it's a beautiful day to save lives.

outside.

she doesn’t even hesitate, not really. it’s more of a panicked scramble than an organized exit, but she manages to make it out into the hallway without tripping over her own bag, at least. hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, white coat slung half-on, half-off her shoulder, she looks up just in time to see zoya standing there—calm, composed, clinical, and somehow still the most unfairly beautiful human being in a fifty-mile radius. priya’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again like she’s trying to debug her own speech process.

“dr. singh,” she manages, only slightly breathless. the chart appears in her hands before she can even blink. zoya’s handwriting, sharp and deliberate, crawls down the page like it’s mocking her for being nervous. requested you today. those four words are all priya can see. her brain latches onto them with a kind of frantic warmth she doesn’t have time to unpack. “post-ops. right. i’ll, uh, make sure all the vitals are logged, dressings checked, neuro assessments done every hour on the hour.” she’s talking too fast. she knows she’s talking too fast, but zoya hasn’t interrupted her yet, which means there’s still a sliver of hope she isn’t completely bombing this interaction. “and then i’ll find you.”

and then the second part hits her. scrubbing in. her pulse trips over itself. she’s not sure whether she wants to throw up or hug the nearest available surface. “and... assisting,” she echoes softly, like saying it out loud might make it more real. she straightens up, trying to look professional—someone who absolutely belongs in a neurosurgical OR, not someone whose heart has started sprinting because her attending might’ve, possibly, requested her. “thank you, dr. singh,” she says at last, quieter now, almost reverent. “i won’t-uh, i won’t let you down.”

the words burst out before she can filter them, rough and jagged as her pulse hammers in her throat and her stomach twists in that familiar, sickening way but she can't stop staring, couldn't escape adelaide's orbit if she tried. it's like she's emitting some ridiculous pheromone that taren's drawn to like a bloodhound. "god, what do you want from me? you want me to thank you for letting me take an emotional shit on your kitchen floor? i'm not fucking reliving this right now!" the distance between them closes slightly without taren even realizing it, and her chest is tight and heaving and her head is spinning. but even after her outburst she couldn't possibly walk away. at the end of the day, taren craves the cold precision in adelaide's eyes and the way she sees right through her — even though she absolutely despises it every single fucking time the woman pries her open and airs out all of her vulnerabilities.

taren's fingers twitch again and part of her wants to just say fuck it and reach for adelaide, to see what might happen if she broke the rules first and crossed the line they've been dancing on for a decade. but the other part wants adelaide to strike, to show some reaction, anything — to finally do something about the way she's been torturing taren for years now. her breathing comes out in ragged, sharp little bursts — and adelaide's final jab about her date hits harder than anything else. "fuck you, by the way. since when do you give a shit who i show up with? actually— right, of course you care. god forbid i don't sit tight in your back pocket so you can toy with me and never actually do a damn thing about it."

“taren,” she says once, quiet but cutting through the noise like a scalpel. it’s not a reprimand so much as a warning, the kind of tone that’s meant to steady, but never quite softens. but taren doesn’t stop. she never does. every word she throws lands somewhere deep, and adelaide can feel her own pulse picking up, an irritation rising under her ribs that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with how close they are. with how familiar this dance has become. by the time taren’s hissing out god forbid i don’t sit tight in your back pocket, adelaide’s patience fractures. it’s not clean, it’s not deliberate, and it’s certainly not professional. it’s reflex.

in one sudden, precise motion, she reaches forward and cups taren’s jaw, tilting her face up just enough to still the tirade. and then she kisses her.

it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s sharp around the edges, a silencing more than a confession, a way to stop the endless self-sabotage spilling from taren’s mouth before it destroys them both. adelaide’s hand is steady against her cheek, thumb pressing lightly along the hinge of her jaw as if to keep her from pulling away, as if she’s still trying to control the situation even as it slips completely from her grasp.

and when she finally pulls back, her breath is a little unsteady, her voice lower than before. “that,” she murmurs, almost against taren’s lips, “is why i give a shit.” the words hang there—equal parts reprimand and admission—before adelaide drops her hand and takes a single, measured step back, her expression unreadable once again.

seeing priya like this is different. the other girl is usually brighter, bolder — even when she's anxious. sienna crosses the room slowly, setting her stethoscope down on the table before pulling out a chair beside priya instead of across from her. "do you wanna talk about it?" obviously the stress is getting to all of them, sienna included. their house has been a rotating schedule of breakdowns since they started the program but sienna has had a feeling that was only going to become more frequent with the latest announcement. it was, apparently, priya's turn and sienna was ready to be the strong and steady. "or like, we can not talk about it too if that's better. i could tell you about the guy downstairs who's necrotic toe fell off when he took his croc off. it rolled across the emergency room."

she glances sideways at sienna then, grateful for the company, and leans back in her chair. “okay, but wait-” her eyebrows lift, the faintest spark of amusement cutting through the haze. “did you say his toe actually fell off? like, just… plop?” a grimace twists across her face. “you have to give me more than that, because that’s disgusting and also? kind of impressive?” her mouth quirks in something caught between horror and fascination. “did anyone scream? please tell me someone screamed.”

Given that the Head of General was also the Chief of Surgery, there was an additional absenteeism that came along with that. And with the additional changes, Rome was getting pulled in on more and more calls. Which was fine, considering he knew his ass would be on the chopping block before too long if he didn't get more surgical hours. However, today's consult was with a family with MLH1 gene mutation throughout the family tree, all ending up with their young daughter presenting with Constitutional Mismatch Repair Deficiency Syndrome. While they'd thought the cancer that came along with it would simply have to be colorectal, Rome had explained to them that ultimately, because of her age, she was more likely to present with brain and blood type cancers instead. And this first cancer would, unfortunately, be unlikely to be her last, should she survive it.

Being an expert in genetics had its benefits, because while he'd treated this family for their inherited bad luck, it also meant he could advise them on their future treatment options. Unfortunately, conversely, he knew far too much about their eight-year-old's future, having inherited two copies of an MLH1 mutation. Staring at the chart following the conversation, he awaited Gabe outside the room to chat through the next steps. Looking up from the chart as the door closed, he sighed. "Sorry, I couldn't give them better news. The mutation didn't show up as prominently on the dad's side, so we weren't really expecting this," he explained. Rome would be kicking himself later for not pushing harder for the parents to perform the genetic testing on their kid. To be tested would mean they would be informed of what the possibilities were. "Thanks for taking on the kid. We'll need a neuro and oncology consult for this one. I'm just the bearer of bad news today," he sighed.

apparently, they're all supposed to be teaching better, so taren's been trying to do just that. she even let the fucking intern assigned to her this week scrub in, and now she's letting her clamp, for fuck's sake — which may have been a huge mistake. taren leans over the table, heart hammering with irritation she can't quite pin down. she's trying — really trying — but she's never been great at teaching the small stuff. she's much better at throwing her residents into chaos and seeing if they sink or swim, so every instruction taren gives feels like it's bouncing off a brick wall. "no, your grip— kapoor, your grip," she says, the words sharper than she intends as she exhales through her nose. there's a little bit of guilt there, but mostly taren hates that she's thinking about firing squads on attendings instead of the damn aorta in front of them. her eyes flick up, catching priya's, and taren forces herself to smile and remain fucking calm. "okay, take a breath. you can do this. just… slow it down." it comes out more like a command than encouragement, and taren knows it but she doesn't care. right now, patient survival is priority number one.

still, she feels the heat of taren's stare burning a hole into her, and the forced smile doesn’t make it easier. in fact, it makes it worse, like she’s being tested, cornered into either proving herself or collapsing under the weight of expectation. her chest tightens, but she adjusts her grip, carefully, like she’s one wrong note away from ruining the entire piece.

“slowing down,” she says softly, more to herself than to anyone else, eyes locked on the vessels. it’s steadier this time, or at least she hopes it looks that way. she doesn’t dare look up again, not yet, not until taren decides whether she’s worth keeping in the field or shoving back to the sidelines.

ade has been avoiding gabe. any peds cases that show up in her hands are passed off to a different member of the plastics department -- especially if he's the one requesting the consult. she's been in this position before; the other woman, the person a man lies to his wife about. it hadn't been her finest moment, but then again -- she had been twenty-two and thought her professor actually loved her. in gabe's case, she had no emotional stake in any of this -- they weren't sleeping together, just two friends who had opted to go to the gala together so they didn't have to arrive alone. finding out the ex he'd mentioned was really his estranged wife. to put it simply? she didn't want the smoke. ade wasn't trying to get in between the two, or cause any problems -- her dumb ass just happened to be in the wrong place with the wrong person.

it takes about two weeks for her luck to run out, where there's no one else for her to page aside from gabe. part of her is almost desperate enough try and page violet, even though she's off for the night. with a grumble, she pages dr. spencer. leaning against the nurse's station, she watches him with an unimpressed look, her annoyance from before beginning to resurface. "just because i need you for a consult doesn't mean you're off my shitlist, by the way." ade states, not bothering with social graces as she practically shoves the chart into his hands.

her words land like a jab, and he lets the corner of his mouth twitch just enough to prove he heard her, not enough to soften the blow. he takes the chart she all but rams into his chest, glancing over the details with steady professionalism. “i figured as much,” gabe replies evenly, voice low, measured. he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of defensiveness, not yet. but when he looks up from the chart, there’s something in his gaze that’s heavier than annoyance, an undercurrent of weariness he hasn’t bothered masking lately. “but for the record? i never lied to you.”

he’d told her about sophie in vague terms, always in past tense, letting adrienne draw her own conclusions. he hadn’t corrected them, maybe that was his sin. he exhales slowly, tapping the pen against the chart. “you don’t have to like me, delgado. just—don’t make the patient pay for it.” and with that, he flips the page open, forcing himself into the work even as tension coils tight between them, the conversation neither of them wants to have pressing just under the surface.

so seeing priya while he was going to start his own rounds seemed to be fate, except the intern looked ready to bolt the second he caught up to her. theo had struggled to dissect the way the intern interacted with him. he has a sneaking suspicion that she’s scared of him. but he can’t unpack that right now. “why wouldn’t i want the real answer?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing as he slid his hands into his pockets. “i was going to ask how it was going but more in the sense of how are the charts you’re working on going, but if there’s something you want to talk about, let’s talk about it.”

she tilts her head toward him, feigning nonchalance. “besides, i wouldn’t want to ruin your day by talking about my existential dread. that’s, like, strictly an after-hours thing, right? happy hour material. charts now, therapy later.” her joke lingers in the air, a fragile cover that she hopes is convincing enough to make him drop it (or at least pretend to), but theo doesn't always make pretending easy.

when adelaide shifts like she’s about to leave, taren’s hand twitches before she even realizes it, fingers moving forward against the edge of the counter like she’s reaching for an anchor. she doesn’t quite touch her — she can’t — but the impulse is there, reckless and automatic. “i’m not trying to prove anything to you.” lies lies lies. “look, if you’re pissed i disappeared on you, that wasn’t—” she cuts herself off, jaw tight, because what excuse could possibly make sense? that she was too humiliated to look adelaide in the eye? that she couldn’t stand the idea of being looked at as the wreck who fell apart in her kitchen? taren forces her shoulders back, tries to steady her voice. “—that wasn’t personal. i just got busy.”

she doesn’t move closer, but she doesn’t step back either. she stays exactly where she is: that unyielding, infuriating point of stillness taren always seems to orbit. “you don’t have to give me an excuse, taren,” adelaide continues after a moment, voice low but clear. “i don’t think you disappeared because you were busy. i think you disappeared because you didn’t know what to do with the fact that somebody saw you. and maybe that scared you more than the breakdown did.”

there’s no accusation in her tone; if anything, there’s an edge of something quieter beneath it—a flicker of understanding she won’t quite let soften her expression. “you can call it a fluke if it helps you sleep,” she says, straightening, her posture still impeccable. “but it wasn’t nothing. and pretending otherwise won’t make it go away.” she glances at taren’s hand on the counter—the almost-reaching, the held-back impulse—then meets her eyes again. “i’m not pissed,” she adds, after a beat. “i don’t waste energy being angry at ghosts.” and then, like she’s offering a final out, adelaide tips her chin toward the door, her voice cool but not unkind. “you should go back out there. your date’s probably looking for you.”

she hates that him calling her by her own last name makes her stomach knot, jaw clenched. it's stupid, ade decides in that moment, but the effect is unavoidable. however, a bitter laugh passes her lips at the words this is me giving a shit. "should i feel special? that after weeks of silence, you're giving me all of this bullshit after i sought you out?" ade points out, anger threatening to boil over. she knows she hadn't exactly reached out after slept together either, but that's not the point she's trying to make. he's not supposed to be the person she's stuck on, so caught up in what he's thinking or doing; he's supposed to be her annoying friend that she pushes boundaries with. yet here they are, throwing metaphorical punches in the hall when they should be enjoying the open bar and schmoozing with donors. "you don't get to turn this on me, ezra."

his jaw works as he stares down at her, every word rolling out hotter than the last. “you think i liked keeping my mouth shut the last few weeks? you think i didn’t want to say something? you have no idea how close i’ve come to breaking the silence every damn day.” a scoff escapes him, rough and bitter. “but you? you didn’t reach out either. you didn’t knock on my door, you didn’t call, nothing. so don’t stand here acting like i’m the only coward.” his voice hardens further, though the crack underneath is impossible to miss. “you want to know why i didn’t say anything? because i thought maybe you didn’t want me to. maybe you’d made it clear that night was just…a mistake. easier to let it rot in silence than hear you say the words out loud.”

ezra tilts his head slightly, eyes boring into hers. “so tell me, adrienne—if this is all bullshit, if i don’t get to turn it on you, then what the hell do you want from me? because i’m done guessing.”

it’s reminiscent of their kiss in the on-call room, only this time she went in knowing what to expect. unlike the night before, adrienne doesn’t hesitate — she lets go of everything that kept her from crossing this line. maybe it won’t mean anything, maybe they’ll ruin a decade long friendship by finally giving in to the chase. ade doesn’t let her mind wander to what will happen after; just this moment, and the man in front of her. the man she’s wanted to for as long as she can recall, even if she still won’t let herself actually admit it. she leans forward onto her toes to meet him half way, hand finding a fistful of his shirt as they kiss. smirking against his lips, ade follows his lead as he pulls her in, her arm wrapping around his shoulder as he does. even now, in uncharted territory — they’re still unexpectedly in sync.

eyes fall shut as his forehead rests against hers, sighing as her back arches and leans closer into him. she doesn’t expect to crave this as much as she does; the intimacy, an unexpected tenderness from him. now that she’s had a taste, adrienne doesn’t want to let go — even if the rational part of her, the one she’s ignoring right now, reminds her that every girl he takes to bed probably feels the same. his voice keeps her from drifting off into her own thoughts, slowly opening her eyes. a small huff of laughter passes her lips at his question, eyes rolling as she leans the small distance closer to capture his lips once more. “you talk too much.” she tells him between kisses, entertained by the irony of it — god knows she’s never missed a chance to interject with her own opinion.

“yeah?” he rasps, words low, brushing over her lips before he catches her mouth again. this time there’s nothing tentative about it, nothing slow or cautious. just hunger, sharp and insistent, his restraint wearing thinner with every second she stays pressed against him. his hand curves over the small of her back, pulling her flush to him, the heat between them undeniable. she tastes like his damn bacon and the faint bitterness of last night’s tequila, but it doesn’t matter. it’s better than he imagined, and he hates that he’s spent years pretending he didn’t imagine it at all.

ezra deepens the kiss, crowding her gently back toward the counter, his body braced against hers without thought of pulling away. one hand tangles in her hair, the other still firm at her hip, thumb stroking just above the waistband of the borrowed shorts she’s swimming in. it’s grounding and incendiary all at once, like he’s daring her to tell him to stop. when he finally breaks for air, his lips trail along her jaw, down the line of her throat in slow, deliberate passes before he pulls back enough to look at her properly. his eyes search hers, darker than she’s probably ever seen them, his chest rising and falling like he’s just come off a sprint.

“you sure you want this, ren?” his voice is low, roughened by desire but edged with something else—restraint, maybe, or the ghost of caution he can’t quite let go of. his thumb brushes her hipbone as he waits, gaze locked on hers like the answer might unravel him either way.