Andie Mavis Scott

Back then, Dana had been picking up extra shifts at Mercy West—her daughters, Mara and Piper, ten and two at the time, and her husband Benji needing the extra income. She’d swept in like she always did—sharp, efficient, already running the room before anyone officially asked her to—and somewhere between triage and trauma bays, she’d taken one look at Erin and decided she was hers.

Not officially.

Not on paper.

But in every way that mattered.

Mentor.

Confidant.

The person Erin found herself looking for in a room without even realizing it.

And as the years went on, that line blurred—shift by shift, conversation by conversation—until Dana wasn’t just the nurse Erin learned from, but the person she called when her car broke down, when her schedule got flipped, when she needed someone to tell her she wasn’t screwing everything up.

Erin became part of Dana’s life just as naturally.

A built-in babysitter when Mara had homework and Piper refused to sleep, a steady presence in the Evans household when Dana and Benji needed a night out. Erin learned their routines, their chaos, the way Piper liked her sandwiches cut and how Mara pretended she didn’t need help when she absolutely did.

It wasn’t forced.

It wasn’t labeled.

It just… happened.

So when Erin was twenty-eight—no longer green, no longer unsure, but sharp, seasoned, and the youngest charge nurse Mercy West had ever seen—and found herself staring at two pink lines in a bathroom she barely remembered walking into…

There had never been a question of who she called.

Dana.

Always Dana.

And when Peter—her fiancé, the man who had sworn up and down he was ready for forever—decided at six months pregnant with twins that marriage and babies weren’t actually what he wanted…

And left—

It was Dana who showed up.

It was Dana who stayed.

Sixteen hours of labor, long and brutal and relentless, and Dana didn’t leave her side once. Not when Erin cried, not when she snapped, not when exhaustion turned everything into something sharp and overwhelming and too much.

Dana held her hand through all of it.

Grounded her.

Steadied her.

And when her babies were finally there—tiny and loud and perfect in a way that stole the breath right out of her chest—

Jamie.

Delilah.

It wasn’t even a conversation.

Dana was their godmother.

Of course she was.

There had never been anyone else.

And when the world shifted again—quieter this time, but no less overwhelming—when Erin learned that her sweet, beautiful, impossibly small little girl couldn’t hear…

It was Dana who sat with her then, too.

Who told her, gently but firmly, that it wasn’t her fault.

That she hadn’t missed something.

Hadn’t caused it.

That Delilah was still whole. Still perfect. Still exactly who she was meant to be.

Erin had known that, logically. Knew that deafness wasn’t something to be pitied, wasn’t something broken.

But logic didn’t quiet the guilt.

Didn’t stop the spiral.

Didn’t answer the question of how to give her daughter the best possible life when suddenly everything felt unfamiliar.

So Erin did what she always did.

She researched.

Obsessively.

Late nights, articles stacked on articles, medical journals, studies, forums—anything she could get her hands on. Cochlear implants. Early intervention. Language development. Outcomes. Risks.

Dana sat with her through all of it.

Listened.

Asked questions.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t decide for her.

Just… stayed.

And when Erin finally said, voice quiet but certain, that she didn’t want the implants—not yet, maybe not ever—

Dana didn’t argue.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she’d said, like that was the only answer that mattered.

Dana had always been there.

Through every version of Erin.

So yeah—

It was safe to say that Dana Evans and Erin Callahan were close.

Closer than friends.

Something steadier. Something chosen.

Sisters, maybe.

Family, definitely.

And the one time Erin had jokingly called her “mom” in the middle of a shift, Dana had hit her square in the back of the head with a wad of gauze without even looking up from her charting.

Erin had taken that as confirmation.

So when Dana asked her to meet at PTMC for lunch on a cool October afternoon, Erin hadn’t thought twice about it.

She’d spent the morning running errands—specifically, hunting down fabric for the very particular, very non-negotiable costume Delilah had decided she needed after abruptly scrapping her original idea. Jamie had opinions. Loud ones. Delilah had final say. Always.

By the time Erin pulled into the hospital parking lot, coffee in hand—one for her, one for Dana—she was already half in mom mode, half in autopilot.

Dana had mentioned she was stepping down as charge nurse.

Slowly transitioning out while they found a replacement.

Which, frankly, sounded like a nightmare.

No one replaced Dana Evans.

Erin knew that better than most.

Still, Dana had asked her to come. Said they’d grab lunch. Catch up. Complain about Piper, who—according to Dana—had recently decided to make chaos her full-time personality.

So Erin walked into PTMC’s ER expecting exactly that.

Lunch.

Conversation.

Familiar ground.

What she hadn’t expected—

Was the way it felt.

The second the doors slid open, it hit her.

The noise.

The movement.

The sharp, sterile edge of an overcrowded ER running at full speed.

Controlled chaos.

Her chest tightened for half a second—not in discomfort, not in overwhelm—

Recognition.

God.

She hadn’t expected that.

Hadn’t expected it to feel…

Right.

The private practice she’d been working at for the past year was the opposite of this. Clean. Predictable. Scheduled. Safe.

And—

If she was being honest?

Boring.

Erin took a slow sip of her coffee, grounding herself, and stepped up to the ER window, settling easily into the short line. She didn’t mind waiting. Never had.

When it was her turn, she offered an easy smile.

“Hi, I’m Erin Callahan. Dana said she’d tell you I’m ‘all clear,’ as she likes to put it.”

The nurse at the desk—Lupe, if the badge was right—grinned.

There was something about that grin.

Something a little too knowing.

It made Erin pause for half a beat.

But not long enough to question it.

“Absolutely,” Lupe said, already sliding a visitor badge across the counter. “Dana told me all about you. Come on around—I’ll take you back.”

Erin clipped the badge onto her jacket and followed, stepping through the familiar flow of triage.

Her eyes wandered immediately.

Instinctively.

Taking everything in.

The pace. The rhythm. The movement of bodies and voices and decisions being made in real time.

It hadn’t left her.

That part of her.

The part that tracked everything without trying.

Compared to this, the private practice felt like—

Still water.

This was current.

This was pull.

By the time Lupe guided her through the rest of the ER and toward the charge desk, Erin could feel it settling under her skin again.

Not overwhelming.

Not chaotic.

Structured.

Alive.

And then—

There was Dana.

Head bent slightly over the desk, glasses slipping down her nose, running the board like she always had—like the room itself answered to her.

Erin grinned instantly.

Because she had absolutely no idea what she’d just walked into.

“Erin! There you are—punctual as always.” Dana looked up, that familiar sharp smile already in place. “You look great, sweetheart.”

Erin slid the extra coffee across the desk without missing a beat. “Why thank you kindly, pumpkin.”

Dana snorted softly, taking it.

Erin leaned her hip against the counter, relaxed, easy.

“Alright, where do you want me to park myself while I wait for you to finish up? You said half-shift, right? Training the poor soul who thinks they can replace you?” she added, glancing at her watch.

Dana’s smile shifted.

Sharpened.

Just enough to make Erin’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Right about that, sweets…” Dana said lightly. “We are going to lunch. It might just take us a little longer to get there.”

Erin shrugged, unfazed. “No worries. I can wait. I know how ERs are.”

“Right,” Dana said, almost too smoothly. “Of course you do.”

Dana’s grin widened.

“Dana—what happened to the unhoused man in Central Ten?”

The voice cut in clean and even, attached to a man moving with purpose—fast without rushing, the kind of stride that didn’t waste time but never tipped into frantic.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

He hit the sanitizer on his way in without breaking pace, eyes already moving—board, desk, staff, flow—taking in the state of the room in a single sweep.

And then—

A brief pause.

Not in his steps.

In his attention.

Her.

Visitor badge.

Not staff.

Standing at the charge desk like she belonged there.

Noted.

Filed.

He looked away just as quickly, focus snapping back to Dana.

Erin’s attention followed the interruption more than the man himself—turned at the sound of a voice used to being listened to.

She took him in the same way he had her.

Quick.

Efficient.

Cataloging.

Attending. Mid-40s, maybe. Dark hair threaded with gray at the temples. Composed posture. No wasted movement. The kind of presence that didn’t announce authority but carried it anyway.

And—yeah.

Handsome.

In a way that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with steadiness.

The thought passed as quickly as it came.

Filed.

Set aside.

Dana didn’t hesitate.

“Got sent up for CT. They’re backed up, so he’s probably still in the queue.”

Robby nodded once.

“Alright. I want to talk to him with Kiera—find me when he’s back down.”

“Of course.”

He shifted like he was about to move on—

And Dana—

“Oh!”

It was light.

Casual.

An afterthought, if you didn’t know her.

Robby stopped.

Not fully.

But enough.

Dana turned, that same easy smile in place—sweet on the surface, deliberate underneath.

“Robby, this is Erin Callahan. She’s a good friend… one hell of a nurse—”

Erin lifted her coffee, already taking a sip—

“—and she’s going to interview to take my place.”

Erin choked.

Actually choked.

Coffee went down the wrong pipe and she jerked forward, coughing hard, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“What—” cough, cough “—WHAT?”

Robby’s brows lifted.

Just slightly.

But this time, his attention stayed.

Interest—quiet, sharp, assessing—settled in behind it.

Dana, on the other hand, didn’t even blink.

“WHAT? I am not!” Erin wheezed, one hand pressed to her chest as she tried to breathe again, glaring at Dana through watering eyes.

And Dana—

Dana just took another sip of her coffee.

Completely unbothered.

Erin dragged in a breath, forcing herself upright, composure snapping back into place piece by piece—but not before she caught it.

The shift.

The way the energy around the desk tilted.

Heads turning.

Princess pausing mid-chart, eyes bright with open curiosity. Perlah not even pretending not to listen, leaning just slightly closer like this was the most entertaining thing she’d seen all shift. Even Dr. Santos had slowed near the end of the desk, tablet in hand, gaze flicking between Erin and Dana with poorly concealed amusement.

Great.

Fantastic.

Erin closed her eyes briefly, then reopened them, fixing Dana with a look.

“Dana, what the hell are you on about?” she said, voice low but carrying anyway. “I am not interviewing for your job. I—” she gestured vaguely, still catching her breath, “—I have a job.”

“A job you hate,” Dana corrected easily, like they were discussing the weather.

Erin blinked at her.

“I do not hate my job.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You find it boring.”

“Boring’s a good thing!” Erin shot back, incredulous.

Dana snorted.

“Not for you, it isn’t, babe.”

Erin inhaled sharply, pressing her hands together, fingertips touching her lips for a second as she forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Control.

Always control.

“Dana,” she said, voice tight but measured, “my dearest friend. I am not interviewing for your job… because I have not applied for your job.”

Dana shrugged.

“I put in a good word. Got references sent over from Mercy West… your resume. Figured the private practice could send something in too—”

“Dana Michelle Evans,” Erin cut in, eyes widening, “you got me an interview without telling me—Dana.”

Dana didn’t even flinch.

“You cannot tell me you are happy in that boring cesspool of rich pricks,” she said plainly. “You were the youngest charge nurse Mercy West ever saw. You ran that floor through a citywide power outage with half your staff down and zero backup, and you didn’t lose a single patient. Not one.”

Erin’s jaw tightened.

Dana leaned in just slightly, voice dropping—but somehow carrying more weight.

“You don’t belong somewhere that runs on appointment slots and billing codes.”

The words landed.

Too close.

Too accurate.

Erin’s mouth opened—

Closed.

And for a second—

Just a second—

She didn’t have a response.

Across the desk, Robby hadn’t moved far.

Bent slightly over a computer terminal, one hand braced on the counter, the other hooked lazily over the arm of his glasses as he read something on the screen.

At least—

That’s what it looked like.

Because his attention wasn’t on the chart.

Not anymore.

It was on her.

Watching.

Not obvious.

Not intrusive.

But present.

Taking in the exchange. The push and pull. The way she held herself—how quickly she recovered, how she didn’t crumble under Dana’s pressure, how she pushed back without losing control.

Assessing.

Erin felt it.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t acknowledge it.

But she knew.

Dana straightened again, like she hadn’t just detonated something in the middle of the charge desk.

“And,” she added, lighter now, like she was circling back to something small and inconsequential, “you’re already here.”

Erin stared at her, absolutely gobsmacked, mouth parting slightly.

“Yes, Dana—because you asked me to lunch. To catch up.”

Dana’s grin didn’t falter.

“And we will have lunch and catch up,” she said smoothly, “after your interview.”

A beat.

“It’s in ten minutes, by the way.”

Erin’s mouth fully dropped.

Actually dropped.

She blinked at her—once, twice—like her brain was trying and failing to process what had just been said, her jaw opening and closing uselessly.

“Dana…” she started, then stopped, then tried again. “Dana, you have a whole hospital full of nurses—half of which are currently staring at me—” she gestured vaguely around them, “—and you’re telling me none of them want the position?”

“No.”

“Absolutely not,” Princess chimed in immediately, not even pretending to stay out of it.

“Hard pass,” Perlah added, raising a hand like she was volunteering that information for the record.

A couple of other voices echoed agreement from nearby.

Dana shot Erin a look.

See?

Erin squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, dragging in a slow, steadying breath.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“Right now, I really do,” Erin muttered, pressing her fingers briefly to her temples before dropping her hand. “You cannot blindside me with an interview. I don’t have a paper copy of my resume, I’m not prepared, I’m not ready—” she glanced down at herself in exasperation, “—I’m dressed for lunch, Dana.”

Dana gave her a slow once-over.

And then, like this had been part of the plan all along—because of course it had—she reached under the desk and pulled out a folder.

Erin’s folder.

Resume. References. Everything.

Erin stared at it for a second too long.

“You look amazing, by the way,” Dana added, entirely unhelpful.

Erin bit the inside of her cheek, something sharp and disbelieving flickering across her face before she finally reached out and took it.

“...What floor?” she asked, voice tight.

Dana’s grin turned downright victorious.

“Four. I can walk you up.”

Erin’s jaw flexed.

Hard.

“I am only doing this,” she said, pointing a finger at Dana like a warning, “because I will not have the reputation of no-showing an interview.”

“Of course,” Dana said, utterly unrepentant.

Erin held her gaze for another second, then shook her head, already turning toward the elevators.

“If you weren’t my children’s godmother, I would murder you.”

“I believe you,” Dana called after her, clearly delighted.

Erin didn’t even slow as Dana moved like she was going to follow.

“I can walk you—”

Erin didn’t break stride, lifting a hand over her shoulder in a sharp wave-off.

“I can handle it from here.”

There was a beat.

Then, under her breath—just loud enough for Dana to hear—

“You nosy, insane pain in my ass.”

Dana laughed.

Actually laughed.

And behind her, the charge desk practically hummed with interest.

Princess leaned in closer to Perlah. “Oh, I like her.”

Perlah smirked. “Yeah. She’s got a spine.”

Robby, still half-leaned over the computer, didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move much either.

But his gaze tracked Erin as she walked away—steady, measured, folder in hand, irritation still written clearly across her shoulders even as she pulled herself back into control with every step.

Not flustered.

Not unraveling.

Recovering.

Fast.

He adjusted his glasses slightly with the hand resting over them, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he watched her reach the elevators, posture straight, chin level.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

And then—

He looked back to the screen.

It lasted all of a second.

His eyes flicked up again, landing on Dana just as she turned, already knowing.

“What?” Dana asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

Robby straightened slightly from the computer, one hand still braced against the counter.

“Did you seriously blindside that woman with an interview?”

Dana smirked.

“She’s not a poor woman, Robby.” A beat. “And yes. Yes, I did.”

Robby held her gaze, one brow lifting just a fraction.

“Care to explain why?”

“Because,” Dana said simply, like the answer should’ve been obvious to everyone in a ten-foot radius, “I promised I wouldn’t leave this department stuck with whatever poor excuse administration tries to shove down here next.”

She took another sip of her coffee.

“Erin’s the best choice for the job.”

Robby’s expression didn’t change.

“She has a job,” he said evenly. “And from what I just saw, she didn’t seem particularly interested in this one.”

“She does,” Dana agreed. “And she’s trying very hard to convince herself she likes it.”

Robby huffed quietly through his nose, glancing briefly toward the elevators before looking back at Dana.

“No one replaces you,” he said, tone flat, matter-of-fact. “You know that.”

Dana didn’t take the bait.

“No,” she said calmly. “They don’t.”

A beat.

“But they can hold the line.”

Robby’s jaw shifted slightly.

“How old is she?” he asked after a moment. “You seriously think she can do your job?”

Dana’s eyes sharpened.

“Thirty-five,” she replied without hesitation. “Started at Mercy West at twenty-one. Charge nurse before she hit thirty. Ran that floor through a blackout with half her staff down and no backup. Didn’t lose a single patient.”

Robby’s gaze flicked back toward the elevators again.

Then back to Dana.

“She didn’t look like she wanted to be here.”

“No,” Dana said. “She didn’t want to walk in today and have me throw her into an interview.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Dana’s mouth curved slightly.

“Exactly.”

Robby studied her for a second longer.

Then—

“What happens if she says no?”

Dana didn’t even hesitate.

“She won’t.”

Robby’s brow lifted again, just slightly.

“You’re very sure of that.”

Dana just shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I know her.”

Robby leaned back against the desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze drifting once more toward the elevators.

Where Erin had disappeared.

Annoyed.

Thrown off.

But not rattled.

Not really.

He exhaled slowly.

“...We’ll see,” he said.

Dana’s smile didn’t waver.

“Oh,” she said lightly, “you will.”

And somewhere upstairs—

Erin Callahan stepped out of the elevator and into a hallway she hadn’t walked in years.

Folder in hand.

Heart steadying.

And absolutely no idea she’d just walked straight back into the thing she’d been missing.

No destination. No plan. Just boots hitting pavement, one after the other, letting the city swallow him whole. Letting the noise of London try—and fail—to drown out the echo of everything still sitting heavy in his chest.

It didn’t work.

It never really did.

So eventually, when the thoughts got too loud—too sharp, too close—he made a decision.

A hard dampener.

The first pub he saw, he stepped into.

It was warm inside.

Dim lighting, amber-toned, the kind that softened edges and made everything feel a little less real. Conversations hummed low, laughter bubbled somewhere near the dartboards, glasses clinked in a steady rhythm behind the bar.

Normal.

God, it was normal.

Price took a seat at the far end of the bar without a word, automatically positioning himself with his back to the wall, eyes on the room.

Habit.

Instinct.

Survival.

After everything he’d seen—everything he’d done—awareness wasn’t something he could switch off. It was stitched into him now, woven deep into muscle memory and bone.

He ordered a whiskey. Neat.

Then another.

And another.

He was halfway through his third, nursing it more than drinking it, head slightly bowed—an image of someone keeping to himself.

Except he wasn’t.

Not really.

He was watching.

Always watching.

The couple in the corner booth practically devouring each other—Price wasn’t sure how they were still breathing.

Three booths down, another pair sat stiff across from each other, tension thick enough to cut through. Pretending not to argue, which somehow made it worse.

A group of older men tucked into the far corner, hunched over what looked like cards—poker, maybe. Quiet, deliberate. The kind of men who had stories they didn’t tell.

And the rest of the pub—half full, half loud, alive in that careless way civilians got to be.

Outside, rain had started to fall.

Not a drizzle—no, London was putting its back into it tonight. Heavy sheets against the windows, streaking down the glass in uneven lines.

Price’s gaze lingered there for a moment, tracking the movement of a single drop as it raced the others—

The bell above the door chimed.

His head snapped up.

Instinct.

Always instinct.

And then—

There you were.

Rain-soaked despite your best efforts. Your hair clung to your face, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and jaw as you stepped inside, muttering something under your breath as you wrestled your umbrella closed.

You shook it out near the door, shrugging off your coat with a small huff, clearly unimpressed with the weather.

Price’s eyes tracked you before he could stop himself.

A single drop of water slid from your hair, down the curve of your neck, disappearing beneath your collar.

His grip tightened slightly around his glass.

He looked away.

He should have looked away.

You didn’t head toward the dartboard crowd—the loud, easy laughter kind of people. The kind of people who looked like they didn’t carry anything heavier than a bad day.

You waved toward the bar instead.

“Bobby! I need something strong!”

Your voice cut clean through the noise, familiar, easy—like you belonged here.

Price’s gaze flicked back despite himself.

You were already moving, eyes scanning the room quickly, assessing—quick, sharp, observant.

He made an assumption.

You’d take the open seat closer to the two men a few stools down. They’d already noticed you, turning slightly, interest written plainly across their faces.

But something in their gaze—something you didn’t like—

You pivoted.

And just like that, you were heading his way.

You slid into the seat one over from him, leaving a single stool between you.

Deliberate.

A buffer.

You shrugged out of your outer layer, draping it over the back of the stool, rolling your shoulders slightly like you were shaking off more than just the rain.

Bobby—the Bobby, apparently—appeared in front of you without needing to be called again, already pouring your drink.

Whiskey sour.

Price clocked it instantly.

“What’s the occasion tonight, Y/N?” Bobby asked, sliding the glass toward you.

You leaned forward onto your elbows, fingers wrapping around the drink like you’d been waiting for it.

“I’m drowning my sorrows, Bobby.”

There was a dry edge to your smile. Practiced. Familiar.

Price found himself watching you again.

This time, he didn’t look away as quickly.

“What for?” Bobby prompted.

“Terrible date?”

You shot him a look—sharp, unimpressed.

“Please. I’d take a terrible date over this.”

You took a sip, then exhaled slowly, like you were bracing yourself.

“My editor squashed another story.”

Bobby winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, swirling your drink slightly. “Five months of research. Five. Months. Chasing leads, digging through records, maybe—maybe—bending a few minor laws—”

Price’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

“—and for what?” you continued, your voice tightening just a fraction. “Because Bruce thinks it’ll ‘rock the cradle too much.’”

You scoffed, sharp and humorless.

“What a bastard.”

Bobby let out a low breath through his nose, already shaking his head like this was a familiar tune.

“A bastard indeed.” He leaned one forearm against the bar for a second, eyeing you in that way that said he’d seen this exact version of you before—frustrated, wired, running on fumes. “You eat today—” he paused, squinting slightly, “—what am I saying, of course you didn’t.”

You didn’t even argue.

Just took another sip.

“I’ll put something in for you,” he decided, already turning away toward the kitchen before you could protest.

Price looked away then.

Not because he wasn’t interested.

But because he was.

And that was already more than he’d intended when he walked in.

His gaze returned to the room, slipping back into habit—tracking movement, noting exits, cataloguing faces without thinking about it.

But you—

You didn’t disappear into the background like everything else.

Not quite.

You leaned forward again, digging into your bag with a quiet huff of irritation.

Out came a worn notepad, the edges softened from use. Then a pack of cigarettes, flicked onto the bar beside you without much thought. Then… more digging.

Your movements got sharper.

Faster.

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath, frustration bleeding into the word.

Price’s attention shifted back before he could stop it.

“Bobby, you got a pen?” you called, glancing up—only to find him already tied up with someone at the other end of the bar.

You let out a heavy sigh, dropping your head for a second before dragging a hand down your face.

“Jesus, Y/N…” you murmured to yourself, voice lower now, edged with annoyance. “What kind of journalist doesn’t carry a pen?”

You kept digging.

“And BBC would have a field day with that—strip your credentials, take your badge, public humiliation—”

Your bag gave a soft thud against the bar as you shifted it, clearly coming up empty.

“—brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Price watched for a second longer than he should have.

Not obvious.

Not enough to draw attention.

But enough.

You were… sharp.

Not just in what you said—but how you moved. Quick. Intentional. Your eyes had that same edge he recognized in operatives, in soldiers—people who noticed things.

People who didn’t miss much.

People who didn’t belong entirely to places like this.

His fingers moved before he fully thought it through.

A quiet decision.

He slipped a hand into the inside of his coat, retrieving a pen—simple, unremarkable, the kind he always kept on him.

Prepared.

Always prepared.

He extended it toward you without a word.

You stilled mid-search.

Your head snapped up, eyes landing first on the pen—then following it up to him.

There was a flicker of surprise there.

Quick.

Gone just as fast.

You blinked once, like you were recalibrating, then reached out to take it.

Your fingers brushed his.

Brief.

But not nothing.

“Oh—” you let out a small breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Well… thank you.”

Your lips curved—not quite a full smile, but close enough to feel real.

“I appreciate it. I’m apparently grossly ill-prepared today.”

There was a beat.

And then—

You didn’t immediately look away.

Price held your gaze.

Steady. Quiet. Assessing in that way that wasn’t unkind—but wasn’t soft either.

Up close, you could see it clearer.

The weight in him.

The kind that didn’t come from bad days or long weeks, but something heavier. Something that settled deep and stayed there.

His voice, when it came, was low.

Roughened slightly from disuse—and the whiskey.

“Happens.”

One word.

Simple.

Grounded.

It sat between you for a second longer than it should have.

You shook your head, huffing out a quiet breath as you shoved your cigarettes back into your pocket.

“Not to me, normally,” you muttered, more to yourself than him at first, your pen already moving across the page in quick, sharp strokes. “But I am incredibly annoyed today, which apparently leaves me frazzled—”

You paused, your mouth twisting as you searched for the right word.

“—which wouldn’t even be the case if my boss wasn’t a…”

You trailed off.

Not because you didn’t have the word.

Because you had too many.

Price didn’t miss the opening.

Didn’t hesitate, either.

“A coward,” he said, voice even, eyes still on you, “and a bastard.”

Your head snapped toward him again.

Fast.

Too fast to be anything but instinct.

And there it was—that spark.

Your eyes lit, something sharp and delighted cutting straight through the frustration.

“Precisely!”

The word came out almost triumphant.

Like he’d passed something.

You shifted in your seat without thinking, angling your body toward him now, the barrier of that empty stool suddenly feeling more like a suggestion than a boundary.

Your journal flipped open again, pages already crowded with notes and scribbles, ink layered over ink in a way that made it clear this wasn’t just a hobby.

This was how your brain worked.

Fast. Relentless. Always moving.

Price watched your hand for a moment—the way you wrote like you were chasing your own thoughts, trying to catch them before they got away.

“—he didn’t used to be like that, you know,” you continued, already talking again like the conversation had been yours all along. Like he hadn’t been a stranger thirty seconds ago. “He used to have some damn integrity. A hunger for the truth—”

You scoffed softly, shaking your head as your pen scratched harder against the page.

“—but now? Now he’s indulged in the absolute soul-selling, demonic practice of politics and has lost every last semblance of a spine.”

There was heat in your voice.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… real.

The kind that came from caring too much about something you couldn’t quite fix.

Price took a slow sip of his whiskey.

Let the burn settle.

Let the quiet stretch—just long enough that it didn’t feel empty… but deliberate.

Then—

“That tends to happen,” he said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Truth doesn’t make many friends.”

You scoffed, but this time it wasn’t sharp.

More… amused.

“Yeah—no kidding,” you muttered, your pen moving again as you crossed something out, then circled another line two, three times over like you were trying to trap the thought in place.

Your brow furrowed.

Then—

You stilled.

Something clicked.

Your head snapped up toward him again, expression shifting—just a fraction.

Awareness.

“Oh—” you straightened slightly, a hint of a sheepish smile tugging at your mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

You turned more fully toward him now, like you were finally acknowledging what had been building between you for the last several minutes.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

You stuck your hand out toward him—confident, easy, like introductions were something you owned.

Price’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand.

Then back up to your face.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He set his glass down, then reached out, his hand closing around yours—firm, steady.

Warm.

“John Price.”

Your grip matched his.

Not delicate.

Not hesitant.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, John,” you said, releasing his hand, your tone lighter now—but still threaded with that same restless energy. “And thank you again for the pen.”

You glanced down at your notes, then back at him, one brow lifting slightly.

“And if you’d like me to shut up, please feel free to say so. I know I tend to talk a lot.”

A small shrug.

“I’ve been told multiple times. Something I never quite outgrew, apparently.”

Price’s mouth twitched again.

This time, it lingered a fraction longer.

Before he could answer, Bobby reappeared, sliding a basket down in front of you—fish and chips, hot, the smell of it cutting clean through the air.

“That’s an understatement, Y/N,” Bobby said dryly. “You could outtalk a damn auctioneer.”

You didn’t even miss a beat.

Just grinned, already reaching for the vinegar and salt.

“Damn right I could, Bobby.”

You shook the vinegar over the chips with enthusiasm, like you hadn’t eaten in hours—which, judging by Bobby’s earlier comment… you probably hadn’t.

Bobby’s eyes flicked between you and Price.

Quick.

Assessing.

There was a look there—subtle, knowing.

He knocked his knuckles once against the bar.

Then turned away.

“Thanks, Bobby!” you called after him, entirely unbothered.

You grabbed a chip, blew on it quickly, then popped it into your mouth—sighing softly like it might’ve been the best thing you’d tasted all day.

Then—

You turned back to Price.

Like the conversation had never paused.

“So,” you said, swallowing, tilting your head just slightly. “Do you?”

Price arched a brow.

“Want me to shut up?” you clarified, gesturing vaguely with your chip before pointing it at him like it was part of your argument.

There was a beat.

Price leaned back just slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the bar, his gaze settling on you in that same steady, unreadable way.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t rush to fill the space.

He just… looked at you.

Taking you in.

The way you spoke without hesitation.

The way your mind moved faster than most people could keep up with.

The way you didn’t seem particularly concerned with how you were perceived.

“No.”

Simple.

Certain.

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Don’t mind it,” he added after a moment, his voice low, even. “Gives me something to listen to.”

You hummed, pleased with that answer—far more than you probably should’ve been.

There was a flicker of something in your expression. Satisfaction. Amusement. Maybe even a little curiosity.

Then you shifted the basket of fish and chips toward the empty space between you.

An offering.

Casual.

But not meaningless.

“Chip?” you asked, nudging it slightly closer to him. “I don’t know what Gregory does back there in the kitchen, but his chips are top notch.”

Price glanced down at the basket.

Then back at you.

A beat.

He reached in and took one.

You smiled like you’d just won something.

“So, John…” you continued, propping your elbow against the bar, your chin resting lightly against your knuckles as you looked at him—really looked at him this time. “I think you’ve gathered I’m a journalist.”

A small tilt of your head.

“What do you do?”

There it was.

Direct.

Curious.

Unapologetic.

Price didn’t answer immediately.

He chewed slowly, buying himself a second—two.

Weighing.

Measuring.

Then, calm as anything—

“I’m in security.”

Your brows arched almost instantly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Price tracked it without meaning to.

The shift.

The interest.

“Security…” you repeated, dragging the word out slightly, like you were testing it. “That seems kind of vague.”

His gaze held yours.

Steady.

Unmoved.

“What was the story your editor killed?” he asked instead.

Deflection.

Clean.

Effortless.

Your smirk deepened.

Oh—you clocked that.

Absolutely.

You could’ve pushed.

You should’ve pushed.

That was your job, wasn’t it?

Pull threads. Ask questions. Don’t let people redirect you.

And yet—

For some reason—

You let it slide.

Instead, you shifted.

You stood just slightly, sliding off your stool—only to settle onto the one directly beside him.

Closer.

Close enough that the space between you disappeared entirely, replaced by the shared warmth of proximity and the faint brush of your sleeve against his coat.

You dragged the basket with you, placing it between you both like it had always belonged there.

Price didn’t move.

Didn’t lean away.

Didn’t comment.

But something in him sharpened.

You launched back in without hesitation.

“Corruption piece,” you said, already flipping your journal toward you again, pen moving as you spoke. “Local government contracts—misallocated funds, shell companies, a few very creative accounting practices.”

Your voice picked up speed, energy threading back through it like you’d found your rhythm again.

“I had sources—good ones. Documents too, not just hearsay. Enough to make it stick if it had gone to print.”

You huffed, shaking your head.

“But apparently we’re not in the business of making powerful people uncomfortable anymore.”

Price listened.

Really listened.

Not just nodding along—tracking what you were saying, how you were saying it.

The details you emphasized.

The ones you skipped.

“Risky,” he said after a moment.

You snorted softly.

“Yeah, well. So is crossing the street in London.”

You reached for another chip, dipping it absentmindedly before pointing it at him slightly.

“Difference is, one of those things actually matters.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chip.

Then back to your face.

“You don’t strike me as someone who backs down easily,” he said.

You paused mid-motion.

Just for a second.

Then you smiled.

Slower this time.

Less sharp.

More… honest.

"I don't," you admitted. "Which is probably why I'm currently drinking my dinner instead of celebrating a front-page story. My plan was to come here, regroup, find another way in to MAKE my boss print the story. But it seems I've found something else to interest me."

John took another fry. "Oh yeah? What's that, love?"

"You." You said it without missing a beat.

John froze for just a moment, then his eyes met yours again. You were smirking… you were really smirking.

"You smoke, John?" you asked.

His eyebrow arched. "Yeah."

"Great. Come have a smoke with me."

You downed your drink in one go, called over your shoulder to Bobby that you'd be back, and sauntered out—not even looking back to see if John was following you.

He was.

He downed his own drink and followed you.

You were leaning against the wall near the garden of the pub, sheltered from the rain by an awning. You held a cigarette between your lips, and your lighter wasn't cooperating. John watched for a moment as the lighter refused to catch, and then he stepped forward, pulling his own from his pocket. He moved up beside you—far too close—and struck his lighter. The flame flickered to life, and he cupped his hand around it against the wind, holding it steady to light your cigarette.

A far too tempting smile appeared on your lips as you inhaled, then exhaled a puff of smoke and met his eyes. You extended your pack of cigarettes to him, lid popped.

John's gaze dropped to the offered pack, then back to your face. He plucked a cigarette from it with thick fingers, and you noticed the calluses, the scars across his knuckles. Working hands. Dangerous hands.

"Ta," he murmured, voice low and rough as gravel.

You held up your lighter—finally cooperating now, of course—but John was already leaning in. He dipped his head toward your cigarette, the tip of his nearly touching yours as he drew the flame from your ember. The orange glow illuminated the sharp planes of his face, the scruff along his jaw, the intensity in those blue eyes as they held yours through the thin veil of smoke between you.

He pulled back slowly. Too slowly. Close enough that you could smell him—whiskey and something woodsy, clean but unmistakably masculine.

"Efficient," you said, your voice coming out lower than you'd intended.

"Waste not." The corner of his mouth twitched. He took a drag, exhaled to the side—a gentleman's gesture that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd blown the smoke right in your face.

"Smart." You grinned. "So, John…" Your tone lighter now, conversational. "Got plans tonight? Or were you planning to drink your night away in that pub same as me?"

"That was the plan," he admitted, his voice steady as he took another drag.

His eyes moved too, now. Tracking you in the same way. Measured. Deliberate.

"Well," you said, like it was nothing, like you weren't absolutely aware of the shift in the air between you, "this place gets busy in about half an hour."

Casual. Too casual.

"Oh?"

His brow lifted slightly.

You leaned back against the wall again, taking another slow drag before exhaling, your eyes still locked on his.

"There's a late crowd," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the pub behind you. "Gets louder. More people. Less… space."

A small pause.

Your gaze dipped—just briefly—to his mouth.

Then back up.

"If you're not in the mood for the crowd… I know a quieter place. If you're interested."

John took his time with that. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled slowly, let the silence stretch between you like a test.

"Quieter," he repeated. Not quite a question.

"Mmm." You tapped ash from your cigarette, watching it scatter in the wind. "Better acoustics."

"For what?"

"Conversation." You met his eyes. "What else?"

The corner of his mouth pulled—barely. "What else," he echoed.

He was still watching you with that unreadable expression, the kind that made you wonder if he was three steps ahead or just patient enough to let you keep talking.

"So?" you prompted.

"Depends." He took another drag. "How far?"

"Ten-minute walk. Maybe less."

"In the rain."

"It's just water, John."

"That a yes or no?"

You smiled. "That's a 'settle your tab and find out.'"

Something shifted in his expression—decision made, maybe, or at least the beginning of one. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and gestured toward the door.