Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Emma, you can go in trauma two with the tib-fib fracture,” Dana instructs. Emma’s eyes widen. She’s never been assigned to a trauma before, a little shiver goes down her spine. Her stomach flips, equal parts thrill and nausea, like she just stepped onto a rollercoaster she can’t get off of. Dana must have finally deemed her capable to help in a real emergency. “Do everything Jesse tells you to do, stay out of the doctors’ ways, got it?”

“Yes, yes, of course! Okay!” Emma nods so enthusiastically it feels like her head might roll off her neck. Her pulse is already racing, fingers tingling, like her whole body is trying to sprint ahead of her brain.

“Get going!”

The whole thing is a blur—moving so fast her brain doesn’t process in real time. Voices overlap, monitors beep, drawers slam—everything louder and sharper than it should be. Her hand shakes a little as she starts the IV, but Jesse murmurs in her ear and she relaxes. She latches onto his voice like a lifeline, something steady in the chaos. She’s started hundreds of IVs in her month in the Pitt.

Every time the doctors call out an order for meds, Jesse moves to fill it. Emma does her best to stay out of the way of the residents and med students darting around the table. She feels like she’s threading a needle with her entire body, hyper-aware of every elbow, every tray, every movement around her. The patient is stable, it’s just the broken bones avulsed out of her shin. Just—like that isn’t the most insane thing she’s ever seen up close. She forces herself not to stare.

“We’re gonna have to call ortho, get a consult for surgery,” Dr. Whittaker says nervously. Emma hears him swear under his breath.

“Emma—” Her name snaps her to attention. Jesse points to the phone on the wall. “Call up to the surgical floor, ask for ortho.”

“Ask for Dr. Park,” Dr. Al Hashimi corrects from her observational perch. Dr. Whittaker looks a little green. Jesse straightens up with a sigh, rolling his shoulders back. She’s never heard of Dr. Park, but even the name carries weight. It settles over the room like something anticipated, like everyone already knows what’s coming except her.

Emma takes three steps over and lifts the phone with shaky hands, typing in the extension for surgery. She has to wipe her palm quickly against her scrub pants before gripping the receiver again. An even voice tinged ever so slightly with annoyance answers. “PTMC surgery.”

“Um, hi, this is—I’m down in the ED and we need an ortho consult,” she says, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. She can hear it in her ears, louder than her own voice. “Is Dr. Park available?”

“He’s in surgery.” The reply comes immediately, with more annoyance. She resists the urge to whimper. Of course he is. Of course the one person they need is already somewhere more important.

Emma covers the receiver with her hand and repeats to Dr. Al-Hashimi, “He’s in surgery.”

“Tell them to pull him,” she responds with a shrug, never taking her eyes off the patient. “It’s emergent.”

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, taking a deep breath before saying, “Can you pull him from surgery? It’s emergent.” Her voice comes out steadier than she feels, like she’s borrowing Dr. Al Hashimi’s confidence for a second. She’s good like that.

There’s a long pause before the clipped, polite voice comes back. “I’ll let him know.”

She hangs up the phone and waits. The seconds stretch, elastic and unbearable, like the whole room is holding its breath. Jesse looks at her and says, “Go get a pair of sterile gloves. Size 10.” Emma nods, hurrying from the room before it hits her. Size 10? She’s never met anyone who wears size 10. They’re not even stocked in the trauma rooms. She has to run to the supply closet for them. Her sneakers squeak against the floor as she takes the corner too fast, nearly colliding with a stretcher.

Back in less than two minutes with two sets of gloves just in case, she gets eight more minutes of holding the gloves, trying not to squeeze the package too much and mess them up. Her fingers twitch with the effort of staying still, resisting the urge to fidget, to check, to do something. She leans over to Jesse. “What do I do with these?”

“Just hold onto them until he gets here. When he asks for them, open the package, make sure you only touch the inside of the gloves where they’re folded over, and hold them out so he can put them on.”

“Only touch the inside, got it.”

The back door swings open. Emma looks up as all background chatter screeches to a halt. It’s not gradual—it’s instantaneous, like someone flipped a switch and cut the noise out of the world. Only the beeping monitor remains. Suddenly, the size 10 gloves make sense. Dr. Park seems to take up the whole room—at the very least sucks the air out of it. Not louder, not bigger—just heavier, like everything tilts subtly toward him.

He doesn’t look around at the people to say hi, his eyes lock on the patient’s leg as he circles the table. He moves with a kind of inevitability, like he already knows exactly where he’s going before he gets there. One of the med students trips backwards to get out of his way, barely catching himself on the computer table. Emma sucks in a breath and holds it as he brushes past her. The air shifts with him, close and sharp, and she feels it in her lungs before she can think about it. Her nipples harden and she hopes nobody can see it—though she’s wearing a bra, a t-shirt, and her scrub top, so hopefully she’s fine.

“Mechanism of injury?” His voice is softer than she expected, but still firm, magnetic. He doesn’t have to yell to be heard because everyone just listens to him.

“Um, car accident,” Dr. Whittaker stammers. “She had her feet up on the dash.”

“How long since the injury?” He leans over the table. The room seems to lean with him. Emma locks in on his hand, hovering near the patient’s foot. He has on blue gloves—non-sterile—but he doesn’t seem to want to touch her with them.

“About an hour and a half,” Dr. Al Hashimi supplies. “Took a while to extract her from the car.”

“Antibiotics?”

“Cefazolin and gent.”

He makes a low noise of acquiescence and steps back. “X-ray?”

It’s already pulled up on the screen. He spares a cursory glance at it, then turns back to the leg. He peers at it again, fingers drifting just an inch above the top of the wound. He doesn’t touch right away—he studies, measures, decides. Emma swallows, watching the nylon stretching over his knuckles. It seems on the verge of splitting.

“Get me an 11 blade and some sterile gloves.” He doesn’t explain what he’s planning to do. He doesn’t need to. The room rearranges itself around the command.

Jesse moves before he’s even finished the sentence, searching for the requested tool. It takes Emma a second to process that she’s up. She swallows, slips one of the packages in her pocket, and takes a deep breath as she opens the other like Jesse told her, spreading them out on the table in front of him. Her hands move carefully, deliberately—sure he’ll notice if she hesitates.

He glances up at her, seemingly surprised she already had them ready for him. Then he looks back at her. For a second, he lingers on her face, studying it. Not casually—intentionally. She swallows, feeling like she’s being assessed for something. Weighed. Measured. Catalogued. He nods once as he removes his blue gloves. She holds out her hand for them. Whatever the test was, she apparently passed it.

She’s still reeling from his scrutiny, her heartbeat pounding in her ears drowning out anything else, when one tiny thing makes everything go wrong at once. The med student’s hand shook as he handed off the scalpel, a little before Dr. Park was ready for it.

“Fuck!”

It’s like a gun went off. Dr. Park stands up, suddenly looming over the cowering med student as blood drips down his arm, ruining the sterile gloves she just gave him. The room freezes—not because he’s shouting, but because every bit of his focus has narrowed to a single point. The scalpel clatters to the floor. No one moves to pick it up. No one breathes.

Emma moves before she really thinks about it, grabbing a gauze pad and pressing it over the three-inch laceration on his forearm. Her eyes widen slightly as she clamps down with both hands to create pressure. She can barely get them all the way around. She looks up at him and swallows, but he doesn’t acknowledge her. When she catches Jesse’s eye around him, he gives her a nod—she had the right instinct. A silent confirmation in a room that suddenly feels like it’s balancing on a knife’s edge.

“Just get out. Find something else to fuck up,” he tells the med student. His voice is low, even—almost conversational—but it lands harder than a shout. There’s no room for apology, no room for explanation. Just dismissal. The poor kid nods, scurrying away before it gets worse. Good call. Everyone else stays exactly where they are.

“So sorry, Dr. Park,” Dr. Al Hashimi says. “We’ll have someone stitch up your arm.”

“I can stitch up my own arm,” he says, calmer with her. The anger folds in on itself, contained, redirected—like it was never meant for anyone else in the room. “Someone get me new gloves and another 11-blade. I’ll finish this and then a resident can debride.”

Emma gapes at him. “But you’re bleeding!” Her voice comes out like a squeak. She shrinks back again as he leans over her. Too close, too intense—his focus snapping back onto her like a switch flipped.

“Then I guess you better hold on tight.” He stands up again and speaks to the room in general. “Gloves, quickly, before I bleed out.”

She barely manages to get the words out. “In my pocket.” He pauses, leans down to hear her. Close enough that she can feel the heat of him. She clears her throat, speaking up. “There’s another pair in your size in my pocket.” She tilts her chin to the left to indicate the pocket on her scrub top. Her pulse stutters, suddenly too loud, too fast, her body anticipating his next move.

Everything else in the room swirls into a blur as he reaches into the chest pocket of her scrubs, fingers just barely brushing over her pebbled nipple through her clothes as he extracts the gloves. The contact is brief—accidental—but it lands like a spark, sharp and immediate, shooting straight through her. She shivers, unable to take her eyes off his face. Cold. Unreadable. Waiting—for what, she doesn’t know. For him to notice? To react? To do it again? The thought of him touching her on purpose hits her all at once, dizzying.

“Glad someone is prepared,” he says. His voice doesn’t change. Not a flicker, not a hint that he noticed the way her breath caught, the way her body reacted without permission. Then, one handed, he opens the glove packet on the table. Jesse steps up to hold out the right one for him to push his hand into, then Dr. Whittaker firmly passes over a clean scalpel. And just like that, it’s gone—swallowed back into the rhythm of the room—except it isn’t, not for her. It lingers, buzzing under her skin, impossible to ignore now that she’s named it.

With Emma still holding pressure on his left arm, he extends the wound one-handed. The movement is precise, controlled—a type of ease that only comes from having done it a thousand times. Then he steps back slightly. “You, intern,” he says to Dr. Whittaker, “it’s your lucky day. You get to be an ortho resident. Glove up.” Even now, even bleeding, he sounds in control of everything—of the room, of the people in it, of the outcome.

Dr. Whittaker steps back up beside Dr. Park. His size gloves are stocked in the room and Jesse finds them and has them open on the table without being asked. Emma swallows. She hopes she can be that good someday, anticipating what needs to be done before she’s asked.

Blood wells up a little through the gauze and she tightens her grip. Warm and slick beneath her hands, the steady pulse of it grounding her even as everything else feels unreal. She can feel the strength in his arm under her palms, the tension he’s holding there without complaint. Dr. Park’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t say anything to her. Not even a flinch, not even a glance—just total focus, like pain doesn’t register.

She watches as he walks Dr. Whittaker, with his two available hands, through reducing the break and listens as he gives instructions for debridement. Every word measured, every movement deliberate—he doesn’t rush, doesn’t hesitate. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he works, the way he knows exactly what to do without ever second-guessing himself. Finally, he steps back. “Prep her for surgery. Call upstairs, tell them someone will have to finish my ankle and then I’ll be up to do this after I take care of my arm.” He’s going to operate after stitching himself up.

“Thank you, Dr. Park,” Dr. Al Hashimi says, her voice neutral. “Emma, go with him. Make sure he has everything he needs.” And Emma realizes, distantly, that she hasn’t looked away from him once. That she doesn’t want to.

She nods, eyes wide. Like she could let go now. She turns with him, pressing open the door to trauma two with her back. Her movements feel just a fraction too fast, too sharp. She’s already ten steps ahead of herself. “Dana?” She calls. “Is there a room open? He needs stitches.”

“You cut yourself, Dr. Park?” She asks, eyeing the blood trails down his arm.

“One of your med students,” he grumbles in return. Dana snaps her gum and glances back at her computer. Unbothered, like this is just another Tuesday. Emma wishes she could feel that steady.

“South 16 is open,” she says. “I’ll have someone bring in a suture kit.”

Emma has no choice but to keep up with him as he strides across the ED, trying to ignore the funny looks they’re garnering. She can feel them anyway—eyes following, whispers waiting to happen—and somehow that only makes her more aware of him beside her.

Inside South 16, her heart feels so loud she wonders if he can hear it as he drags a table over to rest his arm on as he sits on the end of the bed. The room feels smaller with the door shut, quieter in a way that makes everything sharper—his breathing, the faint squish of blood beneath her fingers, the sound of her own pulse in her ears. He looks at her expectantly. Her brain scrambles, trying to catch up, to anticipate, to not mess this up now that she’s here alone with him.

“You can let go now.”

“Oh!” She shakes her head and relaxes her grip. “Sorry.” Her fingers linger for half a second too long before she pulls away.

Peeling back the soaked gauze, he peers at the laceration, which has—thankfully—stopped bleeding. Up close, it looks worse than she expected—she can see every layer of skin and fat it sliced through—and he studies it like it’s a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. Emma peels off her bloody gloves, then grabs fresh ones for both of them. He nods at her in acknowledgement. Her chest tightens with a flicker of pride she wasn’t expecting.

“Are you new?”

The question startles her. She swallows. Her brain lags half a second behind him. “Hm, what?”

“To the ED. Are you new?” His voice sharpens. He didn’t like having to repeat himself. The edge in it snaps her fully back into place—and something low in her stomach twists in response, sharp and unfamiliar.

“Y–uh, yeah,” she stammers. “I graduated in June. I, um, started on Fourth of July, and um, I’ve never been allowed in on a trauma before—Dana said I could help out.” She bites her lip to stop herself from rambling more, feeling her ears heat up under his stare. God, why is she talking so much? Why would he ever care what she thinks?

“Hm. Fourth of July,” he mutters to himself. “Proximal tib-fib replantation. I remember that surgery.” Of course he does. Like every case is catalogued somewhere in his head. What has he catalogued about her?

“Y–yeah.” She nods furiously. She remembers that day too, albeit for entirely different reasons. “I–I didn’t see that one.”

The door opens and Princess slips in. She passes over the suture kit and glances between them. Addressing Emma directly, she asks, “You gonna be okay?”

Emma lifts her brows. Why wouldn’t she be okay? Princess wouldn’t ask that about any other attending. The question lands strangely—like a warning she doesn’t quite understand, like there’s something about him she’s supposed to be wary of. She nods, smiling. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

Princess glances at Dr. Park, already laying out the tools for sutures. “Alright. Shout if you need anything. When you finish up, check on those labs for North 6, okay?” Emma nods. The door clicks shut behind her, and the quiet that follows feels charged. The air shifts in a way she can’t ignore.

“Are you left or right-handed?” Dr. Park pulls her attention right back to him.

“Um, right,” she answers. “Why?”

“I need your help since I’m short a hand,” he explains without explaining. “Get me some lidocaine, don’t draw it up yet.”

Nodding, she turns to find it in one of the drawers, setting the vial and the syringe in front of him. He keeps his left arm still, working around the inability to move his left hand out of place to draw up the anesthetic himself. Emma watches, fascinated, as he injects it right into his own arm without even flinching. Not even a hitch in his breathing. Not even a flicker of discomfort. Something about that—about the control, the disregard for pain—sends a sudden, unmistakable heat through her. Her eyes stay on his face as she takes the syringe and throws it out. Standing a few feet away, she waits for further instruction.

“Come closer.” She takes a step towards him, fighting the magnetic pull to be as close to him as possible. He gives her an annoyed look. “Closer.”

Chest tightening, she steps up until she’s so close the toe of her shoe brushes against his. He doesn’t move it away. The contact is nothing, barely there—and still her stomach flips hard enough to make her dizzy.

Without looking at her, he grabs her left wrist, forcing her to bend down slightly to rest her elbow on the table. He wraps his left hand around her forearm. All the way around. His grip is firm, unyielding—and the awareness hits her all at once, sharp and undeniable: she’s turned on. Not nervous. Not just impressed. Turned on.

“What, um,” she swallows and pushes her braid back over her shoulder with her other hand, “what are you doing?” Her voice wavers, and she hates that he might hear it. Hates that he might be able to read her mind—she’s never been good at hiding her emotions, they’re always painted plainly on her face.

“One, I need to hold onto something,” he explains, leaving no room for questions, “and two, I don’t want you to jump away from me while you help.”

“Help?” Emma slowly raises her eyes to meet his.

“Yes, help,” he says flatly, blue eyes boring into hers so intensely she’s sure he can tell what she’s thinking. “I can’t suture with one hand. I need you to be the other one.”

“I–I’m not sure I’m the best person for this,” she glances over her shoulder, looking to signal Donnie or someone who’s actually good at sutures. Her brain scrambles for an out, something to ground herself, to slow this down. “I’ve barely been here a month and—”

“And I’ve been doing this for twenty years, so you’ll be safe with me.” The certainty in his voice cuts straight through her—and instead of calming her, it makes the heat spike sharper. He probably doesn’t mean the innuendo but her brain sure hears it. She presses her thighs together.

Emma turns back to him and swallows. Her heart is threatening to come up her throat. Her skin is on fire in his presence. He’s drawing her in like the Earth compels the moon to keep circling it—trapped in his gravitational pull.

And now she understands exactly what that pull is—desire, sudden and overwhelming, settling into her body like it belongs there. Desire for this man twenty years her senior who also happens to technically be one of her superiors. Emma sucks in a deep breath before nodding.

Dr. Park is surprisingly patient as he instructs her through the process, asking her to hold tension for him, clean up the area when blood wells up, pass him instruments, and clip threads. Every correction, every quiet instruction only pulls her deeper into it—into him, into the rhythm of working beside him.

“Good,” he mutters, leaning over to watch her. “That’s better than any of my residents.” His face is so close to hers she wonders if he can feel the heat in her cheeks. If he can sense how badly she wants his approval—and how much that want has shifted into something else entirely.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, watching as he pulls the thread for the final knot and the two edges of flesh come together. The movement is clean. Precise. And she shouldn’t find it attractive—but she does. God, she really does. She drops her tension and reaches to snip the thread, her knuckle brushing against his arm as she does. He shifts his grip on her other arm, loosening. God, she’d forgotten he was even holding it, flexing her fingers as blood rushes back into her hand. The loss of contact hits harder than she expects, leaving behind a strange, aching absence.

“Was I hurting you?” Dr. Park asks, his thumb brushing over the inside of her wrist. The touch is lighter now—but it sends another sharp pulse of heat through her anyway. She looks up at him, chewing on her lip as she shakes her head. He nods and squeezes her arm lightly before releasing her. “Good.” She misses him immediately as soon as she steps back. Which is insane. Completely insane.

“I’ll, um, I’ll wrap up your arm and then you can go—go up for your surgery.” She clings to the task, to something normal—but still an excuse to touch him again.

“Thank you for your help, Emma.” The sound of his voice wrapping around her name sends a thrill up her spine. Her name sounds different when he says it. “You did a great job.”

“Oh!” She shakes her head and turns away to grab a clean bandage. “I didn’t really do anything.” She needs distance. Space. Anything to get a handle on herself.

“I don’t give out compliments to everyone,” he says sharply as she begins to wrap the wound. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d take it.” The firmness in it makes her stomach drop—then her pussy clenches as she rolls over the words in her mind. There’s something of his she’d like to take alright.

Emma has never felt more like she’s about to burst into flames than she does with him staring at her in that moment. Her throat goes dry—she couldn’t answer even if her brain could find the right words. It feels like she’s short-circuiting, several answers popping into her head all at once. Her hands tremble slightly as she finishes off the wrap. Stepping back, she wipes them on her thighs. She knows what this is now. She just doesn’t know what to do about it.

Finally, she manages to lift her eyes to his. “Thank you…Dr. Park.”

Then she bolts before she says something completely embarrassing. Before he can see just how much he’s gotten to her.

***

“So, you survived your shark encounter!” Princess slides in beside Emma as she’s wheeling a patient to CT. He’s old and a little deaf—not listening to her conversation.

Emma starts a little in surprise. Her thoughts scatter instantly, yanked away from the memory of his hands on her, the heat of him, the way her body reacted before she could stop it. “What?”

“Park the Shark, you know, the orthopedic surgeon whose arm you helped stitch up this morning. Scary guy?”

Emma looks down, ears growing hot. Hotter than they should be. Hotter than she can explain. Right, of course. “Sorry, I just never heard anyone call him that.” She hopes it sounds casual. Normal. Not like she’s been thinking about him nonstop since she walked out of that room.

Princess hums. “I’m not really sure when they started calling him that. But you have to admit it fits, right?”

“Mmhm.” She can easily recall the sharp, predatory way he looked at her, like he was thinking about tearing her to shreds with his teeth. How he circled the trauma room before zeroing in on the problem, exactly like a shark locking in on its prey. How he held her wrist. How close he stood. How she didn’t want him to let go. “It fits.” Too well.

“Was he too mean to you?” Princess asks. “If he was, we can sic Dana on him. She’s like an orca—you know, the only animals sharks are afraid of.”

“Assuming he’s a white shark,” Emma fills in without thinking. The words come out too quickly—she needs to fill the space before Princess can ask anything else. Before she notices anything.

“Huh?”

“Well, there are lots of varieties of sharks,” she explains. She hears herself speeding up, rambling, but she can’t seem to stop. “You’re probably thinking of great white sharks because they’re the stereotypical predator sharks—and you’re right that orcas kill them.” She keeps going, piling on information like it’ll bury the memory of how good it felt to be that close to him. Like it’ll hide the fact that she liked it. That she wanted more.

Princess snorts. “You seem to know a lot about sharks already.”

Emma shrugs and looks at her sheepishly. “I had a marine biology phase when I was 12.” She forces a smile, hoping it reads as self-deprecating instead of defensive. Hoping it distracts from the way her pulse spikes every time she thinks about him. She doesn’t explain that she specifically had a shark phase. Go figure.

“Well, as much as I’d love to keep talking about this, I do have to go bother the hot radiologist about some films that are taking forever to get back,” Princess explains, taking a right turn while Emma goes straight.

“Can’t you just call him?” Emma says, bewildered. Grateful for the shift, for something safer to focus on, something that doesn’t make her skin feel too tight.

Princess calls over her shoulder. “But then I wouldn’t get to look at him!”

Emma wonders when she might get to look at Dr. Park again, but she doesn’t know if the feeling she gets at the idea of it is excitement or dread.

***

Every day that she goes without seeing Dr. Park, Emma starts to feel better. The edge of anticipation dulls, the constant low-level awareness of him fading into something manageable, something she can ignore if she tries hard enough.

Dana continues putting her on minor traumas, and part of her hopes to see him with every complex fracture and dislocation, but he never comes down. If they do call surgery, it’s someone from the trauma service—she sees Dr. Garcia most often. Sometimes a senior resident comes down from ortho. But never him. The disappointment stings less every time it happens. Or maybe she just gets better at pretending it doesn’t.

But she gets better too. After that day she helped Dr. Park with his stitches, she’s felt more confident with more complex tasks. You did a great job and I don’t give out compliments often circulate through her brain like a drug—eliciting a delicious high. She’s never even considered touching cocaine, but she imagines snorting the white powder must feel something like the way she felt when he said her name. Sharp and bright and cutting straight through her bloodstream, lighting up every nerve ending at once.

So of course, when she’s finally capable of making it a few hours without thinking about him, he appears. Emma is standing and looking at the board when she feels gravity shift behind her. Like the room has tilted ever so slightly on its axis, everything subtly pulled in one direction.

Suddenly she’s rooted in place—pulse pounding. She knows it’s him because he’s just a bit too close to her. And nobody else would do that. Nobody else would stand that close without saying anything, without asking. She swallows.

“Ca—can I help you…Dr. Park?” It’s so hard to say his name directly.

“Looking for a patient of mine, Thomas Settle. He came in with some complications post-op.”

Emma happened to have been there when he was brought back from triage—took his vitals and drew up his labs, started his IV. Dr. Langdon thinks it could be compartment syndrome, which would send Mr. Settle right back into the OR. So he would have had to page Dr. Park, who performed the surgery. Her eyes flutter closed. Of course this is happening. Of course something would force him to come down here. Of course it couldn’t just stay a near-miss.

“Ooh, um, let me show you.” Emma finally manages to peel one foot off the floor, then the other. One step at a time, she walks next to Dr. Park, trying not to think about his arm brushing her shoulder with every other step—the heat of him. It’s constant, unavoidable, like standing too close to an open oven. She walks him to Mr. Settle’s bed, finding Dr. Langdon and Dr. King hovering around.

“Park! What’s up?” Dr. Langdon says, and Emma stares in complete shock at the change that comes over Dr. Park when they’re in front of a patient. His scowl melts away completely to something more neutral. He accepts Dr. Langdon’s offered fist bump. It’s seamless, like flipping a switch—like this version of him has always existed and she just hadn’t been allowed to see it yet.

Emma notes Dr. Langdon’s gold wedding ring as he pulls his hand back, alarm bells going off in her head. Oh my god. She sneaks a look at Dr. Park’s left hand—unfortunately bare—and presses her lips together. This would be a lot easier if he were married. If there were already rules in place she didn’t have to question.

“Langdon.” He nods, even looking at Dr. King as if he wants to know her name.

“This is Dr. King, our best R3,” Langdon explains, “and you know Mr. Settle.”

“Sorry to see you back here, Tom,” Dr. Park says. Emma literally cannot walk away from the complete personality transplant he seems to be having. Who is this guy? Where does one version of him end and the other begin? “What’s going on with your knee?”

Mr. Settle is about her dad’s age, avid hiker. But his weight led to the deterioration of his knee, and he needed a full knee replacement. At least, that’s what Emma read in his chart when she made her notes.

“It really fucking hurts,” Mr. Settle says with a nervous smile as he pushes himself more upright and gestures to the offending joint. Emma had propped his knee up with an extra pillow to make him more comfortable. “And it’s getting worse.”

“We’re going to make you more comfortable with some pain meds, Mr. Settle,” Dr. King assures him. “Dr. Park just has to take a look at you first.”

Dr. Park is already pulling on a pair of gloves, the nylon snapping tight over his skin. “You mind if I look at your leg?”

“I specifically came in here for you to look at my leg, man.”

Emma watches something flash across Dr. Park’s face, but she barely registers it before the mask is back in place. He leans over, palpating the joint with a gentleness she didn’t realize those massive hands were capable of. She swallows, trying not to let her mind wonder exactly what his hands are capable of. The contrast is almost dizzying—how something that looks so forceful can move so carefully. But then again, he’s a surgeon.

“When did the pain start getting worse?”

“Around 3am,” Mr. Settle says. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and Emma rocks back and forth, watching, hoping to hear the pain meds order soon so she can run and get them. Get away from him. “Woke me up.”

“Is this worse than right after surgery?” His voice is back to sharp and clinical, but he’s still much more polite than he was during the trauma when the patient was sedated.

“Significantly.”

As Dr. Park continues his exam, Emma realizes why he’s here even though he won’t be the one to do the surgery if it is compartment syndrome—trauma service will do that. Mr. Settle relaxes more in Dr. Park’s presence. He knows this doctor, likes him even. So he trusts him. In a place as scary and overwhelming as The Pitt, that goes a long way.

And it’s interesting to know that Dr. Park would take time out of his busy day to come down and make sure a patient of his is examined by the doctor he’s most comfortable with—that he has that kind of rapport with his patients. Which is fascinatingly different from the man who scared a med student so badly he faked an illness to go home after the encounter. But it’s shockingly fitting with the man who spoke calmly and concisely to her about simple interrupted sutures. Like all of those versions are real, and she just doesn’t know which one belongs to her—if any of them do.

“Dr. King,” Dr. Langdon starts, “What is Dr. Park looking for?”

Dr. King, despite being an R3, doesn’t seem to mind the quizzing. “Um, swelling at the incision site, redness, firmness of the joint, numbness—”

“Where is it worst?” Dr. Park interrupts her.

“Right below my knee,” Mr. Settle says quickly. “Especially my calf. It feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Classic sign of compartment syndrome,” Dr. King says, sounding a little too excited as she nods to herself. Dr. Park shoots her a look and her smile disappears. She hums under her breath and rocks slightly back and forth—looking away.

“Can you move your toes for me?” He glances down at Mr. Settle’s foot, watching his toes flex slightly. “Good. Looks good.”

“So you’re not going to cut my leg off?”

Dr. Park laughs. “I was never gonna cut your leg off, Tom.” He puts his hand on his patient’s shoulder, comforting. Emma has to think to keep her mouth from falling open in shock. The sound of it—his laugh—feels almost as jarring as the gentleness of his touch. “But we do need to get you back up to the OR.”

“More surgery?” Mr. Settle exclaims, then winces and reaches for his knee.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be the last one,” Dr. Park promises as he peels off his gloves. “We’re gonna have you back on your feet as soon as possible so you can walk your daughter down the aisle, okay?”

Mr. Settle nods, still grimacing. He looks at the other doctors. “Can I have some pain meds now?”

Emma looks at Dr. Park. He meets her eye. “Go ahead and give him four of morphine, please, Emma.”

Heat creeps up Emma’s neck as she turns, catching Dr. King’s furrowed brows and Dr. Langdon’s quick look between the two of them. How does she know an attending from another department when she’s only been here two months? Oh no reason, he only forced her to help him stitch up his forearm.

She glances at the pink scar on Dr. Park’s forearm—minimal, healing well. He did a great job with those stitches. Then she heads off to grab the morphine before her staring at him starts to get weird.

Away from his magnetic field, Emma feels like she can finally take a full breath as she types the order into the PDS and the drawer pops open. Her shoulders drop, tension unwinding just enough to think clearly again. She extracts the vial of morphine and retrieves a syringe to push it through Mr. Settle’s IV.

Unfortunately he’s still there when she returns, filling in the chart himself, taking over the chain of command from Dr. Langdon. Making sure everything is ready to go before he passes him off to trauma surgery. Of course he is. Of course he doesn’t delegate this. Of course he finishes what he starts. Emma tries not to look at him while she draws up the morphine and pushes it. By the time she’s finished, Mr. Settle has started to relax.

“Thank you,” he says with a sigh. “Oxy wasn’t doing shit.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Settle,” Emma tells him gently, her voice going up an octave like it always seems to when she talks to patients. “I’ll be nearby, just yell out if you need anything. Literally anything.”

“Emma, right?”

“Uh-huh.” She smiles at him, nodding, trying not to think about Dr. Park still being in the room. His presence is making her dizzy. “Can I get you anything else right now?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll just enjoy the good stuff.”

Emma’s smile falls away as she turns to leave the room, stepping carefully between Dr. Park and the end of the bed, but her hip still brushes up against him. “Sorry,” comes out of her mouth automatically.

“Careful,” he says, low and even. When she turns around, he’s still typing, but he’s watching her, not the screen. Her chest tightens as her eyes flick down to his hands. That’s sort of annoyingly hot. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Emma swallows. A tiny little bit of some of the confidence she’s had recently bubbles to the surface just in time for her to say, “If I do, I know you’ll stitch me back up, Dr. Park.” She leaves the words hanging between them, whirling around and walking away to check on her other patients before he can respond.

Behind her, she hears Mr. Settle say, “She’s pretty.” Maybe he’s a little loopy from the morphine already.

Dr. Park sighs, just barely audible when he responds, “Yes…she is.”

***

Four hours later, Emma feels like she’s about to pass out from hunger as she takes vitals for an elderly woman named Kathleen Downey who insists Emma call her by her first name. She’d missed out on sandwiches when they came out earlier—too tied up helping with triage. And she’d run out of protein bars yesterday—she needs to grocery shop. Her stomach feels hollow, like it’s folding in on itself, every movement just a little too slow, a little too heavy. Her hands shake slightly as she attaches leads to Kathleen’s chest and she misses entirely when trying to put the pulse ox on her finger.

“Are you alright, honey?” Kathleen asks. “You seem clammy.”

“Oh,” Emma takes a deep breath to regulate. In through her nose, out through her mouth, the way she’s been taught, like she can force her body back under control. “I’m a little new and I just haven’t quite figured out, like, the best time in my shift to eat something, you know?” She readjusts the pulse ox. “We don’t have a lot of time to stop and take a break.”

“Well, hon, go get something to eat,” Kathleen says. “You need to—” She cuts herself off, eyes going wide and mouth opening slightly as she gapes over Emma’s shoulder. Emma would have glanced at what she’s looking at, except the monitor starts going nuts as her heart rate shoots up.

“Kathleen? You okay?” Emma moves to examine the monitor.

“Oh sweet Jesus.”

The air feels suddenly warm behind her, superheated. She freezes, staring at the monitor. A very large hand moves casually to rest on her hip, but he didn’t need to hold her still. She’s not going anywhere. She couldn’t move if she tried. His other hand reaches right over her shoulder to drop something in her chest pocket. Emma swallows, chest heaving. Every nerve in her body lights up at once, heat blooming outward from where he’s touching her.

Then suddenly, Dr. Park is gone. She whirls around and catches his broad shoulders retreating smoothly through the crowd, effortlessly parting the seas as he returns to the surgical floor—the depths where he belongs.

Shaking, Emma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a protein bar. One of the very expensive ones she used to get in college when her parents still paid for groceries, but that she doesn’t buy now for herself. The wrapper crinkles loudly in her hands, grounding her just a little. She wonders how he guessed her favorite flavor.

Kathleen is staring at her when she turns back. “Honey.”

“Sorry about that,” Emma says automatically. “He’s not supposed to be down here.”

“Your boyfriend?”

Emma jolts at the idea. “What? N–no, ab–absolutely not. Definitely, definitely not. He’s not—he’s a surgeon.” As if that explains anything. As if that makes it less ridiculous.

“Phew,” Kathleen sits back, her heart rate on the monitor slowly returning to normal, “you better make him your boyfriend soon before I get to him, ‘cause miss ma’am that man isn’t a snack he is the whole meal.” She twiddles her thumbs in her lap, still staring in the direction Dr. Park disappeared. Like she’s expecting him to come back. Or hoping. “Surgeon you said?” She lifts an eyebrow.

“Ye–yeah, orthopedic.”

Kathleen starts to push Emma back so she can get out of the bed. “What are you doing?” Emma takes hold of her elbow.

“I’m gonna go walk down the stairs so I’ll fall and break a hip,” Kathleen says. “Then he’ll have to be all up in my business.” She cracks into a smile and sits back in bed, chuckling to herself. “Oh honey, you should have seen the look on your face. Sit down,” she pats the bed beside her leg, “eat your snack and tell me why you’re not all over that man.”

Emma sighs and checks her watch. She has a couple minutes. And there’s something comforting about Kathleen’s persistent frankness. Honestly, she can’t call her mom about this, she can’t tell Dana, her friends would probably make fun of her—maybe this dehydrated 86-year-old is like some kind of guardian angel sent to tell her what the heck she should do.

Unwrapping the bar, she sinks down with a sigh and takes a bite. “Well he’s like twenty years older than me,” she says, holding a hand in front of her mouth as she chews. God, it’s as good as she remembered. The brand she gets now is too dry and chalky. This one is soft, perfect—ridiculously good for what it is. “So there’s that.”

Kathleen throws up her hands. “Since when has that ever stopped anyone? My first husband was thirty years older than me!”

“Yeah?”

“He wasn’t that nice to look at though,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “That man is so hot I thought I was going to burst into flames.” Emma looks down. That makes two of them. Her skin still feels too warm where his palm touched her. She’s sure if she pulled down her scrub pants now she’d see a burn mark shaped like his hand left behind.

She sighs and takes another bite. “Yeah.”

“Honey.” Kathleen draws her attention back, putting a hand on her knee. She has a surprisingly firm grip for an 86-year-old. “I have never seen a man act like that if he wasn’t losing his mind with love.” She tilts her head to the side, considering. “Or lust.”

“He’s just being nice,” Emma protests, but it sounds sort of lame coming out of her mouth. Especially as her hunger starts to fade with the snack and her mind clears. He could have just given her the bar, he didn’t have to touch her like he did.

Kathleen looks at her like she’s a complete idiot. “Miss ma’am.” She points in the direction he disappeared and lowers her voice to a whisper. “That man likes you.”

Emma takes another bite and shakes her head. “No, we’re just—we’ve only talked twice.”

“Takes less than that to know you wanna stick your cock in someone.”

She almost chokes on the bite going down her throat as Kathleen cackles and reaches out to rub her shoulder. By the time she recovers, Dr. Mohan has appeared with a med student at her side and Emma has to stand up and pay attention, see if she’s further needed. But she folds up the wrapper and sticks it in her pocket, the ghost of his hand right there over her pounding heart. Like it’s still there, pressed warm and solid against her.

***

Emma pushes through the door to the stairwell and stops, breathing hard, hands on her knees. 20 minutes. Three shocks. Pulse came back to normal sinus. Her first code ever. She feels both like she’s on cloud 9 and being dragged down into hell at the same time. Like her body doesn’t know whether to celebrate or collapse. She leans against the marble railing, resting her forehead against the cool surface. Wow. The chill seeps into her skin, grounding her just enough to stay upright.

Footsteps pass her but she doesn’t lift her head, still breathing hard. She’s too aware of her lungs expanding, of her heart filling up with blood, flowing from atrium to ventricle, atrium to ventricle, and out again. Over and over and over. Each beat loud, insistent, impossible to ignore. Slowly, her own pulse returns to normal and she’s able to lift her head.

Just in time for the exact person she’s been lowkey avoiding to come around on the landing above her. Dr. Park pauses when he sees her, slowing from a jog to a walk as he approaches, stopping about two steps up. Like he’s recalibrating in real time as he registers her presence.

“You okay?”

Emma nods. “I, um, we just had a code. I’d—I’d never done one before.” Her voice still riding the edge of adrenaline, a little too fast, a little too bright.

He sinks down slowly, taking a seat right where he is, clasping his hands loosely as he leans forward to listen to her. Making himself smaller without making himself less. “How’d it go?”

Emma presses her lips together. “She came back.” It’s easier to talk to him when he’s sitting. He feels smaller. Less intense. Not as magnetic.

He nods, eyebrows lifting. “Good.”

“I don’t,” she sighs, feeling jittery, “I don’t even know how to come down from this right now, I’m sorry.” Her body still buzzing, like the electricity hasn’t fully discharged.

He waves her off, giving her one shake of his head. “Don’t be.”

Emma turns and paces in the small space, linking her fingers together and putting them on top of her head. She can’t stop smiling. Her cheeks are starting to hurt but she can’t stop smiling. A bubble of laughter escapes her mouth.

When she turns back to Dr. Park, he’s leaning back on his elbows, sprawled out over the steps like it’s his living room. He looks softer. Easier. More like a spiny dogfish than a white shark today. But spiny dogfishes are still aggressive hunters. He’s still got that sharpness to him. Still watching her with that same quiet focus. She wonders what he could be capable of if he applies that focus—to things other than surgery.

“Sorry, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” she says, dropping her hands and crossing her arms—closing in on herself.

He shrugs. “I stopped to see you.” He’s right. She didn’t ask him to stop. He could have kept moving past her. Why didn’t he? He never does anything without a reason.

“How—how is Mr. Settle? Do you know?”

“He’s in recovery.” Could he possibly give her any less right now?

Emma lets her eyes drift, right down over his chest and shoulders to where his legs are stretched out, one foot propped up on the bottom stair. She swallows. Each of his thighs has to be as big around as her waist. She suddenly has the urge to climb on top of him—so strong her hands twitch in his direction.

Surely he can see what he’s doing to her. When she looks back up at his face, she finds he’s looking at her too, eyes raking down her body and back up, like he can see right through her clothes. Like nothing about her is hidden from him. Her shoulders tighten, drawing her spine up straight automatically.

“You’re being subtle.”

Emma’s heart threatens to make her the next one in line for a code. Her pulse kicking back up, erratic all over again. She glances around. “I’m what?”

“Real subtle.” She catches the sarcasm on the second repeat, barely there. Her eyes flutter shut. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

“Um.” She looks down at her feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Except she knows exactly what he’s talking about. She just doesn’t know what to do with it. How to move forward.

He groans, rolling his neck around with an audible pop. It’s not the first time she’s ever seen him get frustrated, but this one is different—this is exasperation with her. He lifts his head and locks in on her again. Like he’s tired of waiting for her to catch up to where he is.

“You’re not pretending, right?”

Emma shakes her head. She takes a brave step towards him. “Um, I would say I’ve outgrown pretending.” Her voice steadier now, even if everything else isn’t.

There’s a gleam in his eyes now as she inches closer, drawn into his gravitational pull. Like she’s choosing it this time. “You’re an adult,” he agrees. The underlying message is there. You’re old enough to make this decision on your own. You can walk away anytime. I’m not forcing you.

“Very much an adult,” she agrees, nodding. A very young adult—twenty-two—but she is one. She’s allowed to want him. Allowed to step into this if she chooses.

He sits up again, suddenly at eye level with her, and Emma stops where she is, close enough to put her hand on his thigh, but far enough that he’d have to reach a little to touch her. A safe distance.

“When do you get off?” Hopefully tonight, in your bed.

“Around 7,” she whispers.

“Do you take the bus home?” Emma nods, drawing her lip between her teeth to chew on it. Freezing when he stands and takes the last two steps down to the ground. She manages not to back away, slowly looking up at him instead. Holding her ground. “Don’t today,” he tells her, searching her face for signs of backing out. “I’ll drive you home.”

His hand comes up to the side of her face and Emma holds her breath as he pries her teeth off her lip with his thumb, pressing a little forcefully on her jaw with his fingers. Her mouth stays open slightly, looking up at him. She turns her face to lean into his hand, feeling his callused palm drag across her skin. It sends a shiver down her spine.

He leans down, breath hot on her neck, to speak in her ear, “Just don’t hurt yourself before then.” Low enough that it feels like he belongs just to her.

And then he’s gone, leaving her shaking from more than just her first code. The space he occupied still buzzing in his absence.

***

Dr. Park doesn’t tell Emma where they’re going. He just held open the door to his very shiny, very expensive-looking car and urged her inside with a hand on the back of her shoulder. The pressure of it lingers even after she’s seated. When the door clicked shut, it felt like her fate was being sealed. He didn’t ask her for directions to her apartment—so he must not be driving her home right away. And the realization sends a small, electric thrill down her spine.

She manages to find her voice. “Where are we going?”

His seat is way further back than hers, but his knees are still right up against the dashboard. For such a large guy, it sure feels like a small car, low to the ground and speedy. A BMW, but Emma doesn’t know what kind. She wonders if they get into an accident, who would operate on him if he’s the one with broken bones. But he doesn’t seem like the type of driver to get into accidents. He seems like the type who’s always in control.

“I just thought we could get a drink,” he says, glancing at her. “Is that okay?”

It feels strange that he’s asking her opinion. After everything, the question feels almost out of place—and somehow more intimate because of it. “Um, I don’t…actually drink,” she admits. “But I am so happy to have a mocktail or, like, literally just a Dr. Pepper.” God, she’d kill for a Dr. Pepper right now.

He frowns. “How old are you?”

“22.” She lifts her chin. Meeting his gaze instead of shrinking from it. “I just don’t drink. You know, a lot of my friends really don’t either. I think I read somewhere that a lot of Gen Z don’t drink.” She doesn’t think. She remembers reading it. It was in the New York Times. She’s an adult! She reads the New York Times! “Apparently we’re killing the alcohol industry because we don’t open bar tabs.”

“Millenials killed fabric softener and you guys are killing alcohol,” he snorts. Glancing at her he adds, “You guys are thinking bigger than us.”

“Alcohol is like, really bad for you,” she says. “Like, way worse than smoking weed.”

“Do you smoke weed?” Comes immediately out of his mouth.

“No.”

He glances at her again. “Doesn’t drink and doesn’t smoke weed. I bet you never got in trouble at school either.”

“Uh, I got sent to the principal’s office by a substitute once because I refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance,” she admits.

“What happened?”

“The principal told me to go back to class and tell the sub not to waste either of our time again,” she says, trying to contain her giggles. The tension loosening just enough for her to breathe.

“Why wouldn’t you stand for the pledge?”

Emma shrugs. “I think it’s sort of cult-like. Making us all stand like that and recite a vow to this country when this country pretty much fucking sucks right now.” This is a good test. She should ask who he voted for. Older white guy and all.

“I think it’s very sexy that you think the pledge of allegiance is cult-like.”

She actually takes her eyes off the road to look at him. “Really?” Her stomach flips at how easily he says it.

He meets her eye for a moment to say, “Yeah. I like that you have strong opinions about what’s right.”

“So you don’t mind if I ask who you voted for before we get there,” she says, twiddling her thumbs. Trying to ground herself in something logical. She can’t get involved with a Republican. Or worse.

“How far back do you want me to go?”

“When did you start voting?”

“2004.” The year she was born. He’s been voting as long as she’s been breathing. The gap between them stretching and then…not mattering as much as it probably should.

“Start there please.”

He gives her an amused look. “Kerry, Obama, Obama, Clinton, Biden, and Harris.” She stares at him, lips parted in shock. “You seem surprised.”

“Well, yeah,” she says, pulling her chin back. “You—”

“You know the more educated someone is the more likely they are to vote blue, right?” She did know that. “And up until 2015, I wasn’t making very much money, so I never really liked the Republicans. It all went to shit after I finished my fellowship, and at that point I was just voting on the side of rationality.” Huh. Chatty. So he’s passionate about this. He’s pissed about the state of this country too. There’s more to him than just that sharp edge. The mask he wears.

“Would you vote for the Republicans if they were running someone normal?” She asks. “Now that you do make money?”

He’s silent for a second. “Probably not.”

Emma sighs. “Well, I guess…I don’t have anything else to ask you about that.” And somehow she feels more settled, more certain.

He doesn’t ask her who she voted for. Instead he says, “So would you prefer not to go to a bar? Since you don’t drink?”

“Really it’s more that I’m still in scrubs,” she says, rubbing her hands over her thighs. Aware of her body again, of how little separates her from his attention. “Not really dressed for a bar.”

“You hungry?”

Emma nods. “I’m starving.” She hasn’t eaten since he brought her the protein bar around 2pm. It’s 7:30. And now the hunger isn’t just for food anymore.

He glances at her. “Let’s get some food, then.”

It’s a little easier to relax around him when there’s a table between them. Emma knows before the waitress even comes over that she wants the club sandwich. And a massive plate of French fries. And Dr. Pepper. Always Dr. Pepper. He gives her an amused look as she tells the waitress.

He tilts his head, studying her while they wait for their food. “You’re shaking the table.”

Emma freezes. The silverware stops rattling as her foot stills. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. “Sorry.”

“Nervous?”

She laughs a little. “Of course I’m nervous.” Her pulse picking back up just from the way he’s looking at her.

“Why?”

She laughs even more. “Are you serious?” He nods. “Have you ever met yourself, Dr. Park?”

“Brendon.”

“I’m sorry?” She leans forward on the table slightly. He matches her, folding his hands just inches from where hers are resting. Closing the distance without touching her.

“You can call me by my first name,” he says. His index finger brushes over her knuckles. A little jolt of electricity goes through her. She pushes her hands forward, seeking the contact—it’s the magnetism.

“That…doesn’t make you any less intimidating,” she whispers. But she doesn’t pull away.

Dr. Park—Brendon—continues to brush his finger over the back of her hand. “What can I do to make myself less intimidating?”

Emma smiles. “Have you tried not being the ortho surgery attending?”

“Pretend I’m not.” He leans in. “I’m just the guy you’re having dinner with.”

She leans in a little bit more as well. Matching him without thinking about it. “I can’t pretend you’re not twenty years older than me. I can’t pretend you don’t have money. And I can’t pretend you’re not absurdly attractive.” She swallows, chest tightening as she waits for his reaction. It’s out in the open, hanging between them now.

His face remains impassive. Her stomach twists. Then he says, “Why are those things a problem for you?”

She shrugs, her ears starting to burn under his gaze. “I don’t—you—you seem so serious. Like, I need to have my shit together around you, and the truth is I really don’t.” Might as well lay everything out. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it honestly. That’s the best way to keep things simple.

Emma pauses briefly as the waitress returns with their food, leaning back so there’s room on the table again. Suddenly her stomach is in knots. She picks up a French fry and swirls it in ketchup. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at her expectantly. Waiting. Always waiting her out.

“I’m like, I just graduated. I’m barely starting to pay off my student loans. I live with roommates I barely even know because I took a job in a city I’ve never even been to,” she explains. “My ex, like, just broke up with me six months ago and I’m not sure I feel, like, ready to move on from that. I can’t get into another relationship right now.” She sighs, feeling her chest loosen slightly having gotten that out. “And I don’t understand what you want from me,” she mumbles.

Time seems to move in slow motion as he finishes chewing the bite he was working on as she spoke. He leans one forearm on the edge of the table. Emma’s eyes flicker down to the scar again, remembering his hand around her arm. The spot seems to burn with the memory. Heat blooming under her skin.

“I’m not asking you to have anything figured out,” he says. Which couldn’t be more vague.

“Then what are you asking?” For once, she doesn’t stammer or pause. Thank goodness. She sounds braver than she feels. And a little steadier now.

“I’m asking you to keep seeing me,” he finally says. “Outside of work.” Sitting back, he adds, “It doesn’t have to be anything complicated.”

Sex. He’s offering sex. No strings attached. Emma can pick up on the underlying message of his words. Not just the underlying message, she can see the way he’s looking at her. The way, she realizes, he’s always looked at her. Hungrily.

She avoids responding as long as she finishes the rest of her sandwich and—thankfully—he lets her, waiting patiently for her answer. The fries suddenly feel like too much. She glances at his plate—empty. Slowly, she pushes her plate towards him.

“You don’t want the rest?” He checks. She shakes her head and pulls her Dr. Pepper towards her, sipping as she watches him meticulously finish her fries. There’s something strangely attractive about a guy who can eat that much. And it weirdly doesn’t bother her as much as her older brothers stealing fries off her plate. It feels…intentional. Intimate, even.

“I…” she pauses, searching for the right words, “...don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t know what to say or don’t know what you want?” Brendon asks. He gives her a pointed look.

“Don’t know what to say,” Emma reiterates, tapping her fingers on the underside of the table. She glances around, unable to focus on any part of him because just looking at him makes her feel overheated—her body already ten steps ahead of her.

“Why don’t you just say what you want?”

She sighs, closing her eyes. Peeling them open after a moment, she lowers her voice. “I’m not sure what I want right now is appropriate dinner conversation.” But she knows. She absolutely knows.

For the first time, she watches genuine surprise overtake his face. Swallowing, she stares down at the table so she doesn’t have to look at his reaction to her forwardness. But she can still feel him shift across from her, sitting up a little straighter. Like something just clicked into place. The waitress appears at the end of the table, and Emma glances up just in time to see him handing over his card. The waitress takes it, along with their empty plates.

“What are you doing?” She asks, bewildered.

He leans both forearms on the table, face impassive. “Paying the check.”