessary after Jesse disappears upstairs, staring at the clean lines of the kitchen. Everything in its place. Everything accounted for. Except this. Except her. There’s no system for that. No way to optimize it. Only the quiet, persistent pull to show up tonight and give her exactly what she asks for—and maybe, if he can manage it, not think too far past that.

Nate: Happy Birthday! 🥳 Got any fun plans?

Brendon: Thanks. Dinner with Emma.

Nate: Right on!

Brendon liked a message

He hasn’t figured it out by 8:30 when he arrives to pick up Emma. Jo answers the door in a silk robe open over a bleach-stained Stevie Nicks t-shirt and jeans. He likes Jo. She cares about Emma, so he likes her. That seems to be the only metric that matters to him lately—how someone treats Emma, what they see in her, whether they recognize what he’s starting to recognize.

“Mm,” she nods at him, looking him up and down, “better than the shark onesie.” He thinks so too. Jo steps back to let him in. “Her bedroom is the first door on the left down that hall,” she instructs. “If you want to go and get her.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Thanks.” So he’s earned the privilege of walking into the house past the living room. Interesting. Another quiet level unlocked. Another inch of access granted. He kicks off his shoes before stepping on the carpet and follows her directions, knocking softly on the cracked door.

“Is he here?” Emma calls out. “Tell him I’m almost ready!”

Brendon laughs and pushes the door open another inch. “Jo gave me privileges to come and get you myself,” he explains.

“Oh my god!” Emma stands up so fast she knocks over the stool she’s sitting on. “Do not come in here!”

It’s too late though, he’s already seen her room. There’s a lot to take in. A teal and white patchwork quilt rumpled on her bed—the yellow comforter that was at some point folded near the foot is half-falling onto the floor. She has a set of old wooden furniture, bed frame, nightstand, dresser, and a tiny vanity—which has hair and makeup products all over it. There are pictures of her family and a woman he assumes is Cameron on every available surface, posters and prints on the walls, and yarn and needles stacked in the corner. It’s like Emma exploded all over this tiny room.

It’s clearly the mess of clothes and shoes spilling out of the closet and dresser though that she doesn’t want him to see. It’s just…already too late. The part she’d rather control. The part she didn’t invite him to look at.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t care if your room is messy though.” He doesn’t. Beneath the clothes, the carpet is vacuumed, there’s no dust on the furniture, and no dirty plates or cups. She’s clean. Just…cluttered. Layers instead of chaos. Systems that make sense once you look past the surface.

“I promise it’s not—” She winces. “Okay, not gonna lie, it usually looks like this.” Turning around, she starts to look for something, muttering, “I had it just a minute ago.”

“Had what?”

“Your birthday gift,” she says quickly. “I just had it.” Something in his chest softens. He’s curious what it is, but he’s more just happy she cared enough to get him something. That she thought about him when he wasn’t there. That she spent time on him.

“Stop worrying about it and come take these,” he says. Redirecting. Giving her an out. Letting her regain control of the moment instead of watching her spiral in it.

She whirls around. “You did not bring me flowers on your birthday,” she says, walking over anyway to take them. “These are beautiful. Thank you so much.” She cracks a smile. “But can you hold them because, seriously, I have a gift for you.”

“Okay.” He watches in amusement as she continues to putter around. She has on mismatched socks again, visible beneath the wide legs of her jeans. The denim still hugs her curves, but annoyingly hides her legs. And she has on a soft-looking baby pink turtleneck with her hair clipped back and little hoops in her ears. Soft everywhere tonight. As she stumbles around, she collects her shoes, putting them on one at a time. Always a little disorganized in motion, like her thoughts get ahead of her body.

“Oh my god, how did it get over here?” Emma mutters as she marches around the bed to the side she clearly sleeps on—where the covers are turned back. He notes that too without meaning to—the dip in the mattress, the way the pillows are pushed, the space she actually occupies. Smiling, she returns to him. “Sorry, I—didn’t wrap it. I thought the color would look nice with your eyes.” Inhaling deeply, she holds out her gift.

He trades her the flowers and takes it. “Did you…make this?” It’s a beanie. Nothing fancy about it. Blue, with tight, tiny stitches that must have taken hours to execute this perfectly. No gaps. Precise. Careful. Intentional. The yarn is incredibly soft.

“Yeah,” she says softly, “I picked the softest yarn I could find, because I know you’re kind of picky about fabrics you like.” She laughs breathlessly. “It was either this or socks with the time I had, and…you’re weird about socks.”

He’d told her once he wears his socks inside out so he doesn’t feel the seam across his toes. Once. Mentioned offhandedly. And she remembered. He goes completely still, blinking hard as his eyes start to sting. Oh my god. He cannot cry in front of her.

“Do you like it?” Emma asks softly, her eyebrows pinching with worry. Like she’s bracing for him to not. Like she expects to have gotten it wrong.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing, “yes, I love it. Thank you.” Understatement. Inadequate. Nowhere near enough for what she just did without even realizing it.

“I just thought, you know, winter’s coming up,” she explains, even though she doesn’t need to. “Anyway, um, let me grab my jacket.”

He trails after her back out into the living room, only faintly aware of Jo pulling out a vase and snipping the stems of her flowers. Too overwhelmed by everything clogging up his chest to hear Jo tell them to have fun. Moving on autopilot to open the door for Emma.

So it’s a good thing she says something to snap him out of it before he starts driving.

“Did you do anything fun to celebrate your birthday today?”

He snorts. “You are the fun thing I’m doing to celebrate my birthday,” he tells her. Then he lets his head fall back against the headrest and exhales. Shit. “That…was not what I meant to say.”

She giggles. “It’s okay. I can be your fun thing,” she agrees. “I was going to tell you your other gift is a…free pass.” He turns to stare at her. She smiles. “To do whatever you want.”

His stomach twists. “Whatever I want?” She has a list of what he wants. A detailed one. One he’s been ignoring on purpose. One he’s been choosing not to cash in.

She nods, eyes wide. “Whatever you want.”

Brendon narrows his eyes, tilting his head suspiciously. “Emma, you do not want me to do whatever I want,” he assures her. He’s been shoving down his own desires for so long now that he’s pretty sure if he lets up even a little bit, he’s never going to be able to contain himself again. The Halloween party last week nearly killed him.

He takes a deep breath. Part of him is screaming to cancel the dinner reservation. Glancing over at her, he determines if she’d been wearing a skirt and anything more revealing than a turtleneck, he might have. But as it is, he manages to keep himself in check, exhaling slowly.

“I feel like you’re trying to get me in trouble,” he grumbles, shifting into reverse.

“I’m not,” she promises, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s your birthday. You should get what you want for your birthday.”

He wants to tell her how much it means to him that she listens to him—really listens and remembers what he says. That even though she’s been mad at him—rightfully—she’s still put in the effort to learn what matters to him. That she did exactly the right thing when he started spiraling at the party. That even before he’s completely earned her trust back, she still used that knowledge and hours of her free time to make something for him. That nobody has cared about what he wants for his birthday in a long time. That she sees him in a way no one else bothers to. Not his job, not his reputation, not his body, not his family—just the small, specific things he didn’t think were worth remembering.

But he doesn’t have the words for that. It’s easy to text her, or send voice notes. She’s not right in front of him and he can delete things and start over and make sure he says everything perfectly. In person, he doesn’t have any way to explain how she makes him feel.

So he says nothing.

Mom: Dinner at 6 tomorrow.

Mom: What do you want to eat?

Mom: Cake?

Mom: Hello?

“Italian food?” Emma exclaims as Brendon holds open the door to the restaurant. She looks at him with wide eyes and an overexaggerated smile. “You’re letting me have carbs? You’re eating carbs?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, urging her in with his hand on her back. He can feel people looking—at her, at them—and he tightens his hand just slightly, guiding her inside before she can say anything else. Not enough to control. Just enough to keep her moving forward with him. “People are going to think I’m abusing you.”

He lets his hand fall to take hold of hers as they approach the hostess, his heart kicking into gear as she squeezes his fingers. She always does that—answers pressure with pressure. “Reservation under Brendon,” he says. Emma looks up at him as the hostess types and squeezes his hand a little tighter.

“Right this way.”

As they follow her upstairs, where the light is dimmer, Emma asks, “You made a reservation?”

He glances at her. “Of course.” That’s normal. Right? Totally casual. Would have made one for any reason at any restaurant in Pittsburgh on a Saturday night. Except this isn’t any reason—and he made this reservation two weeks ago.

They’re seated by the window, and the glow of the city casts a shadow over the right side of her face, until she turns her head to look out and he gets to see her fully illuminated. She has those two little curls pulled out by her face—the rest of it pulled back. Her eyes are a little tired—long shift—but her smile is easy when she looks back at him. His shoulders relax under that easy, exhausted gaze. She worked all day but she still wanted to be here. With him.

They order red wine and she hates it and wants white instead. It doesn’t bother him. They laugh about it. She gets the chicken cacciatore and he orders the pork belly and they laugh some more about how neither of them can truly give up thinking about their macros.

“Maybe that’s disordered of me,” she admits. “That I think so much about what I eat now.”

He shrugs. “I don’t think it’s disordered. You’re drinking wine, you ate the bread. You’re not restricting or going to throw it all up. You’re not beating yourself up for not counting it tonight.”

She smiles. “Honestly…I was never the biggest fan of pasta anyway,” she admits.

“There you go,” he agrees. “You’re fine.”

“You turned me into this though,” she accuses, setting down her silverware. “I would have been fine just lifting. You made me start caring about the food part.”

He looks at her for a moment, unimpressed. “Tell me you don’t feel better though,” he says. “Tell me you don’t have more energy and tell me you don’t like your body more.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. You’re right. I like it.” Glancing up as the waiter comes to clear their plates, she smiles softly. No defensiveness left. Just acceptance.

“Would you like to see a dessert menu?” He asks.

“Yes, we would,” Emma answers right away. See? No disorder. “We’re celebrating.”

“Excellent.”

As he walks away, Brendon leans in. “What, exactly, are we celebrating?”

“Your birthday,” Emma says, leaning in to meet him. He holds his hands out across the table and she takes them immediately. Like she’s been doing this for years. “And one thousand points,” she adds.

He pulls his chin back. That’s not what he wants this to be. “Emma.”

“Which like, congratulations,” she adds quickly. “I genuinely didn’t think you’d…follow through.”

“Emma,” he repeats a little more firmly. But she doesn’t let him continue.

“It’s actually really—”

“Emma, stop talking.” This time he says it firmly enough that her mouth snaps shut. She sits back but he tightens his hold on her hands so she can’t pull them away completely. Keeping her with him. His chest is aching as she looks at him, eyebrows pinched together like she’s confused about his behavior. “Don’t…” He has to look away. “Please just…don’t.” Let me pretend it’s real. For a night. Don’t turn this into something transactional. Not tonight.

Emma’s shoulders drop a little bit, her eyebrows relaxing. Her mouth twitches at the corners before she says, “Okay.” She lets out all the air in her lungs at once. “I’m sorry. I just—” Don’t believe you, he finishes in his head. He fucked it up too much. It’s obvious now. He can hear it even when she doesn’t say it.

“I get it.” He just doesn’t know what else he can do to make her believe him. Dropping her hands, he pulls back and nods. “I understand.”

“I don’t,” she admits. A single, high-pitched peal of laughter exits her chest. “I have no idea.” More giggles. “I don’t know what the heck is wrong with me!” Brendon stares at her, no idea what she’s going on about, as the waiter drops a dessert menu on the table. She looks at it, then pushes it towards him. “You should pick. Your birthday.”

He shakes his head. “There’s—there’s nothing wrong with you,” he says quickly, trying to reassure her while wondering how he possibly implied that.

“No, there totally is,” she insists, leaning back and crossing her arms, “because the hottest guy I’ve ever seen is sitting across from me, right? And he’s spent the last month doing every freaking thing I asked—no matter how ridiculous or stupid—just for the chance to take me out to dinner—” Okay it sounds significantly more pathetic when she puts it like that. “—And when he finally got there,” she laughs, “he brought me flowers, he picked me up, he’s about to spend probably more than I’ve ever spent on dinner…” It can’t be that much. “…On his birthday, mind you,” she throws up her hands, “and I gave him a free pass to do whatever he wants to me, but—” she shakes her head and lets her hands fall down to her thighs with a smack, “—either he doesn’t want to sleep with me at all or, I was wrong, and, in fact, he is just that into me and I don’t know which one is scarier!” She whisper-shouts the last part, glancing around like she’s afraid someone heard her.

Oh. He got this entirely wrong. Again. Brendon takes a second to process all that, frozen with his mouth half-open from when he wanted to interrupt her but then stopped when she started talking about the free pass. He presses his lips together and swallows, leaning in a little. “Well…I do really want to sleep with you…” he says slowly, eyeing her. No point pretending otherwise.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Of course that’s the only part you heard.”

He ignores her. “I just also happen to be so into you that if I only get one shot with you I’d rather have dinner with you and talk to you.” He keeps his voice low. Controlled. Measured. Not giving her something she can dismiss as impulsive.

“Than what?” She asks.

“Sorry?” He thought he said that pretty clearly.

“You’d rather have dinner with me than what?”

“Uhh, specifically if I only get one shot,” he clarifies, “I’d rather have dinner with you than sleep with you.” He keeps his hands folded in his lap as he leans in, whispering, “But usually an ideal relationship has both of those elements and many more nights than one.” He’s choosing every word very carefully.

Emma swallows. “And that’s what you want?”

That’s what he just said. “Yes.”

She clarifies again, “A relationship?”

He nods, absolutely sure. “Yes.”

Her face is wary as she nods. “Even though you’re moving 2,427 miles away in 235 days,” she whispers, like she’s been repeating it to herself.

“Yes,” he keeps nodding, “even though—wait.” Processing catches up. “You know exactly how far away LA is and how many days until I leave?”

“I googled it,” she explains. Then quieter, “And I put a countdown on my phone.” Brendon inhales deeply, his fingers tapping on his knees as his heart thuds deep and slow in his chest. He stares at her, jaw clenched. His diaphragm feels paralyzed. She’s been tracking it. Holding it the whole time. Not ignoring it. Not pretending. Because she…does care. “I’m terrified,” she finally admits. Her dark circles appear more prominent now. Her usually round cheeks are hollow. “I’m so terrified of letting you in and then losing you in a few months.” She’s never seemed more beautiful. Honest. No defenses left.

“It’s more than a few months,” he says quietly.

“Hm?”

“A few is typically three to five,” he explains, staring at the wood grain on the table. “I leave in seven months. It’s more than a few months.”

“You’re correcting my verbiage right now?” Yes and also it’s incredibly sexy that you just used the word ‘verbiage.’

He nods, finally managing to look up at her. She looks at him prudently. It takes him another second to finally say, “I would rather have seven months of everything with you than never having you at all.”

Emma laughs like she’s trying not to. “Did you just realize that?”

Maybe he’s known for a while, but he says, “Yeah, I think so.”

The waiter takes this inopportune moment to reappear. “Did we decide on dessert?”

Brendon looks at Emma, who shrugs and looks out the window. “I think we’re going to skip it,” he tells the waiter, reaching for his wallet. “Thank you though.”

As he’s helping her put her jacket on, his knuckles brush against her neck and she visibly shivers, letting out a slow, shaky breath. Her eyes flutter shut. Brendon lets his hands slide down her shoulders, then turns and reaches for her hand. He gives her the space to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t.

He lifts it to his mouth as they walk down the stairs. She glances at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. Then she doesn’t look at him again. But she doesn’t take her hand back either.

He puts his hand out to hold it shut when she reaches for the door handle on the passenger side, glancing around to see how alone they are. Emma shoots him an annoyed look that’s wiped off her face as he pushes her hips back against the car, pressing into her with his body. Enough pressure to stop her. Not enough to trap her.

“What’s wrong?” He demands, reaching up to hold her chin so she can’t turn away from him. He needs her to look at him. Needs to read her before he does anything else. Her eyes dart back and forth between his, her arms crossed between their chests—a barrier.

“I’m really scared,” she admits, wide-eyed. Oh.

He steps back and twists her around so he’s leaning back against the car, slouching a little so he isn’t looming over her. Giving the space back immediately. Resetting the dynamic. “Better?”

“Yeah.” She nods as she leans into him. Closing the distance on her own this time. This time she uncrosses her arms and puts her hands on his chest, moving them up and down like she’s trying to soothe him—or herself. He doesn’t interrupt it. Lets her set the pace.

He squeezes her hips. “Talk to me,” he prompts her. Something is bothering her. He’s never had to ask her to talk before. Her fingers dig into his pecs, which, he doesn’t really mind, except for the fact that she’s looking away from him. Over his shoulder. He lifts his fingers to her chin again, directing her attention back to him. “Please, Emma.”

She swallows as she finally meets his gaze. He frowns, glancing over her. Wide eyes, hammering pulse, heaving chest. She really is scared. He eases back, taking his hands away and folding them behind his back. Removing himself from the equation completely. No pressure. No influence. Just her choice. She frowns at him. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to tell me what to do,” he says softly. Handing it over. Fully. No ambiguity.

Her lips part slightly as she looks him over, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “Wh–what, um, about…it being your birthday?”

He shrugs, feeling himself relax into the game. Into the structure she gave him. Something he can follow instead of deciding every detail. “I’ve had a lot of those.”

She inches closer as her hands drift up to his shoulders and it takes just about every ounce of self-restraint he has not to reach for her when she looks down at his mouth. He stays exactly where she left him. Her fingers curl around the collar of his shirt, brushing against his neck. His breath catches as she leans in, her nose brushing his nose.

The car is freezing against his back and she’s impossibly warm against him. Time seems to inch along. One lift of her chest against his chest. One puff of air against his mouth. He’s not really sure he’s breathing himself—and briefly he considers if maybe he’s brain dead and this is all a dream.

Then her lips brush over his and he knows it’s real. Because he couldn’t have dreamed of feeling like this. Like his whole world narrows to the barest touch of her mouth to his—a jolt of clarity before their lips slide more firmly together, like the last piece of a puzzle. Then every neuron in his brain starts screaming for him to pull her in closer—tilt her head, deepen it, take more than she’s offering. Learn the shape of her mouth properly. He wants it immediately. All of it.

He fights them all, remaining perfectly still except his jaw as she deepens the kiss just a little. Just enough. He lets her decide what enough is, and then she pulls away. Less than five seconds and it felt like an eternity. Less than five seconds and she ruined him entirely. Tied an invisible string around his heart and looped the other end around her wrist. And he doesn’t even think about cutting it.

She blinks a few times when he peels his own eyes open to look at her, like she’s the dazed one. “Hi,” she says, like she has no idea what else to say.

“Hi,” he agrees. Her fingers curl around the back of his neck, brushing his scalp and sending tingles over his head that do not help him think any clearer. He fights the urge to reach for her, fights to remain still until she says otherwise. Because now he knows—if he moves first, he’ll take too much.

“You’re…not touching me,” she observes, and one of her fingers slides along the shell of his ear and down the side of his neck.

“You didn’t tell me to,” he reminds her, shifting his hands behind his back.

It’s ludicrously sexy to watch the glee take over her face as she realizes he’s being serious. That the game is back on. And then horrifically embarrassing at how quickly his body responds as she arches her back a little, pressing her chest against him. One of his thighs is caught between hers, and even through their jeans he can feel the heat of her against him. Her hand comes up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. He swallows and glances away from her, then back, unable to resist the pull.

She breaks into a smile, her eyes softening in the dim light of the street lamps. He closes his eyes as she leans in to kiss him again—slow and soft. His hand twitches, wanting to grab her—actually, his whole arm twitches—and she must notice because she pulls back enough to mumble, “Kiss me how you want to kiss me.”

Finally.

He wraps an arm firmly around her waist, fingers digging into the flesh of her hip like she might slip away. Only now. Only because she asked for it. She lets out an adorable little squeak against his mouth, tensing before melting into him. His other hand slides up between her shoulder blades as he coaxes her mouth open, seeking her tongue. Warm and soft and surprisingly shy.

He adjusts immediately. Slows to match her instead of pushing past it. She keeps pulling away from him. He brings his hand up to the back of her neck, steadying her there when she tries to retreat. Not forcing. Just holding her in place so he doesn’t have to chase. So she can come back on her own.

She lets him for a moment before pulling back with a sigh. Resting her elbow on his shoulder, she props up her chin and looks at him. “I can’t bring you home because Jo will be insufferable,” she says. Her other hand rests on his shoulder, fingers tracing his collarbone. “What are the odds your roommate is out of town?”

Brendon laughs, hard enough that she stands up again to not be jostled. He shakes his head. “I’d usually say very high, but he actually is at home tonight.” He also said Emma could come over, but Brendon sort of wants the house to himself when that happens.

“Rude.”

“I know,” he agrees, rolling his eyes, “how dare he sleep where he pays rent.”

Emma giggles and nods. “Of course. Very unfortunate timing on his part.” She presses her lips together, eyes glinting. “Good thing you’re very good at waiting.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “you’ve made me a very patient man.” And he means it. Every second of restraint taught by her, not forced by him.

Mom: You don’t have to bring your friend to dinner if you don’t want to.

Brendon: I wasn’t planning to bring her.

Mom: See you at 6.

Brendon liked a message

Points earned as of November 8: 1855

Points spent as of November 8: 1005

Points total as of November 8: 850

Emma: can i see you after work today?

Brendon: I unfortunately have to attend Sunday dinner with my family.

Emma: oh, okay! for your birthday?

Brendon: It’s every Sunday. Not just for my birthday.

Emma: i see

Brendon knows she’s probably expecting him to ask her if she’d like to come to dinner. But he also knows she’ll decline. So he skips a step. Maybe that’s disappointing for her, but he’s torn.

On the one hand, he wants to drag Emma to his parents’ house and say, ‘This is my girlfriend! She’s amazing! Put me down for a plus one at the wedding!’ Force them to see what he sees. Make it undeniable.

And then on the other, he’s reluctant to give them fodder to try and convince him not to move to LA. Because if he decides to stay because of Emma, all he’s doing is proving his mom and sister right. That finding the right anchor is all it takes to steer him off course. He doesn’t want to reduce her to that. Doesn’t want her turned into leverage. Into an argument. Into something they can use.

Their conversation at dinner last night lifted a weight off his shoulders he didn’t even realize was there. Neither of them explicitly laid out a label—the dark gray cloud of his inevitable move across the country still looms over them—but he knows he’s not interested in seeing anyone else and doesn’t want to stop seeing her anytime soon.

Not after he found out what it’s like to kiss her. It had truly been a feat of self control to drop her off and head home. But he managed. Barely. He texted her as soon as he got home to tell her he’s thinking about her. Actually…

Brendon: By the way, I’m thinking about you.

She doesn’t usually answer right away at work, which is fine. He knows she likes it when he sends several shorter texts instead of one long text. Once she mentioned it makes her feel like she’s being pinged with each individual thought he has about her. He suspects it might have something to do with the vibration of her phone, but he isn’t sure about that theory yet.

Brendon: I like that your lip gloss tastes like caramel.

Caramel is suddenly his favorite flavor in the world.

Emma: technically it’s iced coffee

Brendon: You know how much I love being technical.

Emma laughed at a message

He leaves her alone. Once she starts reacting instead of replying, he knows he’s distracting her too much. The one thing he doesn’t want to bother her about is work. It’s time to leave for dinner anyway.

His family doesn’t get him gifts for his birthday anymore. Sharon just transfers money directly into his bank account. He and Brooke reached an agreement three years ago to stop trying to give each other gifts when they realized they were trading the same $100 Lululemon gift card back and forth for their birthdays and Christmas. Not his favorite athletic wear brand, but the only store they both seem to like. They always told him he’s too difficult to shop for—too particular, interests too niche. So they stopped trying.

Which is why it hit him so hard that Emma not only spent hours making a gift for him, she made it even more difficult for herself working around his weird things about fabric and seams. Usually he doesn’t wear beanies that aren’t lined with a smoother fabric, but the one she made him doesn’t irritate his ears at all. She’s the best. Ever.

Atticus is there to greet him with another toy as he slips in through the front door. “Hey, buddy,” he says softly, ruffling the dog’s ears and tugging briefly on the toy. Atticus grumbles in response and trots ahead of him into the kitchen. He clears his throat as he walks in. Bracing. Resetting. Putting everything he just felt somewhere it won’t show.

“Hey!” Brooke says brightly. “Happy birthday!”

“Yeah, happy birthday,” Spencer agrees.

Sharon turns around from the stove. “Happy birthday, honey. Did you have a good day yesterday?”

Brendon leans over the counter, shrugging. “Yeah it was good.” He doesn’t say more, though Brooke is clearly dying to ask him about Emma.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“Yay!” She grins, rocking back and forth with excitement. “What’s her name? How’d you meet her? How long have you been seeing her? What does she look like? Do you have a picture? What’s her last name?”

Brendon blinks. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Emma,” he answers. Still no questions about him—because the only interesting thing about him is who he’s dating.

Brooke rolls her hands to indicate he should keep going. “And?”

He shrugs. “She’s…really great.” And he doesn’t want to share her yet. Doesn’t trust them to see her correctly.

“Why didn’t you bring her?” Brooke demands. “I want to meet her.”

“She’s working.”

“On a Sunday?” Spencer asks, looking up from his phone.

“Yes,” he explains, “lots of people in healthcare work on Sundays. Sometimes I work on Sundays.”

“So you met her at work,” Brooke concludes, nodding to herself. “Is she a surgeon too?” She would think that. That’s what’s expected of him. Date someone with a job of the same calibre—according to them. Brooke’s in real estate litigation. Spencer has his MBA and works in finance. Both equally prestigious in the eyes of his family.

So he braces himself before saying, “She’s a nurse in the ED.” Which, he knows is probably as demanding as his own job, but all they heard is that she didn’t go to grad school. Never mind that a nursing degree is one of the hardest you can get. He watches it land. Watches the recalibration.

“Oh…” Brooke nods. “Very cool.”

“Sounds…stressful,” Spencer agrees. Brendon’s jaw tightens. His fingers tap harder against the granite.

“So, she could do that in LA, right?” Sharon says. Her voice is polite and even, but a little too high-pitched. It puts him even more on edge.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But…I wouldn’t ask her to do that.” Because it wouldn’t be her choice anymore. Because it would become about him.

Brooke scoffs. “Well, why not? I mean, there are emergency rooms everywhere.”

But Emma likes this one. She has friends here. He looks up at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts into something that won’t get everyone yelling, trying not to grind his teeth into dust. Finally he just says, “Can we talk about something else?” He shakes his head. “We’re not—this isn’t—whatever. It just doesn’t matter right now.”

Sharon turns back from the stove, swiping her finger along the spatula and licking it. “She must not be very important to you if you don’t want to introduce us and it doesn’t matter that you’re moving to LA,” she says, eyes fixed on him.

Actually, she’s so important to him that he’d never subject her to this level of bullshit. But he bites his tongue. Anger bubbles up his throat and he takes a deep breath. He’s not going to yell at his mom. “Please,” he says, “can we just have dinner?” He’d even take talking about the wedding right now. He gives up ground instead of dragging Emma into it.

“Sure,” Sharon says, too bright for how unimpressed her face is. She goes back to the stove. “Brooke, how’s work?”

Brooke starts going on about some mediation she’s been prepping for all week being cancelled and Brendon lets himself sink back into thinking about Emma. As his dad slips in and they’re sitting down around the table, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text.

Brendon: Thinking about you.

Greg sets his keys down in the bowl by the door and loosens his tie as he walks in, pausing just long enough to clap Brendon once on the shoulder on his way past. “Hey, birthday boy,” he says. His eyes flick over Brendon’s face for half a second—taking in more than he comments on. “Long day?”

Brendon shrugs. “Something like that.”

Greg hums and moves to wash his hands. He doesn’t ask anything else.

“...case right now—” Sharon is saying, “—alleged assault at a hospital. The hospital and the police are 100% convinced it happened the way the girl says it happened, but the details are very unclear.” She shrugs as she takes a bite of broccoli. “I’m trying to get the charge reduced to simple assault. Keep him out of prison.”

Greg sits down across from Brendon and reaches for the salt. “If he did it, I’m not sure prison is unreasonable,” he says mildly.

Sharon gives him a sharp look. “That’s not the point.”

“No,” Greg agrees, “your point is process. I know.” He glances at Brendon then, just briefly, as if to say we don’t have to engage with this.

Brendon rolls his eyes. Assaults happen on healthcare workers all the time. Guess the fucker who carried out this particular one happened to have the funds to hire a fancy defense attorney. Which means the only thing he’ll probably pay for his crimes with is money—and that doesn’t matter to guys like this. Part of him is bothered by his mom defending wealthy criminals, but he’s also fully aware that her work paid for everything he has. So he keeps his mouth shut. Another thing he doesn’t say. Another thing he lets pass.

But it does make him wonder how Emma’s assault case is progressing. She’s never fully explained what happened—other than the patient being on alcohol and cocaine so he doesn’t remember strangling her. It seems pretty open and shut to him. Maybe the guy already pleaded out. He texts under the table.

Brendon: Hope I’m not ruining your mood bringing this up, but have you heard anything new about your case?

Then he feels bad so he adds:

Brendon: Again, just thinking about you.

And one more, because this dinner is getting ridiculously stressful.

Brendon: I really want to see you tonight. If I can.

Three texts come through just as he’s putting his phone back in his pocket. His shoulders drop as he sits back to review them.

Emma: come over when you’re done

Emma: jo went salsa dancing

Emma: i wanna see you too

Brendon loved a message

“Something you want to share with the class?” Brooke asks, kicking his shin under the table.

“Ow.” Brendon looks up, slipping his phone back in his pocket. Everyone’s looking at him. “What?”

“You’re smiling,” Brooke informs him. She looks at Sharon. “He’s smiling. When’s the last time you saw him smile?”

“I smile,” Brendon says defensively.

Greg glances up from his plate. “You do.”

Brooke gestures wildly. “When?”

Greg shrugs. “When you got your fellowship.” A beat. “When you were explaining that nightmare shoulder case last week.” He looks at Brendon. “And right now.”

Brendon exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. It’s always a little better when his dad is in a social mood. He feels like he has someone on his team.

“Christmas card last year,” Spencer supplies. “But I don’t know if that counts.”

“Oh speaking of,” Sharon interrupts, “solid colors at Thanksgiving dinner so we can take a photo for this year’s Christmas card.” She looks at Brooke, adding, “And we can put one of your engagement photos on the back.”

“I get to pick which one,” Brooke says immediately. “It can’t be the same as the save the date.”

“Of course,” Sharon agrees. Turning to Brendon, she says, “Will Emma be joining us?”

He has no idea. “I think she’s probably going home,” he says, shrugging. He knows her brother is coming to visit the weekend after. Maybe they’re flying back together.

“Well, she’s invited.”

But she definitely won’t be on the Christmas card.

Brendon: I’m on my way if it’s still okay to come over.

Emma: yes please!

Seeing Emma is like letting out a sigh of relief after being at his parents’ house. Brendon doesn’t know what it is about that place—it’s like he regresses into being a teenager. Everything tight, everything measured. Every word weighed before he says it. He physically feels the tension melt out of his body when she opens the door and waves him in—looking completely adorable in a big t-shirt and plaid pajama pants that pool around her ankles, hair tied up on top of her head.

“We can hang out in the living room,” she suggests, curling her legs beneath her in the middle of the couch, and he takes that to mean her room is still too messy for him to be invited in. But he likes that she let him see her in her comfy clothes—that she feels safe enough for that. That she doesn’t have to edit herself for him.

“Works for me,” he agrees, emptying his pockets onto the coffee table and shrugging off his jacket before sitting beside her. She’s about half a foot too far away for his liking. And apparently hers, because as soon as he’s comfortable, she moves into his lap. If there was any tension left in his body, it’s gone as soon as he has his arms around her. Gone in an instant. Replaced with something steady. Familiar already. “How was work?”

“It completely sucked,” she says definitively, sliding her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair like she’s soothing him, though he suspects she’s soothing herself. “Just…ugh. I’m so angry.”

“What happened?”

“This patient yelled at me,” she admits. “I—you know—told him the doctors would get to him and that actually the longer it takes, the better—‘cause that means you’re not that sick…” She presses her lips together and continues moving her fingers through his hair. If she doesn’t stop that, he is going to fall asleep. He’s already fighting a yawn. Her touch dragging him down into something soft, something quiet. “Anyway, he said some really nasty stuff to me.”

“What’d he say?” Brendon asks quietly.

“I’d rather not repeat it,” she sighs. “It wasn’t—it was quite lewd.”

“Ah.” His brain starts sorting through the possibilities—none of which he likes. Too many options. All of them making his jaw tighten. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Vivi says it happens a lot but it’s really the first time it’s happened to me and like, it’s not as bad as being strangled but in some ways I was…more scared of this? Of not knowing if he would physically come after me?” She leans into him, resting her head against his. “Sorry to just dump that on you.”

“No, that’s what I’m here for,” he reminds her. His hand slides up her back—accidentally sneaking under her t-shirt. She doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she presses closer. Accepts it without question. He makes long, slow strokes up and down her spine—only briefly registering that she doesn’t have a bra on. For once, he’s not really thinking about that. Part of him is too drained for it. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll live,” she says, yawning herself. “How was dinner?”

He snorts. “Really sucked.”

“How so?”

“My family are just kind of…” the words get caught in his throat, “...difficult.” An understatement.

“It’s nice that you guys have dinner every week though,” she says quietly. “I miss seeing my family all the time.”

That reminds him. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Fly home on Wednesday and then Evan’s gonna fly back with me on Friday.”

“That’s a lot of travel back to back,” he observes. His other hand moves up and down the seam on the outside of her thigh—the flannel worn and soft under his fingers. Something mindless. Repetitive. Something that keeps him here.

“Yep,” she agrees, “and then I traded my day shift Saturday for Mateo’s night shift Friday night so I can go to the hockey game. Which…I still don’t have tickets to.”

He sighs. She’s the only person he’d offer this to. The only person.

“Do you…” another sigh because it feels like his body is trying to keep him from saying it, “...want me to ask my dad for his tickets?”

She lifts her head and frowns. “Your dad?”

“He’s the…team doctor,” Brendon admits. There it is. Out in the open. No taking it back now.

Emma pulls back, her hand resting on his chest to create space. She furrows her eyebrows. “For the Pittsburgh Penguins?”

He nods, his jaw clenched. “Y…eah,” he manages. “For the Penguins.” Waiting for it. The shift. The recalibration. The awe.

She still looks confused. “Is that…hang on…is that why you were—I feel like I’m picking up on some shame surrounding this,” she finally explains, gesturing between them. Not impressed. Not intimidated. Just…curious. Trying to understand him.

“Have you ever had a dad who’s a really big name in the exact field you want to go into?” He asks flatly. “Because it’s pretty fucking exhausting.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” She goes back to pushing her fingers through his hair. Just…accepts it. No follow-up questions about status or connections. Just him. “So you…felt like you had to live up to him?” She guesses.

He shakes his head and tightens his grip on her, needing to hold something. Needing the anchor of her in his lap. “It’s not…about that, it’s more that I’m constantly having to prove to everyone that I’m actually really good. That I’m not…just there because I’m Greg Park’s son.”

“You are really good at what you do,” she says softly. Immediate. No hesitation. No doubt.

“I know.” He lifts his hands and lets them fall back down. “But nobody assumes that right away. Not if they know who my dad is—which, by the way, everyone fucking does.” He lets his head fall back against the couch. “I love my dad,” he says to the ceiling, “because I probably wouldn’t even be this passionate about sports medicine if it wasn’t for him.” And because he’s actually the only member of his family who doesn’t pressure him to be what he isn’t. He’s the only one who gets him. “But…sometimes I wish…I don’t know.” That he could just be Brendon. Full stop.

Emma’s hand moves up the side of his neck, her thumb brushing over his jaw as she coaxes him to look at her. He lifts his head as soon as she puts pressure on the base of his skull, used to giving in now—used to yielding to her. No resistance. No hesitation. He goes where she guides him.

“Sorry for dumping that on you,” he mumbles, looking away from her. He hasn’t told anyone all of that in…probably years. This isn’t something he even talks about with Nate.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she tells him quietly. “And don’t ask your dad about the tickets. Evan and I like the upper section anyway. You can see the ice better.”

He thinks he might love her. The words come to the front of his mind so fast, like a geyser that just broke free. It scares him so much he shoves it down immediately, swallowing the thought entirely. Forgetting it on purpose as she leans in and slots her lips in with his, lingering there for a moment. His hands tighten on her for a split second, before he pulls them away entirely. Emma breaks away without going far.

“Brendon?” Her nose brushes against his cheek.

“Yeah?”

“I’m too tired for games tonight,” she admits. “I just…kind of want to be here. And I want you to be here. And that’s it.”

“Sure, yeah,” he agrees.

They end up stretched out across the couch, legs tangled together. She’s between him and the back of the couch, so if anyone falls off it’s him. But he’s not going to fall off, because he’s so focused on kissing her, still slow, still relaxed—though he’s trying to get as much of her as possible, memorize the shape of her mouth, the heat of her body. Cataloging it. Committing it to memory before it can change or disappear.

“Mm,” she hums against his mouth, sliding her hand up his chest.

“Mmhm,” he agrees, curling his arm behind her head to pull her closer, his other hand pulling her thigh up over his hip, pressing her against him. Careful, even now, not to take more than she’s giving. Matching her. Staying with her.

Her hand slides up between them, around his throat. He groans a little as she shoves him back with her hand just below his jaw. Every breath passes beneath her palm. Controlled. Measured. He lets it happen. He likes it.

“Just needed to breathe,” she whispers, “just…go slow.”

“Okay.” He nods, leaning back in, capturing her lips again, but trying to be gentle now. She starts to take her hand away, moving it to grab his shoulder and he catches her wrist before she pulls completely away, guiding her hand back to his throat. “I like it,” he murmurs against her mouth. Her hand isn’t big enough to wrap around his neck and do any real damage—but she can apply pressure. She can have control. And he likes giving her that. Likes knowing she’s the one setting the limit.

Emma pulls back, eyes wide. His stomach twists, worried he scared her. She’s been strangled after all. She blinks. “That’s…” he swallows, watching her search for the words, “…hot,” she whispers. She presses down, just a little, probing his neck like she’s examining someone. Testing. Learning. Not afraid.

He puts his hand over hers, guiding her thumb and fingers to his pulse points. “Just on the sides,” he tells her, “like this.” Showing her where it’s safe. Where it feels good. His hand returns to her thigh—when he wraps his hand around the back of it, her eyes flutter shut and he remembers their conversation in the gym. Running his fingers up and down her hamstring, he whispers, “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she admits, squeezing a little below his jaw as she drags his face back to hers. He presses his fingers into the back of her thigh—right below the curve of her ass—and she gasps against his mouth, bucking her hips as he presses his own thigh right up against the heat between her legs. Posterior chain—it’s all connected. He feels it in his own body too, the way everything responds at once.

He sucks on her tongue as she tightens her grip on his neck, rocking her hips a little more purposefully. She moans against his mouth—a beautiful, sweet sound. His own grip tightens on her leg, urging her to keep going, not to stop. Then, very suddenly, the rest of her muscles tense, her thumb slips and presses gently against his windpipe, but he doesn’t mind because he trusts that she’ll let go. Trusts her. Completely.

“Oh my goodness,” she says, her head falling back against the couch. “I think I really needed that.” Her hand slides down to grab the collar of his shirt, like she has to anchor herself. The rush of a full breath of air washes over him—almost as euphoric as the way she just came. Sharp and clean and grounding all at once.

“Mm, yeah?” Brendon leans in and kisses her neck, light little ones peppering her skin. “You feel better?” Softer now. No urgency left.

Her arms loop around his neck and she tucks her face into his shoulder. “I’m so tired,” she mumbles against his shirt. “And I’m sorry that I’m tired.”

“Go to sleep,” he urges her, moving his hand from her thigh back under her shirt again. “It’s late and you worked all day.” No hesitation. No disappointment. Just taking care of her. That’s what he came over for.

“Mmm, you’re not gonna stay, are you?”

He rubs her back. “I’ll stay til you fall asleep,” he assures her. “And I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” A promise he knows he can keep.

Her body is starting to slump, her grip on his neck loosening, breathing evening out. “You’re gonna bring me breakfast?” The words are starting to slur. It makes him feel warm in his chest that she feels this relaxed, safe enough to fall asleep in his arms. That she trusts him this much without asking twice.

“Promise,” he whispers in her ear.

Her fingers go slack and she’s completely out, draped all over him, safe in his arms. Little puffs of air hit his neck, slow and even. He stays a while, syncing his breath with hers, but not letting himself fall asleep, even though he wants to. Neither of them will be happy waking up on the couch before work tomorrow.

Also he has rounds at 5am. She’d hate him if he woke her up for that.

Eventually he starts to extricate himself, slowly getting to his knees on the ground beside the couch. Blinking himself awake, he carefully slides his hands beneath her, bringing her in close before getting to his feet. Holding her steady so she doesn’t stir. So she doesn’t have to wake up. The door opens as he turns around, Emma cradled against his chest.

Jo walks in. “Oh!” She exclaims, hand flying to her heart. Emma’s hand twitches against his arm. “Oh,” she corrects to a whisper. “Sorry.” She grimaces. “Don’t mind me.”

“I’m just gonna put her in her room,” Brendon whispers. “Then I’ll head out.”

“Oh,” she sounds surprised, “okay.” Watching him a little more closely now.

She moves into the kitchen as he heads down the hall, nudging the door to her room open with his foot and carefully making his way inside. It’s probably worse than the night before, and he has to step over piles of discarded clothes and shoes to get to her unmade bed. The quilt looks like she kicked it down when she woke up this morning. Evidence of her, everywhere.

He sets her down gently and she immediately turns over in her sleep, curling into a ball as he drapes the quilt over her. Sighing, he leans down and just barely touches his lips to her forehead, squeezing her shoulder before he has to pull away.

Turning the handle before shutting the door so it doesn’t wake her, he nearly jumps out of his skin to find Jo standing at his shoulder. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You scared me.”

“She okay?” Jo asks, tilting her head towards Emma’s room.

“Yeah,” Brendon presses his back against the wall to slide by her, “she just fell asleep. I have early rounds so I need to head home.”

“Hmm.” Jo makes a dissatisfied noise in her throat. “You really do care about her.”

“Yes,” he says flatly. How many times are they gonna go over this? She still looks unimpressed.

“But you’re leaving,” she says. Why do people always tell him that like he isn’t completely aware of that? Like it isn’t already sitting in his chest every second.

He clenches his jaw. Flexing his hands, tapping his fingers. Wrenching his eyes away from the wall, he shakes his head as he stares right at Jo.

“I’m not leaving her.”

Chapter Text

Brendon: I am…thinking about you. About how much I miss you.

Emma: how’s thanksgiving at your parents?

Brendon: Not too bad…Nate came because he couldn’t get home to Seattle.

Brendon: My mom loves him.

Brendon: He’s like a buffer.

Brendon: How is it at home?

Emma: they’re interrogating me

Brendon: About what?

Emma: you 💀

Brendon: Oh no. What are they asking?

Emma: they wanna know if you’re my boyfriend

Brendon: What did you tell them?

Emma: i said you are

Emma: my mom won’t understand if i didn’t label you

Emma: hope that’s okay

Brendon: Perfect because I called you my girlfriend accidentally about five minutes ago 😅

Emma: -5 points for jumping the gun

Brendon laughed at a message

Emma: +105 points for being my boyfriend

Brendon loved a message

Points earned as of November 26: 3730

Points spent as of November 26: 1955

Points total as of November 26: 1775

“Emma!” Her mom, Sabrina, calls from the overcrowded dining room table, “Can you bring the serving spoons from the kitchen? I forgot them!”

“Wi, Manman,” Emma says automatically, though it’s still weird to hear her mom speaking English at home. The words sound slightly off in her ears, like a song played in the wrong key. Growing up, her mom always spoke to them in French, her dad in English. But with her dad’s brother and his family present, Sabrina speaks English. Her parents and siblings don’t live close enough to come for Thanksgiving. So it’s just jarring compared to how it is when it’s just her parents and her brothers. Her knuckles scrape against the top of the drawer as she reaches in the back for a few mismatched serving spoons. They clatter together in her hand, metal on metal, louder than she expects.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves the quiet of the kitchen and dives back into the chaos of the dining room. It hits her all at once—the noise, the heat, the overlapping voices. There are about fourteen conversations going on at once.

Ducking her head, she plops serving spoons in the mashed potatoes, stuffing, and riz et pois before sliding into the only empty chair down at the end of the table. Her shoulder brushes someone’s elbow on the way down; someone else laughs too loudly right behind her. Her phone vibrates in her pocket.

“Here,” Evan says from beside her, “loaded you up with turkey and columbo.” The mains are all the way across the table. Nice of him. For once.

“Ooh, thank you!” Emma does her little dance, wiggling her shoulders as she reaches to add sides, stuffing, mashed potatoes, fried plantains, riz et pois, and evens out all the carbs with some green beans. The plate is heavy in her hands, warm and piled high. Brendon would be so proud of her. Even though he told her not to think about food on holidays. She’s not really. Her phone vibrates again.

“That’s a lot of food,” her cousin, Savannah, says from two seats down, staring in disgust for a second before going back to her phone. Emma sighs and picks up her fork, stabbing at her plate and taking a bite. The food is good—salty, rich, familiar—but it sticks a little in her throat anyway. What. Ever.

“Your boyfriend must be feeding you,” Sabrina comments. “You look much better. Healthier.” In French, she adds quietly, “Don’t listen to her, she’s too skinny.”

Emma nods, holding her hand in front of her mouth as she chews. Her mind flashes, unhelpfully, to protein shakes and late-night dinners and the way he watches her finish everything on her plate. Feeding her a lot is an understatement. “Yeah, uh, he’s great.”

“I want to see this boyfriend,” her other cousin, Riley, demands. “Do you have a picture?”

Another text comes in just as Emma extracts her phone, leaning away from the table to hide the screen as she checks real quick. Her thumb moves fast, instinctive, like she’s doing something she shouldn’t be.

Brendon: I’m home from dinner and I’m thinking very inappropriate thoughts about you.

Emma’s eyes widen and her neck heats up as she keeps reading. Her stomach drops and flips at the same time. Another text. Oh dear. They keep coming in as she reads, heart hammering faster with each one. Each vibration feels louder than the last, like everyone at the table can hear it.

Brendon: You’re definitely still at dinner with your family.

Brendon: But I can’t wait to get my hands on you when you’re back.

Brendon: I’m gonna make you come so many times.

Brendon: With my hands…hopefully with my tongue…

Brendon: I like it when you use me to get yourself off.

She furiously types back. Her thumbs nearly slip on the screen.

Emma: STOP TEXTING ME RIGHT NOW!!!

The typing bubble disappears and she breathes a sigh of relief. Her shoulders drop a fraction. But then a whole new conundrum comes up as she swipes to her photos to find a picture of Brendon. Her camera roll is littered with gym pictures—mostly ones he sent her, but some of her by herself, and a couple of them together.

The least inappropriate one still shows them flexing after a bicep day. She has no idea how her mom—or, oh God, her dad—is going to feel about her hot pink spandex shorts and sports bra and Brendon’s hand resting comfortably on her hip. His hand looks so natural there. Possessive without asking. She puts the phone on Do Not Disturb in case Brendon belays the order to shut up and hands it over to Riley.

“Well, goddamn, Emma,” she says, eyes nearly popping out of her skull as she pinches to zoom in.

“Language!” Their paternal grandmother says, pressing her hand to her heart.

“But look at him, Nana!” Riley turns the phone around to show her. Nana squints and puts on her glasses, then takes the phone and holds it away from her face. Her mouth opens slightly, then she whispers, “Well…goddamn.”

Emma grimaces, squeezing her hands between her thighs as everyone passes her phone around the table, praying that nobody is stupid—or rude—enough to swipe through her photos. There are things in there she cannot explain. Will not explain. And that Brendon doesn’t text again. She’s pretty sure she set it so he’s one of the people whose texts come through when her phone is on DND. Yikes. Her heart kicks up again at the thought.

Finally it gets to her mom. She nods, frowning. “God…look at this…” slipping back into Creole automatically—she also pinches and zooms in on the photo, then looks at Emma. “What are you wearing? Underwear?”

Emma shifts, trying to resist the urge to stand up and walk around to get her phone back. Her knee bounces under the table, restless. Only mostly confident in Brendon’s ability to keep his thoughts to himself. She’s never told him to shut up before. Maybe she hurt his feelings. Maybe he’s typing something right now. It might be worse for her mom to see him starting an argument via text than to see him asking what color panties she has on. “Gym clothes!” She manages to keep her voice casual.

“Let me see that,” Evan demands, reaching for the phone. He and their middle brother, Eric, put their heads together. Their shoulders hunch inward, blocking her out as they murmur under their breath. After a few seconds, they both look at her with unimpressed expressions. “Huh.” Evan says, lifting an eyebrow. “So that’s why you’ve been going to the gym so much.”

Eric hands her phone back and Emma breathes a sigh of relief. Her fingers close around it immediately, pulling it back to her chest before she sets it down again. “How’d you even meet him?” There’s a tone of suspicion under the question and Emma’s chest seizes up again.

“Well, sort of through work,” she tries to explain, “but also sort of through the gym.”

“Sort of through work?” Evan repeats flatly. His eyes stay fixed on her, waiting.

“He’s a surgeon—an orthopedic surgeon,” she says, shoulders lifting as she waits for the judgement, bracing herself for it before it even comes, “so he comes down to the ED sometimes. And then, he bailed me out on the bench press ‘cause I guess he knew me from work.” She doesn’t need to tell them about the dinner that was a date but wasn’t. They definitely don’t need to hear about how terrible that was. She pushes green beans around on her plate.

“Orthopedic surgeon?” Evan repeats, eyes narrowing. “How old is he?”

“Thirty-one,” she says casually, even though her heart is pounding. She keeps her tone even by force, holding it steady. Fully prepared to point out that their dad is twelve years older than their mom if anyone says anything about that.

“How much do orthopedic surgeons make?” Savannah asks, not looking up from her phone. “I’m gonna google it.” Please don’t, Emma wants to say, but it’s too late. “‘Orthopedic surgeons are among the highest paid physicians,’” Savannah reads out, “‘with common annual salaries ranging between $500,000 and over $700,000.’ Damn, Emma.” She looks over, impressed.

“Hot and rich, good job,” Riley says, pretending to clap.

“So he’s gotta be a massive douchebag right?” Evan scoffs. Emma sets her jaw. Her teeth press together hard enough to ache. The same type of anger that came over her when that patient yelled at her starts to form in the pit of her stomach. Hot, familiar, rising fast.

Eric nods, agreeing, “For sure.” Her chest starts to heat up and she takes a deep breath to try and calm it down, tightening her grip on her fork as she fights the urge to stab one of them with it. The metal digs into her palm.

“Hey, actually, Emma,” Evan speaks up again, “you should be careful because a lot of guys like that are on gear—and he’s a doctor so he’s probably prescribing stuff for a bunch of people under the table.”

Sabrina gasps, looking up. “Are you taking steroids?”

“You do look pretty bulky,” Savannah says flatly without looking up. Emma could kill her. The word hits something sharp inside her.

“No!” She looks around, looking for support anywhere. Her eyes dart from face to face, searching. “I’m not taking steroids and neither is he! We—we just—I like going to the gym now! Is that a crime?”

“Well it’s just not who you are!” Evan protests, shrugging. “I don’t think I saw you pick up a weight once in college.”

Emma feels like she’s about to cry. Her vision blurs at the edges. She can’t tell them why she has to go to the gym—not without talking about the assault. Blinking rapidly, she looks at her dad, who’s stayed quiet this entire time. He clears his throat and sits up. “Okay, let’s leave Emma alone,” he suggests.

Evan protests, “I’m just saying—”

“Stop saying it!” Emma snaps. “Stop it because you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” Then she immediately claps her hand over her mouth. She can’t believe she just said that. In front of both of her parents. Her grandma. The word echoes in her head, louder than anything else in the room. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, looking at Nana and her mom. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” Her face falls into her hands, braced for someone to yell at her. Her shoulders curl inward as she waits for it.

The room stays quiet. Nobody says anything. After a moment, Emma peeks through her fingers. Her mom has a sympathetic smile. Her dad looks…proud. Nana is glaring at Evan. And Evan is looking away, his jaw set. The silence stretches, heavy and strange.

Sabrina snaps at him. “Apologize to your sister,” she tells him sharply. “You too,” she adds to Eric.

“Sorry,” Eric says automatically, lifting his fork and digging back into his food. He doesn’t look at anyone. He keeps his head down, focused on his plate.

“Evan?” Sabrina’s voice is firm. You’d think she’s talking to a six year old, not a twenty-six year old.

“I’m sorry too,” Evan says, sighing as he pushes food around his plate, still refusing to look at her. “You know I don’t think anyone’s good enough for you.” His voice softens at the end, almost reluctant.

“Well you could have been nicer about it,” Emma snaps, the anger rearing up again. It hasn’t gone anywhere, just settled under her skin. “You haven’t even met him. You don’t know anything.”

“I was just messing around, okay?” Evan shoots back. Riley is looking back and forth between them like she’s at Wimbledon. Sabrina looks prepared to step in again. “I’m supposed to be hard on whoever you date. It’s in the brother handbook.” He’s trying to joke but Emma isn’t having any of it. Brendon isn’t some throwaway high school or college boyfriend.

“You know what?” Emma laughs, incredulous. They’ve always made fun of her boyfriends and she’s always let it slide. But not anymore. “That’s crap and you know it. You’re just being a jerk. And I don’t really want you to come visit if you’re going to be a jerk.” She glares at him. “I really like Brendon. And he’s really nice to me. And I think because you’re my brother, you should be happy for me.” She takes a deep breath. Her chest rises and falls, steadying herself. “If you can’t, then you should cancel your flight tomorrow.”

Evan looks down at his plate. The table seems to be holding its breath. No one moves. No one speaks. Finally he shakes his head. “Okay, I promise I’ll be cool. I’m sure he’s great,” he sighs and mutters, “he must be if you’re going all nuts about him.”

“Thank you,” Emma says through her teeth, ignoring the last part. She takes a bite of some mixture of stuffing and riz et pois and pulls her phone back out. Her hands are steadier now, but her pulse is still high.

Emma: sorry you can text again

Emma: my cousin asked to see a picture of you

She only vaguely listens to her grandma asking Savannah about her SAT class and her cousin’s grumbled responses. Clearing half her plate just out of sheer anxiety as she waits for him to respond. Each second stretches as she watches the screen. God, maybe he is mad at her. That had been a pretty aggressive text. But hopefully he understood she was at dinner.

Brendon: Which one did you show her?

Emma bites the inside of her cheek to contain her amusement as she types her reply. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth despite everything. When she looks up, her mom is looking at her fondly, but she doesn’t ask her to put the phone away.

Emma: a shirtless one

Brendon laughed at a message

Brendon: By the way, since you yelled at me AND I followed directions, I think you should tell me what panties you’re wearing for free

Emma can’t with that man. Heat rushes up her neck again, but this time she doesn’t mind it nearly as much.

Dinner ends late and her brothers and dad end up on clean-up duty since Emma and their mom cooked. Emma retreats to her room—which isn’t really hers anymore since she moved all her stuff to Pittsburgh—the space feeling both familiar and slightly off, her presence temporary in a way it never used to be, flopping down on her stomach and dragging a pillow up under her chest as she scrolls into her favorites to call Brendon. But as her thumb hovers over his name, her bedroom door creaks open.

“Can I come in?” Sabrina asks, speaking Creole again, entering anyway. Her voice softens the room instantly, smoothing over the lingering tension from dinner.

“Sure.”

Her mom comes around and sits against the pillows, leaning back against the headboard. The mattress dips slightly with her weight, settling the space. “You know your brothers love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Emma laughs, “they’re just a pain sometimes.” She drops her chin onto the pillow and blows out a breath of air. The air leaves her in a long exhale, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding slipping out with it.

“I can tell you really like him,” Sabrina continues, reaching out to gently stroke Emma’s hair. She has it braided, so her fingers don’t mess up the curls. It feels nice, soothing.

“What gave it away?” Emma mumbles, eyes fluttering shut. Her voice is muffled slightly by the pillow.

“Because you never swear,” Sabrina laughs, “not like that, not so loud.” Emma buries her face in her pillow, trying to hide the smile she can’t keep off her face. Heat creeps up her neck again just thinking about it. Oh my god. She really yelled at her brothers and said ‘fuck’ in front of her grandma.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma says when she can finally lift her head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“He must be very special,” her mom says. “Next time you come home, you bring him, yes?”

Emma nods. “I’ll try. I don’t know when that is,” she admits. The uncertainty settles low in her stomach. She also can’t imagine Brendon among the chaos of her family. His head might explode. “He’s very, euh, reserved,” she tries to explain. The word feels insufficient—not quite the way she wants to translate it—but it’s the closest she can get.

“That’s okay,” Sabrina says, “your father is like that too.” That’s true. Her mom is the talkative one. Her dad sits back and observes. Everyone always says Emma’s a carbon copy of her mom, but she thinks she’s a lot like her dad too. Evan’s more like her mom actually. She can tell because those two get into screaming matches—unable to coexist with their own personality, but they still love each other. Loudly. Intensely. Without ever doubting it.

Emma picks at a loose thread on her quilt. She winds it around her finger, tugging it loose without really noticing. “He’s taking a fellowship in LA in June,” she admits with a sigh.

“What is that?”

“Like an extra year of study after residency,” she explains, “to specialize even more. It’s a really prestigious fellowship in sports medicine.” The words sound rehearsed, something she’s already explained to herself a dozen times.

“Then he comes back to Pittsburgh?” Sabrina asks, her eyebrows furrowed as she leans in closer to hear. Her attention sharpens, fully focused now. Ready to give her best mom advice.

Emma shrugs. “Maybe. Probably not. It depends on where he takes a position after the fellowship.” But she’s pretty sure he has no interest in returning to Pittsburgh. He won’t say it, but taking a fellowship on the other side of the country couldn’t have been an accident. The thought presses at the edges of her mind, unwelcome but persistent.

“Hmm.” Sabrina stares off at the wall for a moment. “That is a big decision, to make with someone you haven’t been seeing for long.”

“I know,” Emma says, nodding. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Did he ask you to move with him?” Sabrina asks. Emma shakes her head. She knows he won’t. He doesn’t want to put that pressure on her. Sabrina narrows her eyes. “Do you want him to?”

Emma rolls that over in her head for a second, chewing on the thought. She lets it sit there instead of pushing it away this time. “Maybe? It’s a long way off and…I like Pittsburgh. I like my job. I have friends there,” she explains quietly. “Really good ones.” People who feel like hers.

“And Cameron is nearby,” Sabrina reminds her.

“I don’t know anyone on the west coast,” Emma supplies. “I’ve never been further west than Wisconsin.” The distance feels larger when she says it out loud.

Sabrina lifts her shoulders. “Maybe it’s a new adventure,” she suggests, pressing her lips together. “Maybe you go and you build a beautiful life together somewhere neither of you has ties. That could be good.” There’s a softness to the idea, something hopeful. Her mind crushes it immediately.

“Or I could hate it, start resenting him, and then my life is over because I gave up the one I was building for a man,” Emma replies bitterly. The words come out faster, sharper, before she can soften them. She looks up at her mom. “What if I make the wrong choice?”

“You find out he’s not the man, and Los Angeles is not the place for you,” Sabrina says easily, “and then you come home, or you go back to Pittsburgh, or you go somewhere else.” She laughs. “You think I planned to live in Michigan? No. I met your father and I loved him. So I left all my family behind. Your grandparents never come up here,” she reminds Emma. “They hate the cold.” Her voice carries no regret. Only certainty.

“I hate the heat,” Emma grumbles. “LA is hot.”

“You get used to it,” Sabrina says. She clicks her tongue sympathetically as she continues smoothing Emma’s hair. Her fingers slow, lingering at the ends of the braid. “But you don’t have to go with him.”

“I know,” Emma says glumly. “I just wish things were different.” That there was an obvious right answer.

“You have time,” Sabrina says. “But you should talk to him about it. It’s going to go faster than you think.” She leans over and kisses Emma’s head before standing up. “Go ahead, call him. I know you were about to before I interrupted.” She gives her one last gentle pat before pulling away.

“Thanks, Manman.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She extracts her phone again to call Brendon, but there’s a text from him waiting. Her stomach drops slightly before she even reads it.

Brendon: I’m sorry I have to go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow when you come in for your night shift, okay?

Emma: ok see you tomorrow 🩷

The whole night shift thing goes a lot easier than she thinks. The tension from dinner fades faster than she expects, leaving something almost normal in its place. She and Evan are fine—they always go back to normal pretty quickly after their spats. He let her sleep on his shoulder on the plane so she’d be well-rested for her shift. She’d woken up once to the low hum of the plane and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, then gone right back under.

Then he was super excited to take the bus with her and check out public transit in Pittsburgh. Pointing out stops, commenting on timing, completely in his element. He works for the Detroit Department of Transportation as a transit program analyst, so he always likes to visit new cities and check out their systems.

“Hey, can I have Brendon’s number?” He asks as they’re about two stops away from the hospital—he’s accompanying her to work before going to her place.

Emma looks at him in confusion. Her brows knit together, caught off guard. “Why?”

Evan shrugs. “I thought tonight while you’re working I’d take him for a beer.”

“You did?” Emma fully turns to face him, attention snapping to him completely.

“Yeah, I mean, he’s your boyfriend. He’s not working.” Evan shrugs again, mouth tipping down slightly. “I don’t know anyone else in Pittsburgh.”

“Uh, let me text him.” Her fingers are already moving before she finishes the sentence.

Two stops later, when they get off the bus at the hospital, Brendon’s waiting outside the ED, wearing jeans, his favorite jacket, and the beanie she knitted him. When he spots her, he smiles—about as much as he ever smiles—and pushes himself away from the wall. Emma’s hands are shaking as they walk up. She curls her fingers into her palms, trying to steady them.

“Hey,” she says. Super cool. Very smooth. Her voice comes out a touch higher than she means it to. “Um, this is my brother, Evan.” Gesturing to Brendon she adds, “and this is Brendon, my boyfriend.” She winces. Obvious.

But Evan is super cool. “Hey, man, nice to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand.

“You too,” Brendon says, nodding, “the overprotective older brother I heard about on our first date.” Emma pulls her chin back, surprised. Her eyes flick to him, searching his face. He considers the dinner at his house their first date? Who knew.

“Only good things, I hope,” Evan says. His smile is easy and casual—totally non-reflective of his attitude at dinner the day before.

Brendon shrugs. “Just that you weren’t happy with the last loser boyfriend,” he explains. Emma winces. A flash of secondhand embarrassment tightens her shoulders. Has he always been this blunt? Has she never noticed?

Evan laughs. “Oh god, man, I can’t wait to tell you how much that guy sucked.” He shakes his head. “You seem way cooler already.”

“There’s a bar some of the other residents like—” Brendon points, “—down the street. We could head down there.”

“Gee, doesn’t that sound fun,” Emma says dryly, reminded that she’s about to walk into a twelve hour shift. She shifts her backpack on her shoulder. The strap digs slightly into her collarbone. It was such a short trip, that’s all she brought

Evan ignores her. “Sounds great. Let’s go.” He turns to walk away.

“Just give me a second,” Brendon tells him. Then he turns to Emma, reaches for her waist, and says, “Hi, I missed you.”

Then he kisses her. Pulls her against him, tilts her chin up with his fingers, and kisses her. Hard. Like he’s been drowning and now he’s trying to breathe her in before he goes underwater again. Right in front of her brother. Everything else drops away for a second—the noise, the cold air, the awareness of being watched.

Emma’s heart hammers in her chest for the long moment until he pulls away. She doesn’t mean to push on his chest, but she does, and he gives in, stepping back. “You okay?”

“Y–yeah,” Emma stammers, glancing at her brother, who’s watching the street, very pointedly not looking at them, “I’m just, uh, I missed you too,” she finishes. Her words stumble over each other on the way out.

“Okay.” He nods. “Have a good shift.”

“Don’t let him be too mean to you,” Emma says.

Brendon rolls his eyes. “You underestimate my ability to hold my own.” He brings his hand up to cup her cheek for a second. His thumb brushes just under her eye, grounding her. “See you in the morning.”

“Bye.”

She watches them walk away. Shoulder to shoulder. Her brother and her boyfriend. Going to get a beer without her. Wild things happen on the night shift. A small, disbelieving smile tugs at her mouth. She turns to head inside.

Twelve long hours later, after two stabbing victims, a lot of alcohol poisoning—people go pretty hard the night after Thanksgiving apparently—and a strangely enlightened conversation with Dr. Shen about not taking work worries home with her.

She likes the night shift. They’re all super chill and incredibly efficient. Everything runs smoother, quieter, more contained. If she weren’t trying to keep some semblance of the same schedule as Brendon, she might consider switching permanently.

But after handing off her remaining patients to Mateo, she finally checks her phone. Her shoulders ache, her eyes feel dry, but the moment she unlocks her screen, her focus sharpens. Two separate texts are waiting for her. She checks Brendon’s first.

Brendon: Evan’s at my house. Left my car at the hospital. There’s a spare key in my locker upstairs if you want to drive it home. Otherwise call me and I’ll get you an Uber.

Oof. That’s…interesting. He didn’t drive home. Her brain latches onto that immediately. She swaps to the conversation with Evan without replying.

Evan: Transit system here is fucking lit and so’s your boyfriend

She snorts, calling Brendon as she gathers up her own stuff. Her hands move automatically, muscle memory after a long shift, but her attention is already on the call. His voice is low and sleepy when he answers. “Mmm, hey baby.”

Emma smiles. The sound of his voice alone loosens something tight in her chest. “Hi,” she breathes, “are you calling me that now?” Shouldering her backpack, she heads for the surgical floor. It’s only a couple flights up. Her legs feel heavy, but the thought of seeing him again keeps her moving.

“I’ve been calling you that in my head for like, a month and a half,” he admits. She hears him yawn. “You just get off? Want me to call you an Uber?”

“No, that’s okay,” she says, “I need you to tell me your locker number and combination so I can get your key.” Her voice drops slightly, quieter in the early morning stillness.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, groaning, “I thought I sent that text but I guess not.” Her breath catches a little in her chest, heart pounding as she walks onto the surgical floor. The nurse at the desk eyes her, but doesn’t say anything as she slips into the locker room. It’s a lot nicer and more private than the one downstairs in the ED. The door clicks shut behind her, sealing her into the quiet.

“How much did you guys drink last night?” Emma whispers. He never forgets details like that.

“Uhhh, like three or five or something,” he admits.

“Beers?”

“Shots,” he corrects. “Your brother’s great by the way. Crazy how much he knows about bus systems.”

“You should hear him talk about trains,” Emma scoffs. Her lips twitch despite herself.

“I did.” Of course he did.

“I’m in the locker room,” she says. She lowers her voice instinctively, even though she’s alone.

“Oh yeah.” His voice is beautifully raspy. Maybe he should drink more often. “It’s number 135 and the combination is 3-6-6-2.”

Emma types it in and the light goes green as the lock opens. “Okay, I’m in, I’ll be there soon.”

“Drive safe, baby.”

“I will,” she promises.

After very carefully backing Brendon’s car into his garage, Emma heads quietly inside, kicking off her shoes before making her way upstairs. The house is still, the kind of quiet that settles after a long night. She giggles when she finds Evan passed out face down on the couch with one leg and one arm hanging off of it—still in his clothes from the night before—before heading up to the third floor where Brendon’s room is.

The lamp is on, so she eases the door open and pokes her head in, smiling when she sees him sitting up on his phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, come here,” he says, setting his phone down. His eyes track her immediately.

“Just a sec,” she tells him, yawning as she closes the door behind her. He watches her through sleepy eyes, looking paler than usual, as she peels off her scrub top and tosses it aside. The fabric hits the floor in a soft heap. Her pants follow. But she doesn’t get into bed, turning and heading for his dresser. Moving with purpose despite how tired she is.

“How was your shift?” He asks, yawning himself.

“Fine,” Emma says, “lots of alcohol poisoning.” She pulls out a perfectly folded t-shirt from the row of them in the top drawer and tosses it on the bed before reaching for her sports bra to tug it off. “Glad you and my brother weren’t some of them.” He doesn’t answer, eyes suddenly very wide and unblinking as she throws her bra over with her scrubs and shakes out his shirt before pulling it over her head. The fabric settles over her skin, soft and cool. “You okay?” She asks as she pulls her hair out of the collar, scrubbing her scalp to separate the curls a little. Her fingers move through the strands, loosening them.

“I feel like I’m hallucinating,” he says roughly, still just staring at her, “because holy fuck.” He reaches for her, motioning her towards him. “Can you come here?”

Emma laughs and crawls across the bed to where he’s holding up the covers for her. The mattress dips under her weight. “Can I put my feet on you?” She does it before he answers, relishing in the warmth of his legs against her frozen toes. The contrast makes her sigh softly.

“Baby, you can put all of you on me,” he says as she tucks herself under his arm.

She smiles, wrapping her arm around him, running her hand over his warm skin and tucking it under his ribs. His body is solid and warm and familiar now. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to her that he hadn’t seen her topless before as she was doing it, especially since he sees her in workout clothes all the time. But her body heats up from the way he reacted—like he’s never seen boobs before. Which she knows he has. It makes her feel like hers are the best ones he’s ever seen.

“Sorry for just flashing you,” she says through a yawn, but she doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t care.

“Please do not be,” he tells her, rubbing her shoulder. “And can we add flashing me to the list of things I want.” His voice softens as his hand moves slowly over her skin.

“Mm,” she nods, her eyes fluttering closed. “200 points.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees. She’s jostled slightly as he reaches over to turn off his lamp again, then he settles back down, shifting them both so they’re laying down—his head on the pillow, hers on his chest. The room falls into darkness, quiet wrapping around them.

She mutters against his skin, “Will you wake me up around 11?” Her voice is already fading. Lulled to sleep by the steady thump of his heart.

“Of course,” he promises. “Get some rest, you had a really long day. I’ll be here.”

“Mmkay,” she agrees, turning more into him and tightening her grip on his body. “I’ll be here too.” Her breathing evens out, slow and steady, as sleep pulls her under.

Maman: Everything going ok?

Emma: Everything’s great!

Maman: Is your brother being nice?

Emma: Pretty sure he likes Brendon more than me now

Maman loved a message

“YEAH YOU SAW THAT ONE YOU BLIND FUCK!”

Emma winces at Evan’s voice next to her ear once again, the volume cutting straight through the noise of the arena, sharp and sudden, cringing into Brendon, who’s already got his shoulders curled inwards to take up less room between her and the poor woman sitting on his other side. His posture tightens further at the outburst, instinctively shrinking in on himself. She reaches up and grabs Evan’s jersey—Kaiden Guhle—and tugs him back down into his seat, which he’s half risen out of. He falls back with a plop, dragging his hands down over his face.

“Ugh, these refs man,” he groans.

“Chill out,” Emma tells him, glancing around at the sea of black and yellow around them. A few heads have turned in their direction. “They called that one.”

“Okay but they missed like three cross checks from Acciari against Texier like—” Evan gestures emphatically towards the ice. His hands slice through the air, agitated. “And what did he get for that? Two minutes for roughing?”

The ref’s voice comes over the speakers, “Two minutes for roughing.”

The home crowd boos as Noel Acciari skates to the box. The sound swells, loud and unified, vibrating through the seats. Emma leans forward, resting her chin on her hands and sighs. Brendon’s hand lands on her back, tracing over the number 20 stitched onto the back of her jersey. It’s soothing. Probably more for him. His fingers move slowly, steady and deliberate.

She can tell he doesn’t like how crowded it is, the close quarters. His knee presses against hers, his shoulder brushing hers constantly, nowhere to move. Part of why she’s leaning forward is to give him and Evan more shoulder room—and herself, they’re both squishing her.

There’s two minutes left in the second and the Habs are losing 3-2. It’s been back and forth—literally alternating goals. Which is dumb considering the Habs are playing way better than the Penguins this season. They should be beating the pants off the home, instead they keep hearing the stupid Penguins goal song. That stupid song again, echoing in her head. When it’s time to party, we will party hard.

When Emma sits up, Brendon curls his arm around her, tugging her into him. His grip is firm, grounding, pulling her closer without hesitation. He must have put it across the back of her seat while she was leaning forward. Zero qualms about PDA in front of her brother. As much as she likes it, it only makes her feel more claustrophobic. His warmth surrounds her, welcome and overwhelming at the same time. Turning, she speaks in his ear, her hand coming up to touch his neck. Her fingers brush the base of his throat, grounding herself there.

“You wanna walk around during intermission?”

He nods frantically, turning to speak in her ear, “Yes, please. It’s so crowded.” His voice is tight, barely audible over the noise.

As the puck drops and play begins again, a sort of quiet falls over the arena, and Emma strains to see over the woman in front of her, who’s leaning forward—the only issue with steep upper decks. People don’t realize they can block half the rink with their heads.

She leans over against Brendon to see around her. Her shoulder presses into his chest as she shifts. He turns and kisses the side of her head. A quick, warm press of his mouth, gone almost as soon as it happens. He’s been more interested in her than the game the whole time. Her belly flutters a little as his lips brush her ear.

“I love how you’re so invested,” he says. “It’s really cute watching you trying to keep eyes on the puck.”

She smiles a little, still following the play. Her focus flickers between the ice and him for a second. He’s been using that word a lot lately. I love the way you get all excited to talk about IV insertions. I love your concentration face when you’re knitting. And the raunchiest one by far. I love how easy it is to make you come.

Heat floods her body at the memory of that one. It hits fast, curling low in her stomach. He really barely has to touch her and she’s falling apart. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly it happens. Like she’s wound up so tight it barely takes anything to release all that energy. They’re still in the heavy making out stage—because Emma doesn’t feel ready to take the next step yet, and Brendon doesn’t push it any further. But all he really has to do is get his thigh between hers or spread her knees across his lap and she’ll get there. The thought alone makes her shift slightly in her seat.

Actually it might be doing a little too much for his ego.

The sound of the buzzer snaps her out of her daydream about grinding down on his lap as Brendon shoots to his feet. The noise cuts through her thoughts cleanly, leaving her blinking back into the present. Emma takes his hand, asking Evan if he wants anything while they’re up. He waves her off, pulling out his phone.

It’s still crowded but at least they can move around on the concourse if they stick to the walls. Bodies press in from all sides, jerseys brushing against her arms as they edge along. Brendon leans down and says in her ear, “Trust me for a second.”

She trusts him all the time, but she definitely swallows and looks around when he pulls her into a corner and opens a door that says No Public Access. Her pulse ticks up as the door swings inward. It leads to a nondescript hallway with the same concrete floors as the concourse, plain white walls, and open steel beams. Mercifully, as the door swings shut, it’s also quiet. Peaceful. The sudden drop in noise feels almost disorienting. There’s one main hallway that’s wide, then two dark side hallways snaking off in different directions—hugging the concourse on the other side. They stay near that intersection.

Brendon groans and drags a hand through his hair as he slouches against the wall. “Fuck it’s loud out there.” His shoulders drop as if he can finally breathe.

Emma frowns. It’s never really bothered her before. She studies him for a second, noticing the tension he’d been holding. “Don’t you go to hockey games all the time?” She asks. With your dad is implied.

He looks up at her and winces a little. “Yeah, uh, my dad’s tickets are on the club level?” He says it like it’s a question.

Unease settles in Emma’s chest. “Oh.” The difference settles between them, subtle but there.

“I know about this hallway though because it connects to the medical area,” he explains. “My mom used to bring us—”

“Hey!” A deep voice suddenly comes from behind Emma and she jumps towards Brendon as a hand closes on the back of her jersey. The grip is sudden and firm. “You’re not supposed to be back here!” The fabric tightens as he fists her jersey, yanking slightly. Her hand flies up to her neck, eyes widening as everything suddenly moves a little too fast. Her breath stutters, caught high in her chest.

Brendon appears beside her, hands out. “Let go,” he says in that deathly calm voice he gets when he’s fighting anger. “She’s with me. I’m allowed to be here.” His body angles between her and the man without hesitation.

The hand loosens on her back. Emma gasps and grabs the collar of her jersey, tugging it down for more room as Brendon reaches for her, snaking an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against him. His hand is steady, grounding. When she looks up, he’s glaring at the guy who grabbed her.

She finally gets a look at her assailant, a shorter, rounder man, whose eyes are wide. “Oh, crap, Dr. Park! I mean, you’re his son! Dr. Park’s son.”

Emma coughs. “To be fair he’s also Dr. Park,” she manages, rubbing the base of her throat. Dr. Brendon Park. Not just Greg Park’s son. Her voice comes out rougher than she expects.

“Sorry,” the man—apparently with security—says, “wow, you look just like him! But…younger! Jeez, it’s like…wow. You don’t even have to carry an ID. Your face is your ID. Wow.” Brendon tenses next to her and Emma closes her eyes and digs her hand into his ribs. Chill. Be chill. Please. She can feel the tension coiled tight under her palm. “Were you coming down to see him?”

“Nope,” Brendon shakes his head, “just ducking out of the crowd for a breather.” His voice stays even, controlled, but his body is tensed to spring.

The man puts his hands up. “I’m sorry, I saw the visiting jersey and I just assumed—”

“That it was fine to just grab her?” Brendon’s voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and unmistakably displeased. Each word is precise.

“I was just trying to—”

“Didn’t even think to ask?” Brendon presses.

The man blinks, clearly not expecting the backlash. “No, I just—people wander back here all the time and I—”

“You just what?” Brendon doesn’t even raise his voice. Which is somehow scarier. The man is red in the face, sweating, trying to explain. “Went straight to putting hands on her?” His gaze doesn’t waver.

Emma presses her fingers into him. “It’s fine,” she whispers, but he doesn’t seem to hear her. Her voice feels small in the space.

“That’s simple assault,” Brendon continues, narrowing his eyes. “By the way.” The man is frozen, eyes wide. “‘Attempts by physical menace to put another in fear of imminent serious bodily injury.” He tilts his head. His hand rubs gently up and down her arm—so tender compared to how tense he is and how coldly he’s speaking. She holds her breath, waiting for this guy to yell, start calling the police. Every cell in her body wants to run, but Brendon holds firm. The contrast between his touch and his tone makes her head spin.

“I’m sorry,” the man says again. “That was—yeah. My bad.” What? Really? Emma lets out a breath. The air rushes out of her all at once. The tension remains.

Brendon doesn’t respond right away. Emma can feel the tension still coiled in the arm around her shoulders, his body angled slightly in front of hers. After a second, he nods. “We were just stepping out of the crowd for a minute.” His voice eases a fraction.

“Right, yeah—yeah, of course,” the guy backtracks, “tot–totally fine. Take your time.” He backs up a step. “You’re good.”

Brendon doesn’t relax his grip on her until he’s out of sight. Emma steps back, facing him. Her eyes flutter shut as she inhales deeply before slowly exhaling. Her chest rises and falls, trying to steady. Brendon keeps his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, eyes snapping open. “I thought he was going to call the police.”

Brendon frowns. “Why would he do that?”

Emma scoffs. Unbelievable. “Because we were in a restricted area and you started telling him off.” Obviously. She shakes her head. She takes a few more breaths to calm down. He’s gone. It’s fine. He’s gone. “I just—that really scared me. I didn’t know what he was gonna do.” Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.

He pulls back, staring over her head as he processes. “He wasn’t going to do anything,” he says finally, meeting her eye again. He sounds certain.

Emma laughs breathlessly. “I’m so glad you knew that! I had no idea!” She exhales sharply, rubbing her temples from the sudden pounding in her ears. The pressure pulses behind her eyes.

Brendon reaches for her hands. She lets him hold them. “He wasn’t going to do anything,” he repeats. “He didn’t have a right to touch you. Even if we were somewhere we shouldn’t be.”

Realization hits Emma right in the face. She laughs, a little hysterical this time. “Since when has what’s legal stopped law enforcement?” She can’t believe he’s this naive about this. Or maybe she can. Based on the way that guy backed down immediately. People look at him and see authority, someone who’s meant to be there. That’s not how they see her. “You saying that didn’t make me feel safer,” she explains quietly. Her voice drops, steadier but edged.

He exhales slowly and she can practically see the gears turning as he processes how her experience is different from his, as he works to see it from her point of view. His gaze shifts, thinking it through piece by piece. She waits, having made her point. Finally he looks at her again. “Okay, I…don’t want you to feel unsafe. But I also can’t just stand here and let some guy grab you. That’s not going to work for me.”

Emma crosses her arms. “Okay well the way you went about that doesn’t really work for me,” she says firmly. “You could have made it a lot worse.” Actually, maybe it’s good they’re having this conversation about a low-level security guard.

“But it was fine,” he insists. “He walked away.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“You won’t always be able to throw your dad’s name at someone to keep a situation from escalating.” Emma hates herself a little bit as the words come out of her mouth. The moment they leave her lips, she wishes she could pull them back. She turns her face away from him as she says it, unable to watch his reaction. “And if you try this again with the wrong person, you could make it a lot worse.” Finally she looks back, her jaw set. “I need you to understand that.”

She steels herself for his response. That was really harsh—especially bringing up his dad—but it needed to be said. Brendon goes still for a second, his gaze dropping somewhere over her shoulder as he works through it—jaw clenched. Anxiety brews in her chest. Maybe this is the line. Maybe he can’t—

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll try. I’ll…be less confrontational.” The words come carefully, chosen.

Everything releases at once. “Thank you.” She moves forward to hug him, sinking in with relief. “That makes me feel better.” Her arms tighten around him instinctively.

He rubs her back, slowly, still thinking. It will take him a bit to get his mind around it—she can already tell. But he’ll get there. He’ll understand. He’ll try. He always does. She holds onto that certainty, letting it settle.

The third period goes by in a whirlwind. The pace picks up, the energy in the arena tightening with every second. The Habs score just two minutes in—tying the game. To Evan and Emma’s delight and to the Penguins fans around them’s annoyance. But nobody say anything when they stand up and cheer. Good sports—respect for an original six team. Plus they aren’t the only Habs fans around.

As time ticks down, Emma squeezes Brendon’s hand, hoping someone scores because she really doesn’t want to sit through overtime. They’ve already been there over two hours and she’s only slept about four hours in the last twenty-four. She leans against Brendon’s shoulder, settling in for a long extra period. Her body sinks into him, heavy with exhaustion.

Only to be jolted back to life when Evan jumps up beside her. “YES!” He tugs on Emma’s upper arm. “Let’s go! Let’s fucking go!” His energy cuts through her fatigue instantly.

Emma drags herself to her feet, clapping as Evan continues cheering for the Habs goal. Her hands move on instinct, catching up to the moment. “Who was it?” She asks, craning her neck.

“Your boy, Slavkovský!”

Emma rolls her eyes. He’s not her boy. She just has a Slavkovský jersey because he’s the hottest player. Which made Brendon laugh when he asked why she picked his jersey—zero insecurities at all on his part. Now that she thinks about it, maybe she has a type. Tall, muscular, intimidating. The thought flickers through her mind, brief and pointed.

But she’ll take the goal. Time ticks down and the Penguins pull Šilovs for an extra skater, but it makes no difference. The Habs win—as they should have—and the Penguins fans start filing out. Good game. The crowd loosens, tension breaking as people stand and shuffle toward the exits.

Outside, she looks at Evan, “Worth the trip?”

He nods. “Totally worth the trip. I got to see a new arena,” he gestures to the building behind them, “and I looked it up, we can ride the light rail to your house!” He bounces up and down on his toes excitedly. “It’s about a seven minute walk to the station.” Glancing around he adds, “Maybe more because of the crowd. His excitement hasn’t dipped at all.

“You guys do that,” Brendon suggests, “I’ll go home and get my car and your stuff?”

“That defeats the purpose of utilizing public transit,” Evan points out. “But yeah—because I do need my bag.”

“I’ll try to beat you there,” Brendon promises before kissing her. “Have fun.” She already misses him before he even disappears into the crowd. Her eyes track him until he’s gone.

Emma is not enthused about walking and taking the light rail, but she doesn’t get to see her brother that often anymore. She can sleep tomorrow when he leaves. “Okay. Let’s go.”

She has no idea how he’s enjoying this as they stand on the packed train. The car sways gently, packed shoulder to shoulder. She tries to listen to Evan jabbering about which type of vehicle this is and the history of the light rail in Pittsburgh. Fascinating. It sounds exactly like the light rail in every other city he’s visited and told her about. And she rides it all the time, so it isn’t novel. She sort of wishes Brendon were with them. He would have listened and asked questions. Emma couldn’t care less. Her attention drifts despite herself.

But once they’re off the train and walking to the bus stop, Evan says, “I really like Brendon. He’s really cool.”

Emma glances up at him. Fighting the urge to say she told him so. “Yeah?” Her tone stays casual, but her interest sharpens.

“He’s really chill,” Evan says. Emma snorts in response, remembering all the times he’s started talking about shortened versus lengthened positions and the importance of working both for every muscle. Or anything else about weightlifting.

“Not once you get him going,” she disagrees.

“Oh yeah,” Evan chuckles, “actually you should have heard him. About three shots in, he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Did you get the lecture on not ego lifting and prioritizing form?” She asks flatly, rolling her eyes.

“Actually, he wouldn’t shut up about you,” Evan reveals. Emma looks up at him, lips parting slightly. Her steps slow just a fraction. Evan laughs lightly. “He genuinely thinks you’re the coolest person he’s ever met.”

“Really?”

“And it wasn’t like, ‘she’s so hot’ or whatever,” Evan wrinkles his nose, “because I probably wouldn’t have let him go on about that. It was, like, about how kind you are and how everyone loves you so much and how much he appreciates you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “He said he feels like you really see him and nobody else does.”

Warmth blooms in Emma’s chest. “Oh.”

Evan nods. “And also he appears to have his shit together,” he concludes. “Really smart guy. He’s not a lazy piece of shit like the last one.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Emma grumbles. She prefers to pretend her ex doesn’t exist. Her mouth tightens briefly.

“So what are you gonna do when he goes to LA?”

She glances up at him. “He told you about that?”

Evan nods. “He’s really torn up about it I think.” Emma needs to get Brendon drunk more often because that’s when all his feelings come out apparently. “He doesn’t want you to feel pressure to move with him, but he also doesn’t want to give it up.”

“It’s a really prestigious fellowship,” Emma explains. “Like one of the best in the country.” She hears herself defending it automatically.

“Like I said, not a lazy piece of shit.”

“I don’t want to move,” Emma says. Then she takes a deep breath. “But I think I would,” she admits, “if he asked me to.” The words feel bigger once they’re out.

“You think?”

“I don’t know.” She chews on her lip. “Maybe.” It’s the first time she’s ever said that out loud to anyone. That she…wants him to ask her to go with him. She wants to be a priority in his life. Because he’s a priority in hers now. “I…set up a job alert,” she confesses. “See if any positions come up I could take. But I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want me to go with him.” The uncertainty sits heavier now that it’s shared.

Evan really laughs at that one. “Oh no, he might not want to ask you, but trust me, he wants you to go with him.” He knocks his shoulder against hers. “Anyway, just wanted to tell you I think he’s cool. I approve.”

“Thanks.” Then Emma knocks her shoulder against his, throwing her weight behind it hard enough that Evan stumbles off the sidewalk into the street. Her laughter breaks free easily.

“Woah,” Evan says, eyes wide. He lowers his shoulder and pushes her back, but she’s ready for him, bracing and holding her own as they try to shove each other down like little kids again. Their steps turn uneven as they jostle. “You got really strong,” he says through his teeth.

Emma spins off of him and he nearly falls in the grass, but catches himself, whirling around. “Yeah,” she says, breathless, “I guess I did.” He grins and holds out his hand. She smacks her palm against it. The impact echoes between them, familiar.

She drops her hand and falls into step beside him, smiling to herself—he’s right. She has gotten stronger. In more ways than one.

Vivi: back in the gym this week! 🎉🎉🎉

Emma: ayyyyyyyyyy!

Emma: brendon will be so disappointed lol

Vivi: he’s had enough of you

Vivi: i want my bestie back

Emma: he’ll survive

Vivi: i missed you 😭😭

Points earned as of December 1: 4265

Points spent as of December 1: 2180

Points total as of December 1: 2085

“Oh my god, it feels like I haven’t seen you in a month,” Vivi declares dramatically as she joins Emma to warm up their legs. She drops into place beside her with her usual chaotic energy, already mid-conversation. Emma opens her mouth. “Work doesn’t count because we can’t talk for real.” Emma closes her mouth. Fair. Very fair.

Then she wonders, “What did you want to talk about for real?” She braces herself a little.

“How’s it going with Dr. Park?”

Emma glares at her. “I’m begging you,” she presses her hands together like she’s praying, “please just call him—”

“How are things going with Park the Shark?” Vivi interjects. Completely unfazed.

“Oh my god I’m not telling you anything,” Emma scoffs, swapping around to warm up her other hip. She pivots away just to avoid eye contact.

“Fineeeee,” Vivi whines, “how are things with, eugh, Brendon?” When Emma looks at her, she’s cringing and making a face.

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” Vivi declares, “that tasted bad.” She makes a show of gagging.

“You’re the worst,” Emma sighs.

“I know,” Vivi agrees. “But seriously how’s it going?”

“My brother likes him,” Emma says with a shrug. Brendon says Evan texts him all the time now. She tries not to worry it’s about her because knowing both of them it’s about something incredibly boring. Transit systems. Lifting programs. Something deeply unsexy.

“Great!”

Emma inhales and turns away before adding, “And I think I’m probably going to have sex with him.” She says it fast, before she can stop herself.

“What?!” Vivi’s exclamation is loud enough to draw some attention. A couple heads turn. She grabs Emma’s arm, leans in, and hisses, “You haven’t—like, at all?” Emma shakes her head. Dry humping does not count. “Why not?” Vivi demands.

“Uhhh,” Emma swallows, here it goes, “because I’ve never had sex before?” There it is. Out. No taking it back.

Vivi’s eyes widen. “Huh.” She nods. “I feel like I thought that about you.”

“I give off a virginal vibe?” Emma asks. A little defensive.

“A little,” Vivi immediately overcorrects, “but not in a bad way. You don’t seem like a prude.” Emma’s mouth turns down at the corners as she shrugs. Vivi lights up, her mouth dropping open. “What have you been up to?”

Emma inhales slowly as they start walking. She heads automatically for hamstring curls, and Vivi pauses. “Wait what about the hack squat?”

“Oh, Brendon suggested I warm up my hamstrings first and then do the hack squat,” Emma explains. “It helps with knee pain.” She hears how much she sounds like him and refuses to examine it.

“Huh.” Vivi shrugs. “Okay.” She falls in with Emma. “What else has Brendon been suggesting?” When Emma looks up at her she winks.

“Gross.” Emma wrinkles her nose. She’s not actually disgusted. She wants to talk about it. It’s the teasing she’s struggling with. It makes her chest feel tight and warm all at once.

“Please?” Vivi says, “I just want to know what it’s like. A little bit. Give me something.”

“I haven’t even seen him naked,” Emma giggles. It’s like something is caught in her throat and she can’t just say what she wants to. The words feel stuck somewhere deeper.

“Oh but you know it’s big,” Vivi scoffs. “Come on. I know you know it’s big.” Emma presses her lips together and glances away, heat creeping up her neck. Her ears burn. “Ahh!” Vivi squeals, “I knew it!”

“Shhh,” Emma says, looking around even though she knows Brendon was in earlier this morning and is at the hospital now. The picture he sent is currently burning a hole in her phone. She got an abs picture today—which isn’t her favorite—and she spent a little too long admiring his happy trail. Part of her wants to bury her face in it and the thought brings something twisted and guilty to her belly. Like she’s not allowed to want things like that. The feeling lingers, heavy and electric.

“Are you nervous about that?” Vivi asks as she adjusts the weight on the machine, glancing up at her.

“A little,” Emma admits. But it’s not the thing in the front of her mind.

“Lube helps,” Vivi offers. Her face is screwed up in concentration as she works through the set.

“That’s…” Emma taps her fingers against the plastic as she figures out how to say it without being crude, “...not a problem for me.” Her voice drops at the end.

Vivi lets the weight settle back into place, panting. “Really? Man, I should get off antidepressants.”

Emma snorts. “No, don’t, not if you need them.”

“I won’t,” she promises. “If you can’t make your own lube, store bought is fine,” she says, seemingly more to reassure herself than Emma. She steps back, putting her hands on her hips as Emma sits down and adjusts the weight. “And I do suggest store bought,” she reiterates.

“Thanks for the advice,” Emma says, gripping the handles as tight as she can, as if that will somehow stop the hot, tight feeling between her legs. Brendon might think this quirk is sexy, but really it’s just annoying. She doesn’t want to feel this in public; she only wants to feel it with him. It pulses anyway, stubborn and insistent. “Got anything else?”

Vivi shrugs. “Stop if it hurts.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, letting the weight down. That seems obvious. Looking up at Vivi, she asks, “Should I even tell him?” Her stomach twists a little.

“Uh, yes,” she looks at Emma like she’s nuts, “you have to tell him. I mean,” she shakes her head, “maybe if his dick was small you could get away with it but as previously established…”

“It’s not,” Emma finishes.

“You don’t want him to just slam into you,” Vivi says as they switch spots.

She kinda does. She kinda wants a lot of things. More than she’s willing to say out loud. “I wish I could just skip to having done it already,” Emma sighs.

Vivi laughs. “Can I ask why you haven’t?”

“I dunno, first it was because I was too Catholic and then I sort of stopped believing in that,” Emma starts, “and now…I don’t know. Just didn’t like anyone enough?” She sighs, putting her face in her hands. “I feel like I’m not…allowed to?”

The machine shakes slightly as Vivi lets the weight down. Then Emma feels her tugging her hands away from her face. She lets her.

“You’re very normal for wanting to have sex with your boyfriend,” Vivi says quietly. No teasing this time. Just steady.

“But I’m so weird about it,” Emma whispers. “I feel like—”

“Like you want to crawl inside his skin and live there?” Vivi fills in. Emma nods, pressing her lips together. “I feel like that about Kai.” She shrugs. “Love makes you feel weird stuff, girl.”

“No, like, I’m really weird,” Emma tries to assure her, “like—not,” she wrinkles her nose, “not eat him but like, it feels—” she gestures to her chest, “—consumptive? Not the word I’m looking for but, yeah.” She puts her face in her hands again. “Oh my god.”

Vivi laughs. “Oh fuck, dude, you are so normal. You’re fine. You just love him.” Emma lifts her head as Vivi says, “Also—since you love him—you should tell him.”

“That I’m a virgin?”

“That,” Vivi agrees, “and that you love him.” She frowns. “Maybe not one after the other.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, “maybe not.” Her stomach flips anyway at the thought.

Emma: is jesse home tonight?

Brendon: No, why?

Emma: can i…have the code to get into your house so i can not so secretly cook you dinner before you get home tonight

Brendon: You’re so sweet.

Brendon: I don’t deserve you.

Brendon: 3662

Emma: you should change up your codes

Emma: terrible security measures

Brendon: I like that one.

Brendon: Easy to remember.

Emma: if you say so

Emma has music playing so loud, she legitimately doesn’t notice Brendon getting home. The bass thrums through her chest, drowning out everything else. Chicken is sizzling on the grill, the rice cooker is whirring inside, and Herbie Hancock is so loud in her ears that she just doesn’t see him until it’s too late.

“Kiss me once…” she sings, flipping the chicken thighs, moving to the rhythm without thinking, “...kiss me twice…let me take you all the way…to para—AH!” She jumps half a foot back from the grill when she spots him leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, smiling at her. He looks like he’s been there for a minute, just watching. Yanking off her headphones, she says, “Goodness! You scared me!” She presses a hand over her pounding heart to try and calm it down. Her pulse is still racing.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding not sorry in the slightest, as he stands up and takes a step towards her, reaching for her waist. “Thank you for cooking,” he murmurs before leaning down to kiss her. His hands settle easily, familiar.

“You’re welcome,” she mumbles against his mouth before wiggling out of his grasp to pull the chicken off the grill and plate it. But he doesn’t let her get far, pressing hot, wet kisses against her neck as his hands slide over her belly. His breath is warm against her skin. It’s a little too much, too crowded. “Can you get out of my kitchen?” She grumbles, elbowing at him as she turns off the grill and turns to head inside. Her voice is fond despite the complaint.

He backs away without protest, retreating to sit at the table. “Your kitchen?”

Emma freezes, smiling innocently as she looks at him. Caught. “That I’m borrowing?” She sets the platter on the stove—because there’s no remaining counter space.

Brendon chuckles. “It can be your kitchen. You’ve clearly made yourself at home.” He gestures to the general kitchen area—littered with everything she pulled from the cabinets to cook with. “It smells really good by the way. What is that?”

“Poulet boucané,” she replies, moving to check on the rice. Her voice carries a hint of pride.

“Love it,” he answers. “What is that?”

“It basically means ‘pirate chicken,’” she explains as she turns around to grab a couple plates. “Or buccaneer chicken, more literally.” The rice is ready. She timed this almost perfectly. Good job, girl. A small, satisfied smile tugs at her mouth.

“Amazing, I’m so excited.” He cranes his neck. “Is it Guadeloupean?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, “my mom makes it all the time. I’ve been practicing making it for a couple months and I think I finally nailed it.” She had to scour Asian and Indian grocery stores to find the right combination of spices and it took hours on the bus, but she did it. It also helps that he has a grill. It just doesn’t taste the same on the stove. Hopefully this solves the problem. She sets everything down carefully, wanting it to be right.

“I’m so excited,” he says again, as she places a plate in front of him.

“Utensils,” she mutters, turning around to look.

“Drawer next to the sink,” he tells her.

“Mmhm.” She makes her own plate, slides it onto the table, then grabs forks and knives, handing him a set as she slides into the chair next to him. Finally, she can take a deep breath. Her shoulders drop as she settles. “How was work?”

“Good,” he says, wholly focused on separating the chicken from the bone. “Had an…ACL repair this morning and then a super fun distal radius ORIF on a seven-year-old.”

“Yikes,” Emma says, watching him carefully as he takes the first bite. She wants to know his reaction before she thinks about eating. Her eyes stay locked on his face.

“Mmhm, yeah, playground fall.” His eyebrows knit together as he chews. Her heart pounds when he swallows and looks at her. “Emma.”

“What?” Her eyes widen. If he doesn’t like it she doesn’t know what she’ll do. He can be sort of picky. She should have made something more familiar to him. Her stomach drops slightly.

“Why the fuck have you been letting me cook for you when you can cook like this?”

Emma lets out a breathless laugh of relief. “Uhhh, because I’m lazy?” The tension drains out of her all at once.

“Oh my god.” He takes another bite. “This is like, really good. Like, might be one of the best meals of my life,” he adds.

Emma giggles and takes a bite herself. He’s in such a good mood. So relaxed and happy enough to ramble a little. A pang goes through her chest as the desire for every night to be like this goes through her. She wants this all the time. The thought settles deeper than she expects.

“Mm,” she remembers, “I did weigh it, by the way. I wrote it down in my phone, so you can track it.”

He stares at her for a second. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She fights a smile as a little shiver of delight goes through her. It flickers down her spine. “Hotter than the time I said your obliques look cut enough for me to take shots off of you like you’re my own personal ice luge?”

“You never followed through on that,” he points out, “so…yes.”

“God, you’re an easy man to please,” Emma shoots back, smiling as she chews another bite.

He snorts. “What more could I want?” She tilts her head to the side and raises her eyebrows. He continues, “The most beautiful woman on the planet broke into my house—” she kicks him under the table, “to cook me the most delicious dinner I’ve ever had.” He shrugs, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent here.”

“That’s all you want,” Emma muses through a smile, “work all day, come home, dinner on the table…” And sex before bed, she finishes in her head. The thought hums quietly in the background.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I just want you to be here when I get home. You don’t have to do anything else.”

Emma’s heart leaps into her throat. She forces herself to swallow it, focusing on taking another bite and thoroughly chewing it. Her heart is pounding. That might have been easy for him to say, but it’s…everything to hear. A tiny part of her, an annoying little voice, is telling her to bring up California—start a fight so she doesn’t have to sit in how wonderful this is. How wonderful he is. She pushes it down into the far depths of her brain where hopefully it never comes up again. She keeps her eyes on her plate, steadying herself.

“I dunno,” she shrugs, initiating the game again because if she responds seriously to what he said she’ll lose her nerve, “I kinda enjoyed playing housewife for the day.” She forces lightness back into her tone.

He snorts. “Yeah? I think you’d miss the ED eventually.”

“Oh but think about it,” she says, giggling. “I could spend all my time in the gym…and curating our meals…and you’d be able to focus on work so you can keep funding my lifestyle and then you get to show up to the hospital Christmas party with the hottest wife in the room.” She smiles and takes another bite, lifting her eyebrows as she waits for his reply. She watches him closely.

His eyebrows knit together. “Wait, I think I want to be the housewife in this scenario,” he admits, breaking into a smile. “That sounds pretty fucking great.”

“So you see the appeal of pretending,” she points out. Even though they both know she’ll never give up working. Deep down inside though, what she really wants to say is, please ask me to come to California with you. I’ll do it. If you ask me to. But she doesn’t. The words stay locked in her chest.

“Yes, I see the appeal,” he agrees. “But if you keep cooking food this delicious, I’m not going to have those cut obliques for you to pour shots through anymore.”

“I knew you secretly made bland food so you’d eat less of it,” Emma accuses.

He drops his fork and knife on his empty plate and holds up his hands. “I promise I never made your food bland!”

“Yeah because you want me to gain weight,” she shoots back. “You like me better that way.” She sets her own utensils down and wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Vivi said you’re trying to put mass on my ass.”

Brendon laughs at that one, leaning back in his chair and stretching enough that she gets the tiniest peek of skin as his shirt rides up. Her eyes catch on it immediately. “It could be worse,” he points out, “I could like really, really skinny women and be trying to convince you not to eat.”

“Ha!” Emma pushes her plate aside to lean forward on her elbows. “I knew it.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Excuse the fuck out of me.” His hands fall back to the table and he takes hers. “I thought you were very sexy when I met you and I think you’re very sexy now that you’ve gained…” He narrows his eyes.

“Twelve pounds,” Emma supplies. She borrows his scale whenever she comes over. His guess had been low when she started. He guessed 125, she was actually 130. “Weighed in at 142 today.”

“Really?” His mouth turns down at the corners as he nods. “Impressive.” She watches him as he stands up. His attention shifts fully to her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He walks around the table to stand right next to her, grabbing her upper arm and urging her to stand.

“What…are you doing?” She asks suspiciously. Her eyes narrow slightly.

He lifts his chin to look over her head, thinking. “Putting off cleaning the kitchen," he says casually, before reaching down for her legs and lifting her clear off the ground. The motion is quick, effortless.

“Oh my goodness!” Emma clings to him, arms tight around his neck and legs squeezing his waist. “Ooohhhh dear!” Her voice jumps an octave.

He laughs, his hands comfortably beneath her ass. “What are you scared to be this high up?”

She looks around. “Is this what the world looks like for you all the time?”

“Uh, yeah.” He nods and starts walking towards the living room.

Emma tightens her grip and buries her face in his hair when he stumbles on the edge of the rug. Some kind of strangled squeak comes out of her throat as she clings to him. He just laughs. Completely unbothered.

“Has nobody ever picked you up before?” He asks, hitching her a little higher and bringing one hand up to push her slightly away from him so he can see her face.

Emma shakes her head furiously. She has no control right now. Couldn’t get down if she tried. Completely at his mercy. And she’s not sure she’s a fan of it. Her heart is racing too fast.

“Oh god,” he laughs and then he pretends to throw her onto the couch.

She screams. Full volume, no restraint.

“Emma, oh my god, relax, it’s fine, you’re okay,” he says, still laughing as she grabs him again, crossing her ankles behind him and burying her face in his neck. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re fine.” He wraps his arms securely around her, but she still feels like she’s falling. Her body refuses to believe him yet.

“Please put me down,” she whimpers. “Do not throw me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says softly. “Just relax your legs and I’ll let you down.”

Slowly, she loosens her grip, sliding back to the firm, solid, safe ground. He steadies her while she gets her balance, her heart pounding the whole time. As soon as she feels okay again, she sets her jaw and shoves his chest. Hard. “That was not funny.” Her hands stay planted on him for a second.

He sinks down onto the couch, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted. “Okay,” he nods, “don’t pick you up. Got it.” He presses his lips together and shrugs. “It was really cute though.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, unable to resist him. “I was scared.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods. Then, imitating her, “‘Oh my! Oh my goodness! It’s so high up!’ Oof!”

She climbs up onto his lap, straddling him, and leans into him hard—hitting something sensitive on the way, something that shuts him up. She doesn’t care. Her fingers thread through his hair at the base of his skull. “Are you done?” The underlying question: Are you going to be good?

“I can be,” he says roughly. With a glint in his eyes, he glances down at her lips as he shoves his hands behind his back. “Tell me what you want.”

It washes all the fear away—the control, the way he gives in to her, the effect she has on him. She fists his hair at the root, tugging his head back a little. His eyes close as she runs her other hand over his throat, thumb tracing along his jaw. His pulse jumps under her touch. “Wow,” she says quietly, tilting her head as she examines his face. She meant to kiss his neck but got distracted.

“What?” She can feel his throat vibrating under her palm when he speaks.

“Just…” She licks her lip to wet it, “You have the most interesting bone structure.” Her voice softens, almost distracted.

“Interesting, huh?” He swallows against her palm. Her lips pulls back into a half smile, still parted.

“Yeah,” she tilts her head the other way, “you’re so beautiful.” Mostly she’s talking to herself now as she moves his head back and forth—like she’s examining a champion show dog. “It’s like someone carved you from stone.” She shifts in his lap, loosening her grip on his hair and running her hand down his chest. “Just…” An intrusive thought pops into her head and she leans in and gently puts her teeth on his jawline, biting down ever so slightly. His pulse spikes beneath her fingers. His breath catches.

“Are you just going to look at me all night?” He asks quietly when she pulls away.

“Maybe.” But she slides her free hand down under his t-shirt and pushes it up, inhaling sharply at the warmth of his skin. Her fingers spread over him. She smiles again, watching him tense and squeeze her eyes shut as her thumb brushes over his nipple.

She isn’t usually this mean to him. But maybe she’s getting back at him for picking her up. Part of her did enjoy the thrill of it—just not the surprise. But he likes not knowing what she’ll do next—she can tell by the way his chest is heaving under her hand, and his half-lidded eyes watching her as she rolls her hips a little. She straightens her arms, pushing herself upright. Fully clothed, she’s not getting a ton of friction, but she can feel how hard he is. How much he wants her. It sends a shiver through her.

She wants him too. But she has to tell him.

It gets caught in her throat and she tried to swallow, closing her eyes. Her hands drop from his body and she sits back on his thighs, trying to take a deep breath. It just won’t come back out of her lungs. Her chest tightens painfully.

“Emma.” His voice is soft, but firm, and his hands land on her thighs, rubbing up and down, soothing. “What’s up? Where’d you go?”

“I have to tell you something,” she admits. “I don’t…know how to say it.” Her voice wavers slightly.

He nods. “Okay. Take your time.”

She takes a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself like it can protect her from whatever his reaction might be, and looks up at the ceiling before confessing, “So…I’m a virgin.”

Chapter Text

Yeah…that tracks. Brendon’s brain starts processing the not-so-new information, aligning it with every other time they’ve talked about sex or been physical. It clicks into place with an almost clinical neatness, each moment slotting into a pattern he hadn’t figured out yet. She’s not uncomfortable with the concept. Half the time she’s the instigator when they’re texting. At the gym she had no qualms about announcing the fact that she’s horny all the time and asking him about it. But she has a certain curiosity that is usually sated once someone actually experiences having sex. Curiosity, not fear—until it becomes real. Then something in her stalls.

She’s always a little bit scared of actually engaging in physical stuff. Especially if he doesn’t let her go at her own pace. She has really taught him to be patient because if he surges forward, she pulls away entirely. He has to sit there and wait for her to come to him. Like an unsure kitten. Every time he’s tested that boundary, even a little, he’s felt her retreat before she even moves—felt it in the way her body goes alert under his hands.

So, yeah, that tracks. That’s the pattern he’s been picking up on. But he probably shouldn’t respond with that. She’s still sitting in his lap, staring at him with wide eyes like she’s terrified of his response. Waiting. Braced for impact he has no intention of delivering. He doesn’t want her to feel bad about it. So he has to pretend like this is brand new information—without lying of course. Hmm. Thread the needle. Don’t spook her. Don’t overcorrect.

“Okay,” he pauses, running his hands up and down her thighs—not sure if he’s soothing her or himself, feeling the tension in her muscles under his palms, the way she’s holding herself just slightly too tight, “thank you for telling me. Um, have I…done anything that makes you uncomfortable?” Nice pivot.

“Besides taking my feet off the ground, no,” she says. She lets out a shaky breath, bringing her hands together and twisting her mouth. Her fingers knot together, then pull apart, restless energy with nowhere to go. “I debated even telling you.”

“No, no, I’m really glad you told me,” he says immediately, repeating, “thank you for telling me,” as he grabs her hands. He anchors them between his, steady pressure, grounding her and himself at the same time. “That’s like, important for me to know.” Because I really don’t want to hurt you.

Emma shrugs. “I don’t feel like it’s that important,” she explains, looking off towards the window. He can’t tell if that’s true or if she’s trying to be cool. Her gaze skims away too quickly, not quite landing anywhere. “Like I don’t think it’s a big deal. I haven’t done it before, but until yesterday I’d never prepped for an intubation on my own and now I have so like,” she shrugs, “I know how to have sex in theory now I have to just do it.”

Brendon snorts. “See one, do one, teach one?” He finds it sort of adorable that she’s comparing sex to intubation. The absurdity of it cuts through the tension just enough to let him breathe.

Emma nods. “Exactly.” She sighs and climbs off his lap, settling beside him. He notices her mismatched socks as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. Complete loss of contact. That’s just not going to work for him right now. The absence hits immediately, a cold space where her weight had been. “And I was just thinking tha—hey!” She collapses into giggles as he grabs her ankles and drags her legs across his lap. “I’m trying to have a serious discussion,” she protests.

“So what, I can’t touch you during serious discussions?” He runs his hands over her thighs. This time he’s definitely soothing himself. “What were you thinking?”

“That we should have sex,” Emma says firmly. “Like…tonight.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, not sure he’s comfortable with that, “it’s a bit of a big jump though.” He’s definitely not comfortable with that. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because there are…procedures. Steps to take. They can’t just start at the top of the stairs. They have to go one step at a time. There’s an order to things.

“If I weren’t a virgin would you have sex with me tonight?” She demands.

“If you weren’t a virgin you would have at least let me fuck you with my fingers by now,” he shoots back. Crude, maybe, but he wants to make this point. He wants her to understand the gap, the distance between where they are and where she’s trying to go. “And I’m fine with going slow,” he adds, “I’m not fine with going zero to a hundred in point-five seconds.”

“We’re not currently going zero,” Emma disagrees.

“Fifteen maybe,” Brendon suggests. “Not the point.”

“We talk about it all the time,” Emma points out. “I feel comfortable. I want to,” she leans forward and presses her lips against his shoulder, “with you.”

Heat starts to spread through his chest as she slides her hand up his chest and over his throat again, leaning in to kiss his neck as she turns his jaw away. And he lets her, because he always does. Because she’s impossible to resist. Her tongue trails hot and wet up the side of his neck and behind his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. His grip tightens reflexively on her thigh.

“Yeah—yes,” he agrees, breathless as she pulls her legs back to sit up on her knees. “I’m not…saying I don’t want to.” He goes easily when she pushes his head back and scrapes her teeth over his skin, mouthing at the base of his throat. If he wasn’t hard before, he is now. Very obvious, physical proof that he isn’t lying. Her knee slides over his thigh, settling between his legs. Every point of contact sharpens, impossible to ignore.

“I can tell you want to,” she agrees. With a sigh, she lets go, pushing off his chest to get to her feet. The loss of her mouth, her hands, is abrupt enough to leave him slightly off-balance. “But for some masochistic reason you want to…wait.”

He frowns, staring up at her. “I’m not a masochist.”

She scoffs and reaches for the hem of her shirt. “You sort of are.”

“Masochists are people who are turned on by pain,” he points out, watching her drag the shirt up and over her head. Her breasts wobble against the lace of her bra as she tosses it aside. Holy Mother of God. His brain stutters, briefly abandoning every coherent thought.

“I’m not sure that’s the definition,” she says, and then pulls her phone out to look it up. Completely unbothered, entirely focused. “Okay Merriam-Webster first definition is ‘a person who derives sexual pleasure from being subjected to physical pain or humiliation,’” she emphasizes, glancing at him, “second definition is ‘a person who takes pleasure in pain and suffering’ and the quote beneath it says, ‘a select group of cops, bikers, bodybuilders, and other masochists…’” She trails off with a smug look on her face. “You enjoy the pain from lifting, you enjoy it when I yell at you in front of the whole gym…you’re a masochist.”

He stares at her. “Do you have a dictionary app on your phone?” She nods and his dick actually twitches at that. Unbelievably sexy. But not the point. Absolutely not the point. “Okay, sure, say I’m a masochist,” he says, and I’m not just trying to ease you into this, “what if you came up with a new point system?”

“A new point system?” She reaches for the button on her jeans.

“And you make me earn it again,” he suggests, watching her shimmy them down her hips. Her panties match her bra. She definitely planned this. Fuck, maybe he is a masochist. Because she doesn’t look happy with him. The easy, hopeful expression she had all throughout dinner is long gone. Replaced by something a lot closer to the one she had when he took her water bottle. Focused. Determined. Slightly sharp around the edges.

Resting her hand on the back of the couch for balance, she leans over him as she reaches down to remove her socks. He swallows, eyes locked on her flesh spilling out of the cup of her bra. His breath comes quickly as the lace brushes against his nose, but he knows better—shoving his hands under his thighs. He clenches his jaw and waits, fighting the urge to grab her, yank the lace down, and suck her nipple into his mouth. Every instinct screaming at him to take, to move, to close the distance—and every ounce of discipline forcing him to stay still.

“I can get behind you earning it,” she muses. Her free hand comes up to hold his jaw again, tilting his face up to look at her as she eases back slightly—still close enough to feel the heat of her skin. Close enough that he can feel the shift in her breathing, steady but charged. “Let’s discuss a new system,” she agrees, standing up straight again and shaking her hair back. Resetting the moment on her terms.

“Discuss a new system?” Brendon sits up, staring at her as she walks to the other end of the couch—he bought this one specifically because it’s long enough for him to stretch out—and sits against the opposite armrest. So far away. The distance registers immediately, a deliberate move that leaves him reaching without moving. “You just took all your clothes off,” he protests. But the glint in her eyes and the soft upwards turn of her mouth makes his stomach twist with anticipation. She’s got something planned. The uncertainty hooks into him just as much as the desire does.

“Yeah, well,” she sighs, twisting one of her curls around her finger, her tone casual but her focus sharp, “arguing with you turns me on.”

His mouth falls open. “It does?” Holy shit he thought he was the only one. Something in his chest loosens at that, a strange relief tangled up with disbelief.

“Mmhm,” she nods, “so I was just gonna…” Her hands come up to cup her breasts and she arches up into them, squeezing and caressing. Everything he wants to be doing. He rolls over to move on top of her, get between her legs, but she presses her foot into his chest. “No,” she says firmly. Then her voice shifts higher, poutier. “You don’t want to have sex with me.”

God. Dammit. He might actually be the stupidest man alive. Groaning, he turns his face into the couch cushion. Frustration burns through him, sharp and immediate, tangled with the need to fix this without pushing too far. “I do want to have sex with you just not until we work up to it,” he explains again. “You’re twisting my words!”

Her fingers thread into his hair before she fists it at the root and tugs his head back towards her. The grip is firm, intentional, grounding him back into her space. “Watch,” she tells him as she sits back again. “But keep your hands to yourself—don’t touch yourself either,” she corrects quickly.

Apparently, his punishment is going to be death, because he’s pretty sure it’s going to kill him to not be able to touch her as her knees fall apart and her hand slides down over the lace of her panties. Every instinct in him reacts at once, body tightening, breath catching, forced into stillness. “How close can I be to you?” He asks quietly, eyes flicking up to her face.

“As close as you want to be,” she concedes with a shrug, “as long as you don’t touch me.”

She’s right up against the armrest, which gives him just enough room to lay flat on his stomach with his face right in front of her pussy. Because…he’s a masochist. He watches intently as she circles her clit through the fabric, hands folded under his chin. Compliant, waiting, every bit of his focus narrowed to her. She giggles a little, and rests her feet on his shoulders. He doesn’t give a shit if it’s ridiculous—if she says go, he’s not wasting a second. Plus, it’s research. He wants to know what she likes. He catalogs everything—the pace, the pressure, the way her body responds.

Her fingers pause. He lifts his head. “Take your shirt off,” she says softly.

He’s never moved faster, sitting up to yank the fabric over his head before diving back down between her legs. Very, very careful not to touch her, because he has no idea what she’ll do if he gets it wrong. Hyper-aware now, every movement deliberate. Her heels dig into his shoulder blades, hitting a sore spot he needs to work out with a tennis ball. He winces, but doesn’t move. The discomfort barely registers compared to everything else.

“Ooh, thank you, you did that so fast,” she says, her voice saccharine. As she continues to circle her fingers over her panties, she keeps pulling the flimsy fabric aside and giving him glimpses of soft skin and tight, dark curls glistening with her arousal.

“Please,” he says, his voice rough. “I want to…”

When he trails off, she demands, “What do you want?”

“To taste you,” he says quietly, watching as her fingers slow, and then stop. The words come out more vulnerable than he expects, stripped of everything except want.

“Fine, open your mouth.”

As soon as he does, she shoves her fingers between his teeth, flat against his tongue and as far back as she can reach. Her skin is salty with the barest traces of her arousal. He closes his lips and sucks on them immediately, swirling his tongue around the tips just for a hint of what she tastes like. She doesn’t let him have them as long as he wants to, leaving him panting when she withdraws, chasing her an inch before she digs her foot into his shoulder to push him back. The denial sharpens everything, leaving him more keyed up than before.

“You can pull my panties aside and hold the fabric back for me,” she instructs. Her tone of voice suggests this is a reward. His brain agrees. Inhaling shakily, he lifts his head and hooks two fingers beneath the delicate fabric, pulling it aside, exhaling sharply at the sight of her pussy—wet and swollen, inches from his face. And not his to touch. Yet. So close it feels deliberate, a test he’s determined not to fail. He doesn’t fail tests. He aces them.

She brings her fingers back to her clit, circling it lazily. Her hips jerk with each pass, breathy little moans falling from her parted lips. His cock is aching for friction at this point, and he shifts a little just to feel something. Every second stretches, tension building with nowhere to go, held exactly where she wants him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life.

A fact which she reminds him of when she casually says, “Tell me about other women you’ve been with.” The shift is so abrupt it takes him a second to catch up, the ground under the moment tilting in a way he didn’t expect.

He frowns, looking up at her. “Why?” That’s not a good idea. You’re not supposed to discuss exes with your current girlfriend. Every instinct he has says this is a trap, even if she doesn’t mean it to be.

“Because I want to picture you having sex while I touch myself,” she replies, shrugging like it’s obvious. Her tone is casual, but there’s something deliberate underneath it—curiosity sharpened into intention.

“So picture me with you,” he suggests, chest heaving as he watches her. Fingers dragging over her clit in slow, rhythmic circles—like she isn’t really chasing it yet, just torturing him. Trying to redirect, to pull this back into something safer, something centered on them.

“I want to know what you were like with other women,” she insists. “Tell me and I might let you touch me. I know you said you had two serious girlfriends. What was the last one like?” Her voice goes a little breathy as she circles her clit faster. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. She’s not letting him redirect—she’s pushing forward, curious in a way that feels both clinical and intensely personal.

Fuck. Apparently he’s going to give in to her. “Okay,” he agrees, “but you need to understand something first.” If he’s going to do this, he needs to set the frame. Needs her to hear him.

“What’s that?”

“It wasn’t…what it’s like with you,” he tries to explain carefully, waiting for her to respond, but she just looks at him expectantly. So she’s not going to ask him leading questions either. She just wants him to talk. Great. He’s terrible at talking. “It’s never been like this with anybody.” The words feel insufficient, but they’re the closest thing he has to the truth.

She interjects. “Have you been with anyone besides those two?”

He winces. “Um, maybe, a few casual times,” he tries.

“A few is three to five. How many times?” Of course she throws his own words back at him.

“More like…seven or eight,” he admits, shrinking back from her slightly. He readjusts his grip on her panties.

“Mm, you should really use precise language,” she suggests. “I want lots of detail.” Of course she does. “So it was never like this?” She prompts. Focused, attentive, absorbing everything he says.

“No, usually…” he sighs, watching her shiver as his breath fans over her damp skin, “other women expect certain behavior from me.” He can feel himself slipping into explanation mode, trying to make sense of something he never fully questioned before.

“What kind of behavior?”

He swallows. “You know.”

She pauses. “But I don’t know. I’m a virgin. Explain it to me.” He lifts his head to meet her eyes, lifting his eyebrows. He knows damn well she knows what he’s talking about. She just tilts her head to the side and blinks. She’s going to make him say it.

He sighs again and settles back down to watch her. She’s properly wet now. Soaking her fingers. Leaking from her pussy. He wants to get his face in there so badly. Part of him feels like if he explains this, she’s going to make fun of him. And he doesn’t think he’d be into that. Some people are, but not him. But he trusts her not to, so he goes on. Trusting her with this feels different than anything physical. Riskier in a quieter way.

“Well, most women like it when I pick them up and toss them around,” he offers, glancing up at her. “That’s…usually the appeal they see in me I guess.” She hums in agreement, but allows him to continue without interruption. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. “And that means that I’ve always sort of had to make the calls,” he explains, “what position we’re doing, when we move on.” He pauses. “You really want me to get specific?”

“Yes, please.” Immediate. No hesitation.

He clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth for a second before saying, “So my most recent ex wouldn’t…move on to the next stage unless I pushed it.” He glances up at her. She’s listening. Patient. Fingers circling slowly. “Like if we were just kissing, she’d never go anywhere below, like, my chest. She was very responsive when I touched her,” he concedes, “but she never touched me first. She never tried to take my clothes off. We never really discussed it either. It was like she wanted me to tell her what to do but not out loud. She just…” He trails off, searching for the least harsh way to say it.

“She just what?” Emma prompts.

“Laid back and took what I gave her,” he finishes quietly. “Which was fine.” It had been fine. It had been easy. But it had also been empty.

“But not what you really wanted?” She guesses.

He shakes his head slowly. “Um, my first girlfriend, back in college, she was a little more…adventurous.” Not the right word but it’ll do.

“Like me?”

“No, in the opposite direction,” he explains. “She knew exactly what she liked—which was fine, but that meant she expected me to show up a certain way.”

“How so?”

“She liked it when I treated her like…she wasn’t really part of it,” he says carefully, glancing up at her, “if that makes sense. Like she…didn’t have a choice…”

“Like you were using her?” Emma supplies.

“Sure,” he agrees, relieved he doesn’t have to explain it. “And she was the first person I had sex with, so, I kind of just thought maybe that’s how it’s supposed to go and…” He grimaces. “Nobody after that ever wanted it in a different way.” He doesn’t know what it is about him that makes women think he wants to act like that. But maybe that’s the problem. They never thought about what he wanted.

“They want Park the Shark,” Emma concludes breathlessly. “I get it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, feeling a little glum just thinking about it. He lets his eyes fall back down to her fingers, moving faster now. That version of himself feels distant and uncomfortably familiar at the same time.

“But I just want you, Brendon.”

Her legs tense up as warmth spreads through his chest. The simplicity of it cuts through everything else. He can feel it all the way down to his fingertips, aching. “Can I please touch you?”

“No,” she pants, “I have it.” She does. Her eyes are squeezed shut, head thrown back. “But you can kiss me,” with her free hand she taps her inner thigh, “right here.”

A reprieve, finally. He surges forward—tightening his grip on her panties to the point he’s slightly worried he’s going to rip the fabric—and presses his mouth against her fervid skin. Greedily kissing her, tasting the salt of her sweat, scraping his teeth over her. That’s when her free hand slides into his hair again, tugging at the roots.

“Be gentle,” she snaps, “don’t bite me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles against her, soothing the spot with his tongue. He can feel her tensing, her thigh quivering under his mouth as her hand moves erratically. Her hips twitch before her whole body goes still as she comes. She always goes still and silent when she comes. He traces his tongue in circles on her skin so he can hear her fingers sliding through her folds—the wet sound of her arousal. Delicious. He focuses on the rhythm of her breathing, the way it stutters and then steadies again.

Her body goes slack beneath him and he inhales sharply, anticipation running through him like an electrical current. He doesn’t dare pull away, resting his cheek against her thigh. Her legs relax, feet sliding down his back. She starts to let her head fall back and that’s when he overrides the do not touch order, sitting up to catch her before she falls backwards off the couch and pulling her towards him. She’s like jello. All tension gone at once, leaving her loose and heavy in his arms.

“Mmm, that was good,” she says, running her hands over his chest as he eases her back against the cushions and settles down beside her. Her leg creeps up over his hip, hooking around the back of his thigh. He tenses as she pushes her other leg between his. He’s impossibly hard against her hip. Practically on the verge of coming and she hasn’t even touched him. Do not start humping her like a teenager.

“Mmhm,” he agrees, barely able to say anything else as he wraps his arms around her and she nuzzles her face into his throat.

“Was I being to mean to you?” She asks, her breath hot against his skin when she sighs.

“No,” he promises, his voice rough, “I liked it.” He swallows. “I really, really liked it.” Way more than he ever liked it with anyone else, and she’s never even let him get off in her presence.

“Good,” she says, and he can feel her lips stretch into a smile. “I’m really, really glad.”

Brendon: So let’s say I have to reach 10,000 points

Emma: so YOU say

Brendon: Can I keep what I have?

Emma: how many do you have

Brendon: Net points: 2095

Emma: sure

Brendon: ...You have to update the list, baby

Emma: or you could just have sex with me

Brendon: There are so many other things I want to do first

Emma: fine. like what.

Brendon’s Updated Requests:

Phone sex

Nipple stimulation using hands or tongue (as previously requested but reiterated now that I’ve seen them)

Erotic massage (in either direction)

Mutual masturbation

Fingering

Oral sex (Emma receiving)

Emma: what if instead of a point system

Emma: we just treated this like a checklist

Emma: of everything we have to do before

Brendon: I love how much sense that makes.

Brendon: You’re so smart, baby.

Emma: i’m adding stuff i wanna do tho

Brendon: Go for it.

Emma’s Additions to the List:

Handjobs

Oral sex (Brendon receiving)

Brendon: You sure?

Emma: yeah

Emma: will you tell me what you don’t want me to do?

Brendon: ...I’m making a Google Doc

Brendon: Gos and No Gos for each of us.

Emma: of course you are

Brendon: I emailed you the link.

Emma: sexy

Brendon: I thought so.

Brendon dials Emma, puts her on speaker, and sets his phone on the table, listening to it ring as he scrolls through the document he set up. The cursor blinks steadily back at him, rows and columns already half-filled, an attempt to make something messy feel structured. She answers on the third ring.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hi, I thought we could discuss over the phone if you happen to also have the document up,” he tells her. He’s already filled out some of his lists, but didn’t touch hers.

Emma laughs. “Oh my god you’re using your work voice.”

He freezes. “I am?” He hadn’t even noticed, slipping into something practiced and controlled without thinking.

“Yes, but don’t worry it’s very sexy,” she assures him. “I like that you like to clearly define and organize things.” There’s some shuffling as presumably she gets comfortable, then, “Okay I’m looking at the document.”

“I didn’t want to assume anything for you,” he explains. The last thing he wants is to overstep, to decide something for her without asking.

“All…good…” she says slowly as he watches her copy and paste the first three in his approved column into her approved column. “Those seemed like a given.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, resting his chin on his hand as he watches her cursor click through his list. “I was…sort of making a checklist and then I just gave up and generalized. We don’t have to do everything on the list.”

“What are your requirements then?” She asks, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“At the very least, I want to get you off with my hands and my mouth before we try, like, vaginal sex,” he explains. “At the very least.”

“Okay, you type that in because you clearly have some kind of official language for this and I’d put in ‘fingering’ and ‘eating pussy,’” she says, giggling.

He types manual sex (clitoral stimulation), manual sex (digital penetration), and oral sex into her approved column. Each word deliberate, translating her phrasing into something that feels precise and manageable.

“God, you type so fast,” she says with a sigh.

He laughs. “Charting I guess. Trying to leave as soon as possible.” Muscle memory more than anything, hands moving faster than his thoughts.

“Also why are ‘clitoral stimulation’ and ‘digital penetration’ different categories? On your list it’s just ‘manual sex,’” she points out.

“‘Cause I was assuming nobody put their fingers inside you before and I didn’t want to assume I could,” he explains.

“I’ve put my fingers inside me before,” she shoots back.

“And…you wear what size gloves?” He lifts his eyebrows even though she can’t see him.

“Small.”

“And I wear extra large,” he shoots back. “Completely different situation.”

“Ooh, speaking of your massive hands,” she says excitedly. He watches her type in the approved column: spanking.

“Really?” That’s surprising. She doesn’t really seem to like pain. It doesn’t quite match the rest of what he’s learned about her.

“Not too often and not anywhere except my ass,” she explains. He makes a few edits to reflect that, adding ‘impact play (anywhere except ass)’ below where she’d added ‘biting/teeth involvement’ to her not approved list. Then watches her add hickeys, choking, hair pulling, and restraints to her not approved list. “I don’t really like pain,” she explains. Suspicion confirmed.

“I like some types of pain,” he replies.

“I see that,” she agrees.

“But no impact,” he adds. “Not that I think you can really cause any damage.”

“Rude.”

He snorts. “For restraints, is that like, just with a tie or similar or does it include me holding your wrists or something?”

“You hold me down, I'm finding a way to tickle you,” she threatens. Tickling is third on his not approved list.

“Should I add being lifted off the ground to your not approved list?”

“Yes please,” she says, very sweetly. He makes the edits to ‘restraints’ and adds the lifting thing. She then copies and pastes ‘tickling’ into her own not approved column.

“You’re funny,” he tells her. The ease of this, the back-and-forth, feels unexpectedly comfortable.

“Thank you.” She copies and pastes ‘degrading language’ from his not approved list into hers. “I only want you to tell me how wonderful I am,” she explains. “Like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“You are,” he says automatically. They’ve been dancing around the L word for a while now. But he’s figured out just about every other way to express the sentiment. Part of him is afraid to say it. Just like he’s afraid to bring up LA. The words come out without hesitation, even if the bigger ones stay stuck.

“Aww thank you,” she says. “That was so good—just like that.”

Heat creeps up his neck. Sometimes she’s so smooth with it, he forgets about her inexperience, especially as she adds things like ‘ejaculation on skin/body’ to her approved column and ‘ejaculation anywhere near face or hair’ to her not approved column. She adds ‘thigh/hamstring focused touch’ to her approved column and he counters with ‘chest/torso focused touch’ in his. Their lists start to mirror each other in strange, specific ways.

“I knew you liked it when I grabbed your tits,” she teases. See what he means? If she could see him, she’d probably point out that he’s blushing. But nobody’s ever given him the opportunity to be frank about what his preferences are before. It feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, but not uncomfortable. Not with her.

“I, um,” he swallows the lump in his throat and tries again, “I appreciate you, you know, going over this with me.” Trying to say more without quite getting there.

Her response comes quiet and soft. “Yeah, of course, babe. I like talking about this stuff with you.”

“I like talking about it with you too. Nobody’s ever…I guess thought to ask me before,” he confesses. The admission surprises him.

“I know,” she says. “You told me.”

“When?” He doesn’t remember that.

“Uhhh, when you were between my legs watching me get myself off. When I made you tell me about your exes.”

“Oh.” He laughs, shoving a hand through his hair as he sits back. “Honestly I think I blacked out.” Far, far too focused on her pussy to think about anything he said. “Was I coherent?” Barely aware of anything except her at the time.

She snorts. “Surprisingly.”

“Why did you even ask me about my exes while we were doing that?” He’s super curious. “I feel like if I think about you with someone else I wouldn’t be able to get off.” It doesn’t make sense to him, not instinctively.

“I don’t know, I’m weird,” she says, which isn’t an answer.

“Tell me,” he pleads. I want to know more about how your brain works.

She’s silent for a moment. He waits, fingers tapping against his thumb. Then she sighs. “I mean, it’s mostly because I like thinking about the way you look having sex.”

“Hang on,” he interrupts, “is this like, from the point of view that you’re the person I’m fucking or—”

“Oh no, fully in the cuck chair,” Emma says quickly, a sort of laugh behind her words. “Like I just want to watch you.” She hesitates, then adds, “I think you’re sort of beautiful and I like watching you move.”

“Oh.” Apparently he’s not getting rid of this blush anytime soon. “Okay. That’s interesting.” It catches him off guard, but not in a bad way. Just new.

“I told you I’m weird.”

“No, you’re good, I like that you have these thoughts. Interesting wasn’t supposed to be bad,” he reiterates. “I literally just meant I found that interesting.” Then he asks, “So you want to watch me fuck someone else?” His fingers twitch, like he’s about to add it to the list.

“See, like only in theory,” she explains. “I want to think about it but I don’t actually want you to do that.”

He exhales slowly. “Good because I don’t think I could.”

“Would you have done it if I asked?”

The question hangs between them. The automatic answer is right on the tip of his tongue. I’d do anything you asked me to do. But that’s a big one. He couldn’t imagine having sex with anyone except her. And they haven’t even had sex yet. “I’m torn on that one,” he admits.

“So…no,” she concludes. His throat burns.

“No I said I’m torn,” he repeats. “I meant what I said.” He doesn’t want to simplify something that doesn’t feel simple.

“Okay.”

“What’s the other reason?” He asks.

“For what?”

“Wanting to know about my previous partners,” he reminds her. “You said it was only mostly because you wanted to think about me fucking someone else.”

“Oh, right, right, right,” she exclaims. “I guess I also just wanted to know how much experience you’ve had. What you’d done before. That sort of thing.”

“Did you learn anything?” Something sort of hopeful creeps into his voice.

Her voice is soft and clear when she says, “I don’t think anyone’s ever met your needs before, babe.” The thing that makes him love her the most is there isn’t an ounce of pity in that sentence. Just…determination.

“No,” he says, his voice cracking, stomach twisting, “I don’t think so. Um.” He leans forward again and goes to bold a few of the items on her approved list—both types of manual sex and oral sex. He doesn’t touch his own list. “Anyway, I’m, um, highlighting the, uh, items I think we have to go through before we…” ‘Fuck’ feels like way too strong of a word for what he wants with her. Too blunt for something that feels more deliberate.

“Pop my cherry?” He laughs at that. She’s adorable. “Deflower me? Swipe my V-card?”

“Attempt vaginal intercourse,” he supplies. It sends her into hysterics on the other side of the phone, her laughter echoing through his kitchen. A sound he could get used to having here. It fills the space in a way nothing else does.

“Oh my god,” she says, still breathless, “please never call it that again.”

He tries one more. “Coitus?”

“Stoooop,” she whines. “My cheeks hurt from laughing.”

“Fine, fine.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I’ll stop.”

“I’m gonna highlight a couple more things I think we should do,” she says. He watches her cursor highlight the words.

He has to ask again. “You sure?” One last check, just in case. Even though he’s going to check every time it comes up.

Her voice is firm. “I’m sure.”

Approved - Brendon Receiving	Not Approved - Brendon Receiving	Approved - Emma Receiving	Not Approved - Emma Receiving
Kisses (Mouth, face, body)	Degrading language	Kisses (Mouth, face, body)	Biting/teeth involvement
Caressing/touching (Anywhere)	Impact play	Caressing/touching (Anywhere)	Impact play (anywhere except ass)
Nipple stimulation (hands or mouth)	Tickling	Nipple stimulation (hands or mouth)	Hickeys
Light choking (hands only)	Spitting	Manual sex (clitoral stimulation)	Choking (any pressure on throat)
Hair pulling	Temperature play	Manual sex (digital penetration)	Hair pulling
Hickeys (cannot be visible at work)	🔴	Oral sex	Restraints (either by you or with anything else)
Praise	🔴	Impact play (spanking)	Being lifted off the ground
Manual sex	🔴	Sexting (texts, pictures, voice notes)	Tickling
Oral sex	🔴	Dry humping	Degrading language
Erotic massage	🔴	Erotic massage	Ejaculation anywhere near face or hair
Dry humping	🔴	Neck kissing (specifically)	Anal stimulation
Scratching (again, not visible at work)	🔴	Ejaculation on skin/body	🔴
Fingers in mouth	🔴	Fingers in mouth	🔴
Chest/torso focused touch	🔴	Thigh/hamstring focused touch	🔴
Restraints (either physical or commanded)	🔴	Neck pressure (non-choking)	🔴

Mom: Is Emma going to be in town for Christmas?

Brendon: I don’t know. I’ll ask her.

Mom: Please invite her to Christmas Eve dinner if she isn’t going home.

Brendon liked a message

“Okay, that was really good on the subcutis,” Brendon says, doing his best not to hover too closely to Dr. Lee, the R2 assisting him on this distal radius ORIF. She needs elbow room to suture. “And the next layer is?”

“Dermis,” she replies immediately. “Buried sutures.”

“And what do you need for that?”

“Needle driver and, um, Vicryl,” she nods, glancing up at him.

“Okay, you got it, I’ll keep the tension,” he suggests, adjusting the forceps. He watches her. “Go a little deeper,” he suggests, “that’s a bit superficial. Yep, there. Much better. Watch your angle.”

Over her head, he sees Dr. Hwang poke his head through the door and motion him over. Brendon looks around. “Dr. Cardenas,” he calls out to the intern across the table who’s barely gotten his hands dirty despite scrubbing in, “come hold tension.” The poor kid looks terrified behind his mask. “It’s fine, you can’t screw it up.” He softens his tone just enough to keep the kid from freezing.

“O–okay,” he nods, hurrying around the table and taking Brendon’s place. His hands stop shaking as he takes over. Thank God.

“Dr. Lee,” Brendon says as he walks to the door, “I’ll be in the hall with Dr. Hwang, send someone if you need me but,” he glances back, “you’ve got this.”

“Thank you, Dr. Park,” she says sharply, and he might have taken it as dismissive, but he knows she’s just engrossed in her work. She’s a great surgeon. Focused, efficient, exactly where she needs to be.

He follows Dr. Hwang into the hall. The older man turns to face him, holding his hands behind his back. “How’s she doing?”

“Dr. Lee?” Brendon nods. His heart pounds, expecting another lecture. “She’s fine. She’s closed before. I was just asking her questions for the interns and med students to learn.”

Dr. Hwang nods approvingly. “You’re letting med students observe you now,” he says. “That’s a big improvement, Dr. Park. I must have gotten through to you with our last discussion.”

He doesn’t particularly think disclosing that the actual reason for his improved patience is his girlfriend forcing him to jump through hoops before he’s allowed to touch her will help Dr. Hwang’s perception of him. So he says, “I guess you did.”

“I wanted to talk about your plan,” Dr. Hwang moves on quickly.

“I’m still going to LA,” Brendon says quickly. His pulse jumps. He and Emma still haven’t talked about it. The words come out automatically, even as something in his chest tightens at the thought.

“I’m aware,” Dr. Hwang chuckles, “I think you should go. But I wanted to discuss your plan for after.” He takes off his glasses and cleans them on the hem of his scrub top. Holding them up to the light, he squints as he explains, “I have decided to retire.”

Brendon glances away from him. What does this have to do with him? “Con…gratulations.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Hwang replaces his glasses. “In about a year.” He lifts his eyebrows expectantly, but Brendon doesn’t answer. “There will be an attending position open.” Obviously. He keeps waiting. “I’d like to recommend you for it.”

Oh. That’s what he was getting at. The realization hits all at once, rearranging everything he thought was already decided. “Oh, um,” Brendon frowns. “I—thank you but, I wasn’t…” …planning on coming back to Pittsburgh. Except Emma’s face flashes in his mind before he finishes that sentence. Emma might not want to leave Pittsburgh. And maybe…they could do long distance. If there was a set end date. The plan shifts under his feet, no longer as clean as it was this morning. “Um, thank you.” He clears his throat. “May I think about it?”

“Of course.” Dr. Hwang smiles. “You have several months.”

“I appreciate it, I…” he hesitates, then admits, “I…have to talk to my girlfriend.” The word feels new in this context, heavier in a professional setting.

Dr. Hwang lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, well, of course. I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“It’s new,” he says flatly. And normally he doesn’t share personal information at work. Even now, it feels strange saying it out loud here.

“Will she be coming to the department Christmas party next week?”

“Um.” He swallows. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask her to that. They haven’t discussed being public at work—but he’s pretty sure the ED has some sort of gambling scheme about it. The idea of merging those worlds makes his stomach twist. “I’ll see if she’s working. She’s…” he takes a deep breath, “a nurse in the ED.” God he’s just telling his boss all his business now.

“Oh, well then I definitely look forward to meeting her,” Dr. Hwang says. “Take your time deciding about the attending position.”

“Thank you,” Brendon says quietly as he walks away, stomach churning. Good thing Dr. Lee is a capable surgeon, because his mind isn’t on the patient on the table anymore.

There’s just too many things to think about now.

Brendon: Do you want to come to my work Christmas party on the 11th?

Emma: to cosplay as your hot wife? hell yeah

Brendon: You know this means telling people at work, right?

Emma: we haven’t exactly been subtle about it

Emma: we were gonna have to tell people eventually

Emma: ...should probably tell hr

Brendon laughed at a message

Brendon: Yeah, we probably should

Emma: do you want me to come to the party?

Brendon: I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. I hate parties. You might make it bearable.

Emma: i’ll be so hot and charming you won’t even know what hit you

Brendon loved a message

Emma delivers on her promise to look hot. And no, he has no idea what hit him. Not when she removes her wool coat to reveal a short black skirt, red sweater, and sheer tights. Over her tights she has on red knit socks—matching—under her black leather heels. He’s never seen anyone wear socks with shoes like that before. They’re tall, with buckles around her ankles.

She’s a lot closer to his face now. Close enough that he has to actively keep his expression neutral. And with the black velvet bow pinning back half of her hair, she looks completely adorable. The combination is almost unfair—effortless and intentional at the same time. On some people the bow and the socks might be childish, but not her.

He takes her hand as they walk into the back room of the restaurant. Ortho always takes their parties off site. Smaller department, they can get away with renting out a restaurant’s private room. This year it happens to be a trendy, new steakhouse known for its whiskey bar—dark, oak tables, plush green carpet, and dim yellow lighting.

“This place feels like where I expect ortho to hang out,” Emma comments, fully looking around as he guides her between tables—completely trusting him not to let her trip or bump into anything. She moves easily through the space, taking it in without hesitation. He straightens up a little, squaring his shoulders just before they actually enter the party. A small adjustment, but automatic—armor settling into place. She looks up at him. “You okay?”

He squeezes her hand. “I don’t really…talk about my personal life at work,” he admits. “I never bring dates to this thing.” His least favorite nurse, Angela, is worse than his mom and Brooke combined about his dating life when she’s had a couple drinks. She’s going to be insufferable tonight. The thought alone is enough to make his jaw tighten.

Emma smiles. She has on that iced coffee flavored lip gloss. He can smell it when he leans in, mixed with her spicy perfume. “I’m so honored to be the first,” she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. She steps in front of him, smoothing her hand over his chest. “You look very handsome, by the way.” Completely unbothered by the setting, focused only on him.

He rolls his eyes. “Nobody will be looking at me with you right here.”

She leans in to kiss him, staying right beside his face to whisper, “I will be.”

He tilts his forehead against hers and sighs. “I do not deserve you.”

She nods. “Yes you do.” Then she steps back and picks a piece of lint off his shoulder. “You do because you’re wonderful.”

He scoffs. “You are about to find out my coworkers don’t feel that way.”

“Okay, well,” she shrugs, “I don’t care. I know you. Maybe they don’t.” The door swings open behind her.

“They don’t what?” One of the other senior residents, Dr. Sanchez, steps out. “Who’s they?” He looks at Brendon. “What’s up, Park?”

Brendon’s still fighting to figure out what to say as Emma whips around and smiles. She pivots instantly, stepping into the moment without hesitation. “You,” she says, sticking out her hand to shake, “don’t know that Brendon has a girlfriend. Hi, I’m Emma.” How does she do that?

Sanchez breaks into a slow smile and takes her hand gently. “I…did not,” he agrees, glancing between the two of them. “I’m Tom and it is lovely to meet you, Emma.” He looks up at Brendon again and quickly drops her hand, shoving his own into his pocket. “I was just heading to get another drink.”

“Oh!” Emma’s eyes light up. “We could definitely use a couple drinks.”

Brendon trails after her as she falls into step and conversation with his colleague. It’s so easy for her. She can talk to anyone about anything. So when Sanchez asks her how they met, she doesn’t even stutter.

“Oh! We met at the gym! Sort of,” she explains, “we’d run into each other at work so, I guess he recognized me and bailed me out before I died on the bench press.” She laughs as she says it, a little self-deprecating, but very, very charming. The story comes out polished without sounding rehearsed.

“You work at the hospital?” Sanchez asks as they find a spot at the bar to wait. Then recognition washes over him. “Oh wait, holy shit, you work in the ED! I’ve seen you!” Brendon slides a hand over her hip, feeling protective—like he might have to pull her out of there if anyone says anything even remotely rude to her.

“Yeah!” She points at him like she’s just remembering. “I think I was in that hip fracture you came down for a while back.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sanchez agrees. “Okay, cool, that’s awesome.” He glances at Brendon again. He keeps it cool, but the confusion is there. How the fuck did you land this girl, bro? The look is subtle, but unmistakable. “How long have y’all been together?”

“Uhhh,” now Emma’s glancing back at him. “Like two months?”

“Yeah.” He nods in agreement. “Two months.”

“Cool, very cool,” Sanchez says. The bartender walks up before he can ask anything else.

“Do you know what you want?” Sanchez defers to Emma.

“I don’t…normally drink whiskey,” she admits. “I’m Caribbean, we drink rum.”

“Do you want to try it?” Sanchez asks, shrugging a little. “A bourbon Old Fashioned is a little sweeter,” he suggests.

The bartender glances at Brendon. He clears his throat and speaks up, “Blantons with two ice cubes.” Now at least the guy has something to do.

“And I’ll have a Macallan 12, neat,” Sanchez adds.

Emma giggles. “I couldn’t name one brand of whiskey if I tried!” She leans back against Brendon and looks up at him. “You guys are pros!”

“Honey, I can make you whatever you want,” the bartender says, laughing dryly. “You don’t have to listen to these two.” He nods at Sanchez. “But if you do want to try it, he’s right. Bourbon Old Fashioned is the way to go. I’ll make it extra sweet,” he promises. The just like you is clearly implied.

“Sure,” Emma agrees, shrugging, “I like to try new things.” A point proven immediately as the bartender hands over Brendon’s drink and she says, “Can I have some?”

“Sure.” He nudges it towards her, trying to hide his amusement before she even takes a sip. He already knows how this is going to go. As soon as the amber liquid touches her lips, she winkles her nose and hands the glass back over.

“I hate that,” she says, watching him warily as he takes a drink. He doesn’t even blink as it burns over his tongue and down his throat.

“It’s better as the ice melts,” he admits.

“I don’t think any amount of watering that down could get me to drink that stuff. Yikes.” She turns back to the bartender, who snorts in amusement.

“Promise your drink will taste better,” he says. “But for you, I do think I need your ID.”

“Oh, yeah, fair.” Emma shrugs and looks at Brendon expectantly. She’d slipped her ID in his wallet before they left. Her lip gloss is also in his pocket. He sets his glass down to extract it for her and she leans over as she takes it to whisper, “Masochist,” in his ear. A shiver goes through him and he tightens his grip on the glass. The reaction is immediate, impossible to suppress. Completely normal again, Emma holds out her ID to the bartender between two fingers. Smiling, she looks back at Brendon gleefully. “Oh I wanna make a joke about you looking old so badly.”

He clears his throat, glancing at Sanchez, who’s watching them flirt like this is an anthropological study for him. “I actually don’t think I’ve ever been ID’d,” he admits. “Even before I turned 21.”

Emma gets her ID back and returns it to him. She puts her fingers to her lips. Her tone is obviously teasing as she says, “Brendon Park, were you buying alcohol before you were legally able to?” His shoulders creep up towards his ears. How is she this cool with flirting in front of other people? He feels like he’s standing there in his underwear while everyone watches. Too exposed, too visible, with nowhere to retreat.

“Um, yeah,” he frowns, “it was college, you know how it is.”

“Yeah, but I had a fake,” Sanchez offers. Emma reaches behind her to squeeze Brendon’s hand. It helps drop his shoulders again. “Ironically from Pennsylvania, actually.” He shrugs. “Now I take my real one home to Texas and bartenders think it looks fake. Go figure.”

Emma starts asking Sanchez about growing up in Texas and he starts talking about why he prefers wearing cowboy boots in the OR—he swears they’re more comfortable than sneakers—as they walk back towards the actual party. Emma keeps her grip on his hand and he feels like a dog being dragged along after her. He wants to dig in his heels and say no, but he forces that feeling down and lets her bring him inside. Trusting her to handle the parts he doesn’t want to.

He manages to say the things he has to as Sanchez leads them over to where some of the other residents have claimed a table—introducing Emma and shaking hands with other significant others he hasn’t met before or only saw at the last Christmas party. And then, miraculously, he…doesn’t have to talk anymore. Everyone just talks to Emma, completely enamoured with her. Nobody cares that he’s sitting there. They don’t find him interesting—just her. It’s wonderful. The pressure dissolves, leaving him free to observe instead of perform. Someone asks how they met again and she tells the whole story about him bailing her out at the bench press.

“And then he forced me to go heavier on the shoulder press,” Emma exclaims. “Like a total asshole!”

“Oh yeah,” Dr. Kauffman, an R4, agrees. “That sounds like him.”

“Yeah, we’re not so sure we believe you about him stopping to help you on the bench press,” Dr. Lee says flatly. “Definitely wouldn’t stay and have a conversation with you about it.”

“Are you kidding?” Dr. Cross scoffs. “Look at her.” She gestures to Emma in general. “She’s gorgeous. He’d be an idiot not to stop and talk to her.”

“That I can agree with,” Brendon interjects quietly, looking at her. The words come easier when they’re about her.

“Oh my god,” Dr. Kauffman says, his mouth falling open. “You actually look happy.” He looks at the rest of the table. “He actually looks happy.”

“Huh,” Sanchez slouches back in his chair. “So this is why suddenly you’re all chill with teaching,” he surmises, “you’re all soft now.”

Brendon shoots him a glare.

Sanchez puts his hands up. “I’m just saying maybe you should thank her for getting you that recommendation from Hwang for the attending position.”

Oh fuck. Brendon hasn’t thought about it at all since his conversation with Dr. Hwang. He was going to leave it until after the holidays, since Dr. Hwang said he had time to think about it. It didn’t occur to him that other people might know about it and bring it up. The moment fractures, everything shifting at once.

Emma lowers her glass from her mouth, frowning. Processing what he just said. She tenses and lets go of his hand, but she’s too poised to say anything to call him out in front of them. He leaves his hand on her leg, imploring her to look at him. I promise we’ll talk about it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I fucked up. Please don’t be mad. Finally, she looks at him.

She’s definitely mad.

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.