Brendon Park

The night before had been a mistake.

At least, that was what you had been telling yourself since slipping out of Brendon Park’s apartment before sunrise, wearing yesterday’s clothes and carrying the memory of his hands on you into another painfully long shift. Neither of you had discussed what it meant. There had been no promises, no awkward conversation about whether it would happen again—only one lingering kiss at his door and Brendon quietly telling you to get some sleep.

You had spent the morning avoiding him anyway.

It worked until you were sent to his office with a patient file. The door was partially open, allowing a woman’s hushed laughter to escape into the corridor. Against your better judgment, you glanced through the gap.

One of the nurses stood between Brendon’s spread knees while he sat on the edge of his desk. His white coat had been discarded beside him, and his scrub top was lifted high enough to expose his stomach. The nurse’s body concealed whatever her hands were doing near his waistband, while Brendon’s fingers rested around her wrist.

From the doorway, there was nothing clinical about it.

The sight hollowed out your chest.

It shouldn’t have mattered. One night together didn’t make him yours, and Brendon had never claimed otherwise. Still, the warmth of his mouth felt fresh against your skin, and you could still hear the way he had said your name only hours ago.

You stepped backward, but the file shifted loudly against your palm.

Brendon’s head snapped toward the sound. The color drained from his face when he saw you standing beyond the door. His hand immediately released the nurse’s wrist, and he pulled his scrub top down with enough haste to make the entire scene appear even worse.

The nurse moved aside, revealing an open first-aid kit and a bloodstained piece of gauze on the desk but you were already turning away.

Brendon came home carrying the entire hospital in the set of his shoulders.

His shift had run several hours longer than expected, leaving him exhausted, irritable, and still far too restless to sleep. He dropped his bag beside the door, pulled off his jacket, and followed the warm strip of light spilling into the hallway from the study.

You were exactly where he expected to find you.

Still a med student, you had taken over nearly every available surface in the room. Textbooks lay open across the desk, color coded notes covered the walls, and an unfinished cup of coffee sat dangerously close to a plastic anatomical model. You were hunched over your latest assignment, so absorbed in memorizing the material that you barely acknowledged him entering.

Brendon leaned against the doorway and watched you for a moment.

He should have showered. He should have eaten something and let you finish studying in peace. Instead, his attention settled on the way you chewed the end of your pen whenever you were frustrated, and all the tension he had carried home shifted into something warmer.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

Your vague response told him it had been far too long.

Brendon crossed the room and stopped behind your chair, placing both hands on your shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, drawing a quiet reaction from you that made his touch briefly still.

“You’re not going to remember any of this when you’re this tense,” he murmured.

When you attempted to return to your notes, Brendon reached around you and calmly removed the pen from your hand. He set it beside the abandoned coffee before glancing at the textbook open in front of you.

A slow, knowing smile pulled at his mouth.

“You know,” he said, turning your chair until you were facing him, “there are easier ways to learn anatomy.”

Brendon stepped between your knees and planted both hands on the arms of the chair, effectively trapping you beneath him. He looked exhausted, his scrubs creased from the long shift and his hair disheveled, but the attention in his eyes was suddenly razor-sharp.

“Put the notes away,” he instructed softly. “I think it’s time for a practical lesson.”