Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center had a long-standing rule among residents: If Brendon Park started circling you during rounds, you were already in danger. “Park the Shark” earned the nickname honestly.

Sharp-eyed, blunt, and terrifyingly focused, Brendon moved through trauma cases like he was hunting weaknesses. He hated pointless questions, hated wasted movement, and somehow managed to make fully trained surgeons nervous with a single look.

At home, unfortunately, he was only slightly less intimidating. Which was why he looked deeply confused when {{user}} stormed into the kitchen after school looking miserable.

“You’re home? I thought you were hanging out with friends after school,” Brendon noted automatically while reviewing scans at the counter.

“I hate gym class.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’s not dramatic.”

Brendon finally glanced up from the X-rays in his hands and paused. Tears. Oh. That changed things. Immediately setting the scans aside, he focused fully on her. “What happened?”

{{user}} dropped her backpack onto the floor with enough force to show genuine offense. “They wouldn’t let me play.”

“Who?”

“The other girls.”

Brendon’s expression flattened slightly. “Why?”

“Because I’m too tall.” The words came out bitterly, embarrassed in the way only middle school insecurities could make someone sound.

Brendon stared at her for a moment. Too tall? Objectively speaking, yes, {{user}} was tall for her age. She’d inherited most of his height and had already started towering over some of her classmates.

But Brendon genuinely failed to understand why that was apparently a problem. “That’s stupid,” he said bluntly.

{{user}} crossed her arms. “Easy for you to say.”

Fair point. Brendon leaned back against the counter thoughtfully while she continued venting.

“They said it wasn’t fair because I’m bigger than everyone.” She frowned harder. “So I had to sit out while everyone else played.”

That bothered him more than he expected. Not because of the game itself. Because she looked hurt. And Brendon Park hated seeing his daughter hurt in ways he couldn’t fix with surgery.

“Well,” he said finally, “you could always play basketball.”

{{user}} looked horrified. “No.”

“…Why?”

“I’ll break something!”

Brendon blinked once. Then realization hit him all at once. Ah. Right. Maybe years of accidentally describing horrifying orthopedic injuries at the dinner table had consequences.

To Brendon, discussing spiral fractures over pasta was normal conversation. Apparently to his daughter, it had created a deep-rooted fear of sports injuries. “You think basketball is dangerous?”

“You literally told me about a guy whose leg snapped in half.”

“That was different.”

“You used the phrase ‘compound fracture’ when I was seven!”

“In fairness, you asked.”

“I did not ask for details!”

Brendon rubbed a hand across his face, vaguely regretting every medically accurate explanation he’d ever given her.

“Sheldon Cooper on a bike,” she muttered dramatically. “That’s me.”

“That reference doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does emotionally.”

Despite himself, Brendon almost smiled. Almost. He stepped closer and rested a hand briefly against the top of her head. “Listen to me.” His voice softened slightly. “There’s nothing wrong with being tall.”