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The scent of antiseptic and reheated coffee greeted you like an unwelcome old friend—a greeting made worse by the lingering nausea that refused to subside. By all rights, you should have been on maternity leave. Having officially started your time off just three days prior, you were supposed to be ensconced on your couch, feet elevated, with nothing but a tub of ice cream and a bag of chips for company.
You certainly weren’t supposed to be back in the hospital.
It was a decision that would undoubtedly infuriate your husband. He had left you in bed only that morning, curled up against a maternity pillow he was secretly jealous of—though he’d never admit it—clad in one of his oversized, impossibly soft, and expensive dress shirts. But the phone had rung with such frantic persistence that you couldn't ignore it. It was Dana, asking for a favor she knew you would eventually charge back in spades: a "Jane Doe" infant had been discovered abandoned in the triage bathroom, and the staff was drowning under the weight of a chaotic Fourth of July.
"Sunshine? Thank God you're here, honey. You’re a lifesaver." Dana’s voice was thick with relief as she used the nickname the entire unit called you—a tribute to your cheerful disposition and unwavering smile. "As you can see, we’re underwater, and it doesn't help that ICE detained Jesse. Between the firecracker injuries, the heat strokes, and the drunks... this holiday is driving everyone mad."
"You called, Dana, and I was going to be sitting down anyway. I might as well do it while keeping an eye on the baby," you replied with a weary smile. You adjusted your gray scrubs, which felt significantly tighter than usual; the curve of your eight-and-a-half-month belly strained against the elastic fabric.
"No, ma'am. You are only here to watch the little one," Dana insisted. "I’m not putting you to work when you’re practically in labor. Now go; she’s in Peds with Donnie."
You made your way toward the unit, your gait characterized by the unmistakable waddle of the final trimester. As you pushed open the glass doors, Donnie—a burly, towering nurse—looked up with an expression of pure amusement. He offered a sarcastic grin at your protruding stomach.
"Every time I blink, you’ve doubled in size, Sunny," he joked with the easy familiarity of a best friend. He stepped over to pull you into one of his signature bear hugs. "But I’m begging you... do not go into labor here. I’ll have to file for PTSD. Between the holiday rush and the system hack, we’ve had to revert to paper charts. It’s total chaos."
"Well, his father is a giant and I’m not exactly tall," you chuckled, pulling back from the hug. "The poor thing is fighting for space and I’m fighting to expand my lungs. How are the 'ducklings' handling the paper charts?"
"Some of them didn't even know what a fax machine was," Donnie sighed. "Imagine the disaster."
"I imagine the residents had a collective syncope when they realized they had to write by hand—and legibly," you murmured, thinking of the "ducklings" as you called them: the Grumpy one, the Clumsy one, the Adorable Nepo-Baby, and the Shy one.
You moved with slow, rhythmic steps toward the thermal bassinet. Donnie watched you closely, likely worried your shifted center of gravity might send you toppling; he had clearly just finished this stage with his own wife. You leaned against the edge of the methacrylate crib, the pressure in your lower back easing slightly. The little girl was a mere bundle wrapped in a hospital blanket, but seeing her made you forget the ache in your feet. Inside your own womb, your daughter kicked—perhaps outraged by the movement or simply waking from her nap.
"It honestly kills me that we had to call you," Donnie began, his voice dropping. "I wish ICE hadn't taken Jesse, and I wish this baby’s mother hadn't left her..."
"Things happen, big guy," you interrupted gently but firmly. "Would I rather be at home with my legs up, indulging in pregnancy cravings? Yes. But do I regret coming in so this sweet thing doesn't have to be alone in an ER box while Social Services moves at the speed of a quadruple-amputated turtle? Not for a second."
"You’re too good for this place, Sunny," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with the exhaustion only a sleep-deprived nurse practitioner and new parent could possess. "But you're right. We’ve been waiting hours for a placement. Pediatrics won't admit her because she’s technically 'too healthy,' despite the rhinovirus risk to other patients."
You watched the Jane Doe’s serene face. Her eyelashes were nearly translucent, and her rhythmic, light breathing was the only thing that felt sane amidst the roar of the hospital.
"It’s not about being good; I’m already sharing my body with one," you joked, patting your stomach and receiving another indignant kick in response.
Donnie snorted and pulled a chair closer to the bassinet. You sank into it carefully, feeling the sweet relief in your hips.
"She had a bottle a few minutes ago, so she’ll likely sleep for a while. Jesse gave her a dose of Tylenol before..." He trailed off, the bitterness of the situation hanging in the air, clashing with the brightly painted walls of the pediatric ward. He shook his head, trying to dispel the sour feeling Jesse’s arrest had left behind. "Anyway, the rhinovirus has her miserable. She’s irritable from the congestion, so when she wakes up, you’ll know—she’s got a very decent pair of lungs."
"Well, at least one of us has functioning lungs," you quipped, shifting to find a comfortable position. "Because right now, I’m sharing mine with a tenant who doesn't pay rent and has the kick of a Spartan warrior."
Donnie let out a short, tension-breaking chuckle and squeezed your shoulder. "Don't move from that chair unless it’s an absolute emergency, Sunny. I’ll check on you soon. I suspect Princess or Perlah will be by to see you... or the belly."
"As if I could move anyway, Donnie!" you called out softly as he disappeared into the corridor, which was teeming with doctors, orderlies, and the frantic energy of the Fourth.
The glass door hissed shut, muffling the din. The shouted orders and the frantic beeping of monitors faded into a distant hum. You were alone with the infant. You reached out, caressing her tiny, velvet-soft hand. She was so small, yet already abandoned. She reminded you of yourself—except no one had sat with you. The system had simply shuffled you from one place to the next until you were aged out at eighteen.
That pang of recognition hurt more than you’d ever admit to anyone—except your husband. That tall, formidable, overprotective man who could silence a room with a single glance. Everyone feared him; they called him Dr. Park, "The Shark," a title he secretly relished.
You remembered the day you gave him that navy blue surgical cap patterned with little white sharks. Brendon had looked at it as if it were a personal insult, his jaw clenched, his broad orthopedic surgeon’s shoulders casting a massive shadow in your living room. "Really, Doll?" he had growled in that deep baritone that made your skin tingle. But, of course, he had worn it during his very next surgery. Now, he wouldn't go into the OR with anything else. Seeing the hospital’s most feared surgeon operating with a parade of cartoon sharks on his head was your favorite victory—especially since no one but Gloria knew you were married.
Truth be told, Ahmad at the security desk had even started a betting pool about the identity of the husband you kept so strictly secret. Some bet on a heroic firefighter, others on a catalog model. You would laugh privately at the theories, but the reality was much more complicated.
More than a few people would lose their minds if they knew your husband worked just a few floors up. And he would be livid if he knew you had driven your old car here—a vehicle he had strictly forbidden you from driving in your condition.
You pulled out your phone, your fingers hesitating over the screen. You knew that the moment he saw a notification, he would abandon his professional stoicism and race down to find you. But it would be infinitely worse if he found out by accident.
"If he finds out I drove that old junker with this potbelly, he’ll put me under house arrest until you’re eighteen," you whispered to the baby in your womb, a smile of guilt and tenderness playing on your lips.
Just as you were about to hit 'send,' you were interrupted by Princess’s shrill, energetic voice. She swept into the room like a whirlwind of glitter, followed by the much calmer Perlah.
"Well, look! If it isn't our favorite pregnant nurse!"
You shoved the phone away, aborting the message. You couldn't delay it forever; Brendon had a sixth sense for when you were doing something "reckless," and you’d much rather tell him yourself before he spotted your car parked right next to his BMW X6.
"Hey girls," you said, forcing a smile.
"The Fourth is basically the apocalypse, but with more burst fingers," Princess blurted out, eyeing your stomach. "But look at you, Sunshine! You're radiant, even if that chair looks like a medieval torture device for someone with your... 'curvature of happiness.' By the way, I’ve got fifty dollars on the father being a firefighter. Come on, give me a clue!"
"Huwag kang mandaya, Princess," Perlah interrupted in Tagalog, reminding her not to cheat—though she had her own secret bet placed on the mystery husband.
You released a soft, breathy laugh, though the movement caused little Jane Doe to emit a faint groan, shifting as much as her swaddling would allow.
"I have no intention of breathing a word on the subject," you replied, raising your hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "If I gave you a hint, Ahmad would pin me to the board next to the 'frequent flyers' who only come in hunting for narcotics. Besides, a firefighter... really, Princess? Do you honestly see me with someone who spends his days scaling ladders and wrestling hydrants?"
"Hey, they’ve got wicked strength in those arms, and I’m sure they have a certain... rhythm in their hips." Princess left the thought hanging with a theatrical flourish, just before Perlah gave her a sharp, friendly nudge.
"Stop badgering Sunny; she’s already busy enough enduring the kicks of her own 'little fish,'" Perlah said. She used the nickname some of the staff had given the baby because of how restless she was during your shifts—none of them realizing how close that nickname hit to the truth. "Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale all of a sudden," she added, her head tilting in clinical concern.
"It’s nothing, truly," you insisted, though a sudden wave of vertigo forced you to grip the armrests of your chair.
Perlah and Princess assessed you instantly, their veteran eyes catching the lack of color in your cheeks. You couldn't hide much from two seasoned nurses, especially two who knew your baseline so well.
"You need to eat. You're in the third trimester, Sunshine. I’m going to fetch you something to eat and drink. What are you craving?"
"Orange juice and a turkey sandwich, please," you conceded, your stomach let out a victorious growl at the prospect of actual sustenance. "Or anything, really—as long as it doesn't taste like standard hospital fare, Princess."
Princess nodded with the determination of a soldier on a high-stakes mission. Before disappearing out the door, she glanced back at Perlah.
“One feast for Sunshine and the little fish, coming right up. Tiyakin mong hindi ito makatakas (Make sure she doesn't escape).”
You were left alone with Perlah, who moved to the bassinet to check on Jane Doe. The rhythmic sound of the infant's breathing was the only thing filling the silence, but your mind was still anchored to the message you hadn't sent Brendon.
"Sunny, you're trembling," Perlah noted quietly. She didn't look up from the baby, but she could clearly see your hands shaking in her peripheral vision. "And I don't think it’s just a blood sugar crash. Did something happen with the 'secret husband'? Has he done something?"
"No, no—nothing like that. He would never hurt me," you said quickly, and it was the absolute truth. Brendon would sooner sever his own hands than lay a finger on you, a resolve born from growing up in the shadow of an abusive father. "Let’s just say... I’ve made a decision that isn't going to amuse him in the slightest. I drove here in my old car because he was already at work and couldn't give me a ride."
"Ah, the famous relic," Perlah chuckled, adjusting the baby’s blanket. "That car is a hospital legend. No wonder your man is a nervous wreck; if I were him, I’d want to keep you far away from that deathtrap, too. I know you’re sentimental about it, but you have to admit it’s ready for the scrap heap."
"I know, I know," you admitted with a guilty wince. "But it’s my car. It was the first thing I bought with my own savings after I aged out of the foster system—the only thing that has truly belonged to me from start to finish. To him, it’s just a pile of oil-leaking scrap metal, but to me... it’s a part of my history. I feel like if I let it go, I’m erasing a part of who I am."
Perlah sighed, reaching over to place a comforting hand on your shoulder.
"I understand the sentiment, Sunny. I really do. But that car is ancient and unsafe, especially in your condition. Letting it go isn't a loss; it’s making sure your story has many more chapters to tell."
Before you could respond, a sharp sound cut through the room. Little Jane Doe opened her eyes and let out a heartbreaking, jagged cry. Her congestion was severe; every time she tried to draw breath for a fresh wail, the mucus blocked her airway, sending her into a state of frantic discomfort.
"Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright... I’ve got you," you cooed, your maternal instincts flaring to the surface.
You stood up, ignoring the warning twinge in your lower back and your own daughter’s protest at the sudden movement. You leaned over the crib and lifted the tiny girl to your chest. She was so small that as you held her upright to clear her lungs, she practically rested on the shelf of your belly, leaning against your unborn babygirl.
You felt her tiny fingers hook into the collar of your gray scrubs—an involuntary reflex, a desperate anchor in the midst of her panic. In that moment, a profound, electric connection—one that defied medical protocols or nursing boundaries—seared through your chest.
"Sunny, I have to continue my rounds. Can you manage her alone?" Perlah asked, her eyes already darting toward the beckoning chaos of the nursing station.
"Of course. This little lady and I are just getting acquainted. Go on, Perlah. I’ll be fine."
Perlah gave you a skeptical look—the kind only a veteran nurse can give when they suspect a colleague is playing the martyr—but she nodded as Antoine signaled for her.
"Fine. But the moment Princess returns with that sandwich, you eat. That’s an order," she said, slipping out and closing the door to seal out the hallway noise.
Alone with the infant, you tried to suppress the realization of how dangerous it was to get attached. You knew the drill. You knew her future was likely a black hole of bureaucracy and shifting social workers. You had lived that life, bouncing from house to house, and seeing your past reflected in this sick, lonely baby was almost more than you could bear. It was profoundly unfair.
You sank back into the chair, your spine crying out in relief, though the weight of Jane Doe against your stomach triggered another indignant kick from your daughter. Space was becoming a luxury.
Jane Doe let out a wet hiccup against your shoulder, finally calming as she sought your warmth. With one hand supporting her, you awkwardly fished your phone from your pocket. The screen illuminated your pale face in the dim light of the room. No more excuses. You had to tell Brendon.
You opened the chat with <<Sharkhusband>>. His last message, sent at the start of his shift while you were still asleep, stared back at you:
"You looked beautiful this morning, Doll. Remember to rest, eat well, and stay hydrated. Do not go out unless it is absolutely necessary. It’s too hot and people are idiots; the ER is already crawling with drunks."
You smiled sadly. The nickname "Doll" always made you feel a little less like an overinflated balloon and a little more like the woman he had fallen for. It was so typical of him: hyper-protective, analytical, and forever bracing for the world's chaos.
You swallowed hard and typed quickly before your courage failed:
"I'm at the ER. NOT for me. Dana called; they needed help because ICE took Jesse. They have a Baby Jane Doe who needs a sitter while they wait for Social Services. Yes... I drove my car. Please don't be angry. I love you, Big Guy."
You didn't hesitate. Your fingers were trembling so much you nearly deleted the text, but you hit 'send' and immediately locked the screen. You let out a jagged sigh; you knew the moment he read that, the secret you had guarded so fiercely would be over.
You stroked the baby’s back as she drifted back into a congested sleep on your shoulder. The warmth of her tiny body and the weight of your own child created a strange, fleeting sense of peace.
“Well, little one... it looks like Ahmad’s betting board is about to be settled,” you whispered. “I hope someone put money on an orthopedic surgeon, because that’s exactly what’s about to come through that door.”
Less than fifteen minutes passed before you heard Dana’s voice outside. "Dr. Park? I was fairly certain there were no new ortho consults today—certainly none in Pediatrics."
Your heart skipped a beat. You could hear the suspicion in Dana’s tone; she was already connecting the dots. The silence that followed was deafening. You could envision the scene through the glass: Dana, chart in hand and eyebrow arched, blocking the path of a man who likely radiated the predatory energy of a Great White who had just scented blood in the water.
“I am not here for a consultation,” Brendon’s baritone rumbled, cold and unequivocal. “I am here for something that belongs to me.”
He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. The possessive edge in his voice was enough to make the head nurse offer a small, triumphant smile. The mystery of the "secret husband" had just died a swift death in the middle of the hallway.
You watched him approach, but you didn't bother to stand. You simply continued to stroke the baby’s back as he entered the room. The pneumatic hiss of the door closing behind him marked the end of the rumors, the bets, and the whispers.
Ahmad’s bets and the frantic whispers of the staff—both in the ER and up in Orthopedics—no longer mattered. Dr. Park, "The Shark," had just marked his territory with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Brendon stopped a mere few inches from you, his massive frame looming over you like a shield of muscle and surgical scrubs. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by Jane Doe’s soft snores, your own shallow breaths, and the ragged exhale of your husband as he processed the scene before him.
His ice-blue eyes—the ones that usually analyzed complex fractures with lethal precision—flickered frantically from your face to the infant in your arms, finally settling on the prominent curve of your stomach.
"Before you say a word... I couldn't just stay away. I wouldn't have felt right refusing Dana’s plea," you blurted out, trying to preempt the lecture you saw brewing behind his clenched jaw.
"Dana knows exactly which strings to pull to get what she wants, Doll. She knows you don’t have a 'no' in you for anyone—least of all a baby who needs us." His voice dropped an octave, losing its sharp professional edge to become purely, fiercely protective. This was just your husband now—a man who was clearly already planning to have your car towed to a scrapyard the second he was off the clock.
He moved closer, leaning down until your breaths intertwined. The scent of surgical soap and that woody citrus cologne you loved enveloped you, and for the first time since you’d stepped foot in the hospital, you felt you could finally let go and relax.
"But you are giving me the keys to that car," he continued. This wasn’t a medical suggestion; it was an order from a man who was half-distraught with worry. “You aren't driving that deathtrap anymore. If you're that sentimental, we can keep it in the garage, but you will not risk your life—or our daughter’s—in a rusted-out piece of junk that doesn't even have modern airbags.”
"Okay... I won't drive it again."
His hand, large and calloused, cupped your right cheek with an infinite tenderness he reserved only for you. His eyes narrowed, scanning the faint shadows under yours.
"You’re pale, Doll. When was the last time you ate?" The anger had vanished, replaced by a raw, singular need to care for you.
"Princess went to grab something... it’s felt like an eternity, honestly," you whispered, the fatigue finally winning now that you had him to lean on. "And with the combined weight of this little girl and the belly... I don't think I can actually get up."
Right then, the sliding door hissed open, shattering your romantic bubble. Princess sidled in, balancing a plastic cafeteria tray laden with orange juice, a wrapped chicken sandwich, and yogurt.
"I’m here! Sorry for the wait, Sunny, the queue was—" Princess froze, the words dying in her throat. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight of Dr. Park—the man who made residents weep just by breathing near them—leaning over you, one hand cradling your face while the other rested possessively on your pregnant belly.
The tray wobbled in her grip. She looked at Brendon, then at you, then at the wedding ring she had apparently never noticed on his finger before today. The hospital’s biggest puzzle had just been solved right under her nose.
"Oh... wow. That explains... a lot. A lot of things."
Brendon didn’t bother to move. The secret was out the moment he’d stared down Dana in the hall. He didn’t retighten his mask of coldness; he simply spared Princess a brief, acknowledging glance.
"Here you go, Sunny. Eat, for God's sake, before Dr. Shark sends me to scrub the OR floors with a toothbrush," Princess quipped, regaining her confidence despite Brendon’s imposing presence. "So... Dr. Park, huh? My God, Sunshine, you certainly like a challenge. How do you keep him from biting?"
"I actually happen to like it when he bites, Princess," you shot back with a mischievous grin. You took a long, cooling sip of the juice as you watched Brendon unwrap the sandwich with the surgical precision of someone repairing a tibia.
"Eat this, Doll. Now," he commanded, bringing the first bite to your lips. He completely ignored the nurse, who was practically vibrating with the gossip of the century.
You took a bite under Brendon’s watchful eye. He didn't pull his hand away until he was satisfied you’d chewed and swallowed. Princess let out a low whistle, a hand on her hip as she watched the most feared surgeon in the building play doting nursemaid.
"How did we miss this? It’s so obvious now," Princess murmured, shaking her head. "I never would have guessed Dr. Park had a domestic side. I just lost fifty bucks—I really thought you were married to a hot firefighter."
Brendon didn’t deign to look at her. He was too busy watching the color return to your cheeks.
"Speaking of the bet..." you said sarcastically, looking at Princess. "Since no one put money on an orthopedic surgeon, doesn't that mean I win the pot by default?"
Princess gasped in feigned indignation while a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Brendon’s mouth.
"The nerve! Sunshine, you are sitting on a gold mine of classified information, you're married to the 'Shark,' and now you want to take the pot? That’s insider trading!"
"Technically," Brendon interjected, his voice regaining that dry, authoritative tone he used with staff, though his eyes gleamed with amusement, "if no one bet on an ortho surgeon, the pot should be declared void. However, since my wife is the one who has had to endure the burden of secrecy, I believe she has every legal right to claim the funds."
"You are a total softie for her, Dr. Park!" Princess shouted dramatically as she backed out the door, racing off to find Perlah, Donnie, or anyone else who would listen.
"I think you just used my reputation to fleece your coworkers, Doll," he murmured, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a dark, animalistic glow. "I believe I’ll have to collect my share of the loot in 'bites,' just as you suggested."
"Don’t threaten me with a good time, big guy... even if I do feel like a whale right now."
Brendon let out a low, vibrant laugh that rumbled from deep in his chest—a sound that never failed to melt you. This wasn't the hospital’s "Shark"; this was your husband, the man who knew every one of your scars and looked at you as if you were the only thing on earth that mattered.
"You’re the most beautiful whale I’ve ever seen, and better yet, you’re absolutely mine," he growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, possessive purr. "And believe me, I have a very detailed list of all the places I plan to collect my debt the moment we get home. Starting with that belly... and continuing with the 'pillows' this little one is currently using."
The door hissed open again, interrupting his wandering thoughts. Dana poked her head in, looking immensely smug.
"Sorry to break up the family reunion, Dr. Park," she said, her triumph poorly hidden. "But Social Services has arrived."
Brendon didn't flinch. He kept his hand anchored to your stomach, merely turning his head to acknowledge her. "They finally deigned to move their asses? Good. I’m here for my wife and my daughter. If you have no objection to me taking them home to rest, we’ll be leaving as soon as this little patient is settled."
"No objections at all. In fact, I insist," Dana replied, her eyes softening as she and the social worker entered. "You can go home, Sunny. Jane Doe is in good hands."
A pang of bittersweet sadness hit you as Dana reached for the baby. With Brendon’s steady hand supporting your back, you carefully transferred the infant. The baby let out a sleepy whimper but quickly settled against Dana’s chest. Suddenly, you felt strangely light—and exhausted to the bone.
Brendon didn't waste a second. The moment your arms were free, he slid his arm around your waist, anchoring you to his side as if he feared you might try to run off to help another patient.
"The keys, Doll," he demanded, holding out his palm with a look that brooked no argument.
You sighed, defeated by that alpha-predator intensity. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the old keychain—ironically adorned with a worn Great White shark. The metal jingled as it hit his palm. Brendon closed his fist over them tightly, stowing them away like a confiscated weapon.
"A tow truck is coming tomorrow. Not another word about that car," he said, turning back to the room. "It’s been a pleasure, but my wife has a date with her bed and a gallon of ice cream."
"Make it two gallons!" Princess shouted from the nursing station as you navigated the hall, leaning heavily on Brendon’s shoulder. "And remember, that betting money goes toward 'Baby Shark's' diapers!"
As you walked down the central corridor of the ER, you didn't care about the stares or the way the gossip was spreading like wildfire. Brendon walked with his head held high, his shark-patterned cap tucked into his pocket, his hand never leaving your hip.
Outside, the hot July evening air was punctuated by the distant boom of fireworks. Brendon stopped before you reached his gleaming BMW, pulling you against his chest with an urgency that took your breath away. He looked at you with an expression that made it clear the "debt" would be collected tonight.
"You drove me half-mad today, Sunshine," he whispered against your temple, inhaling the scent of your hair. "Don't ever scare me like that again. Not if Dana calls, not even if a meteorite hits a children's party. You and this baby are my world. I don't know what the hell I’d be without you."
"I get it, big guy," you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder as the car chirped unlocked. "But admit it—you liked being able to claim me in front of the whole department. No more secrets. Just you, me, and 'Baby Shark.'"
He simply growled, opening the passenger door with exaggerated gallantry.
"I just like being your hero. Now, get in, you sexy whale. We have a date with a bed, some ice cream, and those bites I owe you for the heart attack you gave me. Or did you forget I’m older than you?"