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The first time you notice something's off with Carter, it's a Tuesday morning during shift change. He's standing at the admit desk, staring at you with an intensity that makes you self-conscious, but the moment you look up from the chart you're updating, he quickly diverts his eyes to the patient board, pretending to study it with sudden fascination.

"Carter, you're not even on for another hour," you say, glancing at the clock. "Why are you here so early?"

He fumbles with his stethoscope, nearly dropping it. "I, uh... wanted to review some cases. Get a head start. You know how it is."

You do know how it is, but Carter's never been the type to show up an hour early just to hang around the admit desk. Still, you shrug it off. It's the holidays, everyone's acting a little strange with the added stress and the Secret Santa exchange looming over the department.

But then it happens again on Wednesday. You're in the lounge, finally grabbing a coffee after a brutal three-hour surgery consult, and Carter walks in, sees you, and immediately freezes like a deer in headlights. His eyes go wide, and he just stands there in the doorway.

"Are you going to come in or just block the entrance?" you ask, amused despite your exhaustion.

"Right. Yes. Coming in." He moves stiffly to the coffee maker, pours himself a cup he doesn't seem to want, and hovers near the bulletin board, stealing glances at you every few seconds.

"Carter, are you okay?"

"Fine! Totally fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?" His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and he clears his throat. "How's your day going?"

"Long. Yours?"

"Also long. Very long. Extremely... long." He nods too many times, then apparently decides he's had enough of whatever this interaction is and practically flees the lounge, leaving his untouched coffee on the counter.

You stare at the abandoned cup, thoroughly confused.

By Thursday, Carol had noticed too. She sidles up to you at the nurses' station while you're charting, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, what's going on with you and Carter?"

"What? Nothing. Why?"

"Oh, come on." She leans against the counter, lowering her voice. "He's been following you around like a lost puppy for three days. Yesterday, he walked into a supply closet because he was too busy watching you walk down the hallway."

You feel heat creep up your neck. "He did not."

"He absolutely did. I saw it. Mark had to help him untangle himself from an IV pole." She's grinning now, clearly enjoying this. "It was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen, and I've watched Ross try to flirt."

"Carter's just... he's been stressed lately."

"Uh-huh. Stressed. That's what we're calling it." Carol taps her pen against your chart. "Remember last year when I was acting weird around Doug before I finally admitted I had feelings for him?"

"That was different."

"Was it though?" She raises an eyebrow. "You remember how you told me I needed to either do something about it or stop mooning around the ER like a lovesick teenager?"

You do remember. You'd been pretty direct about it, actually, over margaritas at Doc Magoo's after a particularly hellish shift. Carol had been grateful for the tough love, even if she'd thrown a napkin at you first.

"This is not the same situation," you insist.

"If you say so." But her smile suggests she knows better.

Friday afternoon, Susan joins the conspiracy. You're in the lounge again—you're starting to think you should just avoid the lounge entirely—when she walks in and immediately zeroes in on you with a knowing look.

"I heard something interesting," she says, settling into the chair across from you.

"I'm too tired for cryptic statements, Susan."

"Carter asked Mark for advice on buying a gift for someone."

Your heart does a weird little flip. "Okay?"

"A romantic gift. For someone he has feelings for but hasn't told yet." Susan's overseeing your face. "He was very specific about wanting it to be thoughtful and personal, not generic."

"That could be anyone," you say, but your voice sounds unconvincing even to your own ears.

"Could be," Susan agrees. "Except Carol saw him staring at you for a full five minutes yesterday while you were talking to a patient. He didn't even blink. It was actually kind of creepy, but also kind of sweet?"

Carol appears in the doorway as if summoned. "Are we talking about Carter's massive crush?"

"We are not—there's no crush," you protest.

"Honey." Carol sits down next to Susan, and you realize you're being tag-teamed. "I've known you for four years. We've been through hell together in this ER. Remember when that guy came in with the chainsaw injury and you held my hair back when I threw up afterward?"

"Your point?"

"My point is, I know you. And I've seen the way you look at Carter when you think no one's watching." She softens her voice. "You like him too."

You open your mouth to deny it, but the words don't come. Because she's right. You do like him. You've liked him for months now, maybe longer. You like his earnestness, his dedication, the way he really listens to patients. You like how he gets excited about diagnoses, how he's always trying to learn, how he brings in donuts for the nurses without being asked. You like his smile, rare but genuine, and the way his hair falls across his forehead when he's been running around the ER for hours.

"Oh my God," Susan says, reading your face. "You do like him."

"This is a disaster," you mutter, dropping your head into your hands.

"This is not a disaster," Carol says firmly. "This is perfect. You both like each other, you're both just too chicken to do anything about it."

"We work together. It's complicated."

"So do me and Doug," Carol points out. "So does literally everyone in this hospital who's ever dated. It's only as complicated as you make it."

Susan nods. "Plus, it's kind of romantic. Secret Santa and secret feelings? Very Hallmark movie."

"My life is not a Hallmark movie."

"It could be," Carol says with a grin. "Just wait for the gift exchange tomorrow. I have a feeling it's going to be interesting."

She's not wrong.

Saturday arrives with the kind of organized chaos that only an ER during the holidays can produce. There's a multi-car pileup on the expressway, two cases of food poisoning from a office party, and a Santa Claus with a dislocated shoulder from a mall incident. By the time the Secret Santa exchange rolls around in the early evening, you're exhausted, covered in various bodily fluids, and seriously considering just going home.

But the tradition is sacred, apparently, so you find yourself crowded into the lounge with what feels like the entire ER staff. Mark is playing Santa, wearing a hat that Weaver produced from somewhere. Doug is making jokes about his gift being "the gift of his presence." Carol is trying to organize people into some semblance of order.

And Carter is standing in the corner, looking like he might pass out.

You catch his eye across the room, and he goes pale. Actually pale. Susan, standing next to you, notices and elbows you gently.

"He looks terrified," she whispers.

"Maybe he got stuck with Kerry for Secret Santa," you whisper back.

But then Mark starts calling names, and people begin exchanging gifts. There's laughter, some gag gifts, and some genuinely thoughtful ones. Carol gets a beautiful scarf that makes her tear up a little. Doug receives a book called "Feelings for Dummies" that makes everyone laugh. Mark gets fancy coffee that he immediately opens and starts brewing.

Then Mark calls your name.

Your stomach flips. You make your way to the front of the room, hyperaware of everyone watching. Mark hands you a wrapped package—not large, but carefully done, with neat corners and a real ribbon, not the curling kind from a roll.

"Secret Santa says this is for you," Mark says with a smile that seems to know more than it should.

You look around the room, trying to figure out who drew your name, and your eyes land on Carter. He's gripping his coffee cup so hard his knuckles are white, and he's staring at you with an expression of such naked hope and terror that your breath catches.

Oh.

Your hands shake slightly as you unwrap the gift. The paper falls away to reveal a book—not just any book, but a first edition of your favorite novel, the one you mentioned once, months ago, in passing during a quiet moment at the admit desk. You'd been talking about comfort reads, about the books you return to when the world feels too heavy, and you'd mentioned this one. You can't believe he remembered.

But it's not just the book. Tucked inside is a bookmark, clearly handmade, with a quote from the novel carefully written in what you recognize as Carter's precise handwriting. Below the quote, he's written: "For the quiet moments between the chaos. -J.C."

Your eyes blur with tears. It's so thoughtful, so personal, so perfectly chosen that you can't quite process it. This isn't a generic gift. This is someone paying attention, someone who listens, someone who cares.

You look up, and Carter is watching you with barely concealed anxiety. The room has gone quiet, everyone sensing something significant is happening.

"Carter?" you say softly.

He sets down his coffee cup and crosses the room, and suddenly you're standing face to face, the book clutched to your chest, and everyone else might as well not exist.

"I hope it's okay," he says, his voice low and rushed. "I know it's maybe too much for Secret Santa, but when I saw it at the bookstore, I just—I remembered you talking about it, and I thought—I mean, I wanted—" He stops, takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair in that nervous gesture you've come to recognize. "I'm your Secret Santa. Obviously. You probably figured that out."

"Carter—"

"And I know this is probably not the right time or place, and we work together, and there are all these reasons why this is complicated, but I just—" He's rambling now, the words tumbling out like he can't stop them. "I really like you. I have for a while now. Months, actually. Maybe longer. And I know I've been acting weird lately, everyone's probably noticed, I walked into a supply closet the other day because I was distracted watching you, which Mark will probably never let me live down—"

"You really did that?" you interrupt, fighting a smile.

"So you heard about that." He winces. "Great. That's... great. But yes, I did, and it's because I can't seem to think straight when you're around, and I've been trying to figure out how to tell you, and then I drew your name for Secret Santa, and it felt like maybe it was a sign, or at least an opportunity, and—" He stops abruptly, seeming to realize he's been talking for a while. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous."

"I've noticed," you say softly. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "Carter, this gift is... it's perfect. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever given me."

His face lights up with hope. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You take a breath, aware that everyone in the lounge is watching but finding you don't really care. "And for the record, I like you too. I have for a while."

"You—really?" He looks stunned, like this possibility never occurred to him.

"Really. I thought I was being obvious about it, actually. Carol and Susan certainly figured it out."

"We did!" Carol calls from somewhere behind you, and there's scattered laughter.

Carter doesn't seem to hear her. He's staring at you like you've just told him he won the lottery. "I can't believe—I mean, I hoped, but I didn't think—" He stops, shakes his head, and suddenly he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "Can I take you to dinner? After shift? Or before shift? Or literally any time you're free?"

"Yes," you say, and you're smiling too, so wide your cheeks hurt. "Any of those times. All of those times."

"Okay. Good. That's—that's really good." He's still smiling, and he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the antiseptic smell that clings to everyone in the ER. "Is it okay if I—can I kiss you? Is that—is this okay?"

Your answer is to close the distance between you, rising up on your toes to press your lips to his. For a moment, he freezes in surprise, but then his hands come up to cup your face, gentle and sure, and he's kissing you back with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. But then his fingers slide into your hair, and you grip the front of his lab coat, and the kiss deepens into something that feels like a promise. He tastes like coffee and mint, and the way he holds you—like you're precious, like you're something to be treasured—makes your heart swell.

When you finally break apart, breathless, the lounge erupts in cheers and applause. Carter's face is flushed, his lips slightly swollen, and he's looking at you with such open adoration that you feel heat flood your cheeks.

"Best Secret Santa ever," Doug calls out, and everyone laughs.

Carter ignores them all, his attention focused entirely on you. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmurs, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"Me too," you admit.

"Yeah?" That hopeful note is back in his voice, like he still can't quite believe this is real.

"Yeah." You lean into his touch, the book still clutched between you. "Thank you for the gift. For paying attention. For being brave enough to say something."

"Thank you for not running away when I started rambling," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "I know I can be a lot sometimes."

"You're not a lot. You're just right." You kiss him again, quick and sweet, and his smile against your lips is the best thing you've felt all day.

Around you, the party continues. Someone turns on music. Carol catches your eye and gives you a thumbs up. Susan is grinning like she just won a bet—she probably did. Mark is shaking his head with an amused smile.

But you barely notice any of it. You're too focused on Carter, on the way he's holding your hand now, his fingers laced through yours, on the way he keeps looking at you like he can't quite believe his luck.

"So," he says, "about that dinner. Are you free tonight? After shift?"

"I'm free," you confirm. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Honestly, I was so focused on the gift and working up the courage to tell you how I feel that I didn't plan past this point." He laughs, a little embarrassed. "I have no idea. Somewhere nice? Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk?"

"Anywhere is fine," you say. "As long as it's with you."

His smile could light up the entire ER. "I really like you," he says again, like he needs to make sure you know, like he's still amazed he gets to say it out loud.

"I really like you, too, Carter."

And when he kisses you again, soft and sweet and full of promise, you think that maybe Carol was right. Maybe your life is a little bit like a Hallmark movie. And maybe, just this once, that's perfectly okay.

The ER will still be chaotic tomorrow. There will still be emergencies and long shifts, and difficult cases. But right now, in this moment, with Carter's hand in yours and his smile warming you from the inside out, everything feels exactly right.

Best Secret Santa ever, indeed.

“carter,” her small whine echoed against the pallid walls of the empty resident room. john was hunched over a thick textbook, his head in his hands. without looking up he muttered, “yes?” she took a few steps closer and dangled her bloodied extremity in front of his face.

he shot up out of his seat, “what the hell did you do?” he cradled her hand between the two of his like a broken baby bird, gently inspecting it.

“got in the way of benton’s scalpel,” she huffed. lifting poorly packed bandage, john could see the laceration was deep. gaping with an almost perfect incision. rbenton’s steady hands were a blessing, otherwise the resulting scar would be quite unsightly. at the loss of the makeshift clot, blood pooled around the wound and dripped into carter’s palm.

“were you in on a surgery?” his jealousy was thinly veiled. still, he turned her hand to look for any other scrapes. she smirked, “it was just a truama. i excised a bullet. no big deal or anything.” her voice was dripping in an unadulterated pride. she didn’t have much to be proud of, really. immediately after removing the bullet she got in the way and missed an opportunity to pull out another one for the sake of saving her own hand. but john didn’t need to know that.

“you’re kidding,” he drops her hand in surprise, or anger, she wasn’t sure. she yelped at the movement. john’s eyes widened as he hurried to softly pick it up once more, “sorry, sorry,” he winced. “benton said you’d doctor me up. now doctor me up.” she shoved her hand against his. he hurriedly nodded.

john sat her down on the bed and snapped on blue latex gloves. he rolled between her legs with a suture kit. he softly placed her hand upon the overbed table, which was dressed with protective blue paper. he scooted a little closer to her. his legs were spread wide, knees pressing against her dangling claves.

finally he began to remove the clumsily clad ace wrap. she hissed as it pulled against her skin. a soothing thumb rubbed over her knuckles as he shushed her like a child. “jesus,” he whispered.

she felt a rapid wave of nausea wrack her body. so she made a point to look at carter’s face rather than the open flesh of her limb. “how’s your day going? any fun stories?”

the apples of his cheeks swelled as he smiled, “someone’s been hogging all the fun.” one hand laid beneath her’s - warm and comforting - as he searched the kit for saline.

she snorted, “yeah open wounds are real exciting.” he shook his head, gap toothed grin still prodding at his cheeks despite his better judgement. that smile made her face all hot. every time she made him laugh at one of her jokes, or he threw her a lopsided smirk, without fail, her heart skipped a beat. she would have to rasp her next breath, heat flooding her chest.

he placed a small metal bowl beneath where he held up her hand. she had never noticed just how big his hand was compared to her own. he was so big. tall. “this is gonna burn,” he warned. she nodded. fluid flooded the gash. she whimpered, flinching away at the pain but john’s grip was unrelenting.

with wide doe eyes he whispered, “sorry.” she bit her lip, “it hurts like hell.” john dabbed at the blood on the surrounding skin with a tissue. “need me to kiss it better?” he teased, flashing those pretty teeth. she rolled her eyes. “shut up and fix me.”

john pushed the metal tray to the side and began to prep his needle. “any deeper and youd’ve been out of surgery for weeks.” his nimble fingers steady against the back of her hand. “i bet you’d like tha-” she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp as the first stitch goes in, “fuck.”

before she can apologize carter lightly squeezes her fingers, “it’s okay.” she screws her eyes up tight and twists her neck as if looking away would make the pain go away. “we can’t have you out of comission, i think the whole place might go up in flames.” she bit back a smile, “yeah right.” he nodded, “no, really. who would wrap all the sprains and do the paperwork?” that made her giggle.

a calm quiet settled over the two. he made quick work of sewing her back together. intermittently he would give her a gentle squeeze of encouragement to fend away the hurt. after tying off her stitches he wrapped her up neatly as an extra precaution.

finally he sighed “all better,” in the sickly sweet voice he put on for little kids and dementia patients. it made her stomach flutter. he haphazardly threw his reddened gloves into the metal pan.

“thank you.” her uninjured hand floated above his head to pick at his hair idly, “next time there’s a bullet to pull out of a guy’s ass i’ll let you have at it.” her hand fell to her lap, though his head distractedly followed the motion in desire for more of her doting touch. head dipped, big eyes flickering about her face he muttered, “his… his ass?” he had processed her words seconds late.

she nodded and with a shared look they both laughed. john was closer now, he had pushed the table away. “you lost your hand for ass surgery?” he hadn’t let go of that injured hand since he had removed his gloves. both hands enveloping her smaller one.

“it was for a noble cause,” she giggled. his thumbs gently traced over the bandaging. he snapped back into doctor mode. “i’ll take them out next week. if they snap let me know.” she hummed in agreement.

“you’re good with your hands, doc,” she teased, leaning down toward him. soft silence befell them. he played with her small fingers, pad of his thumb running over every one of her polished nails.

john shot her a distant look, “your nails are pretty.” he seemed much giddier than normal. it was a tad unsettling but she was in no hurry to get away from him. his kindness made her heart swell. it took everything in her not to grab him by the hair and shove her tongue in his mouth.

“carter?” she poked her toe into the side of his thigh. he finally fully met her eye, “hm?” his cheeks were bright red. her smile hurt her cheeks, “you okay?”

he shook his head. her brows knotted together in concern. but he was leaning up toward her. it didn’t take much to close the space. and suddenly his soft pink lips were so close and her head felt fuzzy and concern for him was the last thing she felt.

“john.” she warned breathily. the tip of his nose brushed her cheek, “you’ve never called me that. don’t start now.”

“carter - i -“ her sputtering was cut short by his lips crashing into her own.

john was gentle. slow. his big hand cupped her cheek, the other on her shoulder. afraid she may disappear if he got too eager. she was the one who became all excited and sloppy. her fingers threaded into his messy hair and tugged him closer, though it wasn’t possible to get any closer. her tongue grazed his lower lip and his breath quickened.

he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, pulling her to the very edge of the bed so they were chest to chest. spit swam messily between their mouths, teeth clashed, and as he pulled away for a taunt gasp of air a string of drool pulled between them.

forehead resting against his, she snorted, “ew,” and wiped at the dribble. a pager screeched a blaring chorus of beeps making them both jump. john patted his lab coat.

“it’s me,” he huffed in frustration, showing her the face of the device. she wiped at her mouth, “go on,” she motioned to the door.

he began to stand up, “but - but you’ll be here, right?” she laughed, “john i’ll be here for another eight hours. yeah.” he looked around, shy as an alter boy despite his kiss-chapped lips.

“i… i like you,” he muttered. she nodded, “you know, i think i’ve put that together now.” outside the door someone shouted his name in a deep, gruff voice. he instinctively made for the door but stopped clumsily in the doorway. she watched him in childish delight.

You’re used to the nurses’ gossip; sometimes it’s unfounded, so you’ve learned to check your sources with Carol and Jerry to know what’s true. You take your chart to the front desk and return it to the stack. You lean on the desk, drumming your fingers.

“Hey, Jerry.”

He nods. “Hey. Woman with a head lac in Curtain Two. Shattered a vase and cut herself.”

“Okay. Do you know where Benton is?”

Jerry snorts. “Sure. He’s tending to His Highness, Howard Davis.”

“Who?”

“We have a medical wing named after him.” He rubs two fingers together. “Y’know?”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah, and get this: Carter went to school with his son. Davis called him Johnny.”

“Johnny?” You grin. Carter is so not a Johnny.

“Yup.” Jerry pops the ‘p.’ “Swift came in and had me call Chicago’s greats just ‘cause Davis had a little cut on his hand.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got our priorities in order,” you say, laughing.

“Sure. Wish I had a medical wing to donate.”

The phone rings. You take that as your cue to go tend to the woman behind the curtain. She’s deeply apologetic, even though you assure her that this is what you’re here for. You need to up your procedure count anyway. You’re pretty sure Benton will give Carter the surgery internship next year, but Mark Greene had told you that he’d be thrilled to have you back in the ER. It’s not your first choice, considering you want to be a chief of surgery one day, but you switched hospitals halfway through your rotation this year. You’re lucky to be offered anything at Cook County in the first place.

Besides, you like it here. You like the doctors, the staff… you like Carter too, even if he can be a little bit of a pain during times like these, when you have to compete for opportunities. But he’s been nothing but nice to you since you arrived, and he’s shown you all the ropes he could. 

And he’s rich? Jesus. You wonder why he’s even here. Surely, he could do anything, right?

“Okay, Mrs. Maldonado,” you say, finishing the woman’s stitches. “You’re all set. If you feel dizzy or nauseous, return immediately, okay?”

She thanks you and apologizes one last time before going to be discharged. You return that chart to the desk, then head for the stairs, on the hunt for Benton. He’d hinted at a chance for you to scrub into a hernia repair, and you want to make sure he hasn’t forgotten. 

But Benton comes out of the elevator before you can go upstairs, flanked by Carter and who you assume to be Davis. His hand is wrapped, and he’s talking animatedly about horses. Benton looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Hi, Dr. Benton,” you say quietly. “Can I still scrub into the hernioplasty?”

“Yeah, fine. One sec.” He turns to Davis, who has stopped talking, and is now studying you. You smile, and he smiles back, but it’s not warm.

“Mr. Davis, it was a pleasure,” Benton says. “I hope your hand heals fast.”

“You did excellent work,” Davis says, patting Benton’s shoulder. “It was good to see Johnny again.” He gestures to you. “And you must be the girl who got Johnny’s heart!”

Your eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry?”

Carter is slicing his throat with his hand behind Davis, shaking his head urgently. Play along! he mouths. Your gaze flicks from him to Davis. 

“Uh…”

“Oh, don’t be shy. Johnny told me all about you. Dating another medical student, well, I guess that figures. I told him he should catch up with Katrina, my daughter, but he can’t with you keeping him honest. Tell me, where did you go to school?”

“I went to Illinois State for my undergrad,” you say.

Davis looks you over. “Uh-huh. I see. And you two are in the same program?”

“That’s right, sir,” Carter says. “That’s how we met.”

You open your mouth to correct him, but Benton, by all the graces of God, interrupts.

“I’m really so sorry, Mr. Davis, but I need my students back. They’re scrubbing into a surgery. You understand, I hope.” Benton doesn’t sound sorry at all. You love it. 

“Oh, sure, sure.” Davis waves his uninjured hand. “Of course, Dr. Benton. Keep up the great work, you and John. Johnny, I’ll see you and this young lady for dinner tonight, yes? Seven sharp.”

“We can’t, unfortunately, as I mentioned before, sir. We’re on-call till midnight,” Carter says, rubbing his hands like he's washing them. A nervous habit. You've noticed that Carter's hands get cracked and red on colder days like these; you've been meaning to give him a pocket lotion, identical to the one you keep in your coat. “We’re not able to get off early.”

“For one night! I think the hospital can survive. Benton, can you let these kids go for a few hours?”

Benton smiles flatly. “Of course, Mr. Davis. We can survive.”

“Fantastic! Johnny, I’ll send the car. You know how that goes.” He nods at you, a little stilted. “And you. Don’t worry about wearing your scrubs. I’m sure it’d be too much trouble for you to change. Johnny’s always dressed up, aren’t you, John?”

Carter rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—habit from my dad, I guess.”

Davis laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard in a decade. “You’re right about that! Well, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

He pats Carter’s shoulder and leaves. Carter shoves his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding both your and Benton’s gaze.

“Didn’t know I’d stolen your heart, Johnny,” you say, hands on your hips.

“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know about him,” Benton says. “Carter here liked riding horses before he came to slum it with us, didn’t you?”

Carter sighs. “Dr. Benton, can we have a minute?”

Benton rolls his eyes. “Both of you finish your charting, and then I’ll see you for the hernia.” He points to you. “Got it?”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Great. We should be finished by the time the car arrives, Mr. Carter.”

Carter winces as Benton walks away. You tilt your head.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Uh-huh. Since when are you loaded and dating me? All in one afternoon? Should I expect a ring tomorrow?”

“I’m not loaded, my parents are.”

“Yeah, that’s what rich kids say to attempt modesty. You raced horses?” you ask.

“I didn't race, it was dressage. With an Icelandic pony. Look—”

“A pony? I thought ponies couldn’t be ridden.”

“Some are bred to be ridden. Can I just explain?”

“Wait, I have another question. Is caviar really worth the hype? ‘Cause it looks like those decorative beads that they sell at Pier One, and I’ve always thought it was really weird how obsessed some people are with eating animal embryos and babies.”

Carter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Um, I haven’t had it in a long time, but from what I remember, it was only okay. Can we talk now?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, herding you into an empty on-call room. He turns on the light and closes the door. You sit on the bed and watch Carter pace a few times before speaking.

“Okay, so, I went to school with Mr. Davis’ son, Greg, as you might have heard. And Davis started talking about Katrina, his daughter, who’s a year younger than Greg and I.”

“Greg and me,” you say.

Carter stops pacing. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Greg and me’ ‘cause it wouldn’t make sense if you said ‘Katrina is a year younger than I.’ Well, I guess you could say that, but it sounds really weird, like strangely archaic and formal—”

“Seriously? Now?”

You shrug. “Okay, whatever. I guess I expected more from—where’d you graduate? Vanderbilt?”

“Brown. If this is you trying to soothe my nerves, it’s not working.” Carter's a little unkempt, which isn't unusual after a full shift, but you're only three hours in. His stethoscope is slung unevenly around his neck. You reach up to pull one end down so it's even. He blinks at you. 

“You’re right,” you say solemnly. “This requires drastic measures. I’ll tell Alfred to fetch the smelling salts immediately, Mr. Wayne.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and you smile, happy he’s a little less tense. Tense Carter is never fun to witness. He sits next to you on the bed. You pat his back, encouraging him to keep explaining. 

“Davis was asking me about my life and… y’know, women in my life. He started talking about Katrina, and how she’s ‘managing a bank, but she’s still unmarried! Ain’t that a damn shame!”’

You grimace. “What century is this guy from?”

Carter scoffs. “Not ours or the last. He’s really old-fashioned. He told me that Katrina’s visiting him in Chicago for work and he’d love for us to catch up, and I… I panicked.” He groans, running his hands through his hair and tugging the ends. “I’m sorry. Your name was the first I thought of. I said we’ve been together for a year.”

“Why don’t you just go out to dinner once with Katrina and then tell her you don’t feel a spark, or whatever?”

Carter blows out a slow breath. “No, that wouldn’t work. She’s… God forgive me, honestly, I don’t like saying this about people, but she’s crazy. She set this girl’s hair on fire in her junior year because the girl slept with Katrina’s boyfriend. Katrina was drunk, but…” 

“Yeesh,” you say. “I take it there was no disciplinary action?”

“The dean tried, but Davis just threw money at him, and it all went away. Katrina was back in school a few weeks later. Even Greg would warn his friends not to get involved with her. She was out of control for years, and I can’t imagine she’s much different now.” He looks at you, eyes big and pitiful. “I’m really sorry. Maybe we can say we have to be quarantined for tuberculosis or something.”

You hum. “We could. Or we can just go to dinner for a few hours and then Jerry can page us back to the hospital. That way, Davis won’t hound you to meet him again.”

Carter’s eyebrows lift. “You’re taking this really well, considering I just threw this at you.”

“Oh, well, you had a fantastic reason. Johnny Carter is never caught unawares!”

He shakes his head. “I always hated when he called me that. I never felt like a Johnny.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s either John or Carter. Do you have a middle name?”

“Truman.”

“Yikes.”

He snorts. “My dad’s John Truman Carter Jr. So…”

You smile slowly. “Oh, Carter. You cannot tell anyone else that. They will literally never let you live down John Truman Carter the Third.”

He flops back onto the bed horizontally. “Tell me about it. I thought I could graduate without anyone finding out about my family. I don’t want anyone to treat me differently just ‘cause he has money. I’m still the same guy you all know.”

You lie down next to him, propping your head on your hand. One of his suspender straps has slipped down his shoulder, so you pull it back up. You smooth his tie. 

“You’re still Carter to me,” you say. “But the suspenders make a lot more sense.”

He smiles and looks down at his shirt. You’ve never noticed how long his lashes are; this close, you can see that they cast shadows on his cheeks.

“My dad made me wear them for most of my life. Never thought twice about it, honestly.”

“I think they’re dashing. Do they get the ladies hot? Do said ladies snap them against your skin?”

“Oh my God,” he says, cheeks pinking. “No comment.”

“That’s absolutely a yes!”

“New subject. Are you sure you want to do this? I can find a way to get you out of this. You shouldn't have to suffer just because of my stupid mouth.”

Carter’s mouth isn't stupid at all, though you don't say so. He's got a perfect mouth, actually. It's pink and when he smiles, his mouth turns upside-down, which you didn't expect the first time you met him. When he shows his teeth, it's even better. Carter has the cutest grin. You look at his mouth now, how it's pulled into a frown. You want to trace his lips until he smiles again. 

“I don't mind,” you say. “He's a super important guy, right? Donated a lot to the hospital? We should keep him happy.”

Carter scowls. “This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I thought the days of meeting my dad's friends and listening to their ridiculous, out-of-touch problems were over. I chose my own path, and I still can't escape them.” 

He presses his palms to his eyes. You take a moment to look at the shape of him: his long legs bent over the edge of the bed, his striped white shirt tucked into his pants, the lean lines of his torso. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You savor moments like these, despite his freakout. Carter's the only one who makes you feel like a person at work. He sat with you last month when you lost a little boy in emergency surgery and held your hand while you cried. He's brought you countless bagels and coffees and vending machine chips. Sometimes you just sit together, when you have a second to spare. 

“Carter.” You touch his chest. It's warm. He runs so warm, and it surprises you every time. “It'll be fine. You're still on your own path. One dinner won't derail your independence.”

It's beginning to click now, why Carter takes mistakes so personally, like he's failed himself over and over. Why he was desperate to move out, why he never speaks about his family, and why he never has any plans for the holidays. He's mentioned his brother's cancer once to you, nothing else. 

He lifts his hands. “I know. It's just, Davis can be a little much. You shouldn't have to deal with it.”

“I can be couth. Address the one percent.”

“I didn't mean it like that. You're amazing. He can be brash. There's a reason Greg moved across the country to be away from him.”

“I think I'll be okay,” you say. “Don't worry, Carter. You will owe me, though.”

Carter nods like he was expecting that. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“I have to think about it.” You hop off the bed and extend a hand. “C'mon, Kentucky Derby. We need to get back to saving the world.”

Carter takes your hand and stands. “That doesn't even make sense. I didn’t race.”

“Well, I don't know any famous dressage competitions. That's outside of my tax bracket.” 

The hernia repair goes well. Benton lets you go with minimal grumbling, maybe because he realizes that Swift will be on his ass if Davis complains. You change out of your scrubs, Davis’ comment still ringing in your ears. You dress professionally when the occasion calls for it, and you always have a set of work clothes in your locker. Mostly, you wear scrubs or t-shirts you don’t mind getting blood on.

Benton has never commented on it, nor has Mark, so you stuck to it, prioritizing comfort and hygiene over anything else. It’s a hospital, not Fashion Week.

But as you change and look yourself over in the bathroom, you’re wishing you had the means to make more of an effort. Your hair is styled efficiently, out of your face, protecting it until the next wash. Your face is plain, skin free of jewelry. It’s too much of a work hazard with grabby or drunk patients, and you sweat frequently, running around the way you do.

You lean in to inspect your skin, the hair on your face, natural discoloration around your features. The change of clothes helps; you’re in a nice pink blouse and dark pants. The last time you wore this was for a meeting with Morgenstern about a scholarship opportunity. 

There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, almost ready? I think the car’s outside.” Carter.

“Yep, ready!” You smooth your shirt down and grab your stuff, opening the door.

Carter’s got his coat on, in his usual digs, but there’s no reason for him to worry about appearances. Now that you know about his family, it’s easy to imagine him in a room full of elites, wearing a sports jacket and drinking expensive scotch or champagne. Hate it or not, you’re sure Carter’s really good at mingling with people like that. He was one of them. Is.

“Is this okay?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“You look nice.” He smiles, but it’s a little confused. “You didn’t have to change, though.”

“No one wants me in my stinky scrubs,” you say breezily, turning to put on your coat so you don’t have to look at Carter.

He sighs, and when you look at him, he’s frowning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Carter, don’t be a silly goose. You said the car’s waiting, right? Let’s go.”

He reluctantly follows you out, through the hospital, and into the cold February air. You tuck your scarf tighter around your neck. Carter takes your hand and points at a black towncar. 

“I think that’s it.”

The seats are soft and leathery. You’re almost afraid to sit, worried you’ll ruin it. Carter chats with the driver, and if he’s nervous about dinner, it doesn’t show. You watch the city blur past, content to let Carter take the lead. At work, you’re clever and ambitious, and you and Carter have even gone toe-to-toe a couple times.

The medical field is already difficult enough; going into surgery as a woman is about twelve times harder. Benton respects you… you think he does, anyway. He’s tough on everyone, which comforts you. But you know most surgical residents aren’t like him. There’s a certain demographic that enters this field. 

Carter touches your wrist gently, and you look at him.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “I’m fine, Carter.”

He laughs a little. “Probably shouldn’t call me Carter at dinner. None of my girlfriends called me Carter.”

It’s just pretend, just for tonight, but Carter calling you his girlfriend sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’ve seen and even met a few women he’s dated, or, more accurately, had flings with. He’s affectionate, clingy when he thinks he has privacy.

For a while, you hated how your body reacted to the sight of him with women. Carter is technically your competitor, and liking him is only a distraction. Now you’re friends, but it was frustrating at the beginning, trying not to like him. Carter’s sweet, which made it worse. 

At least now you have no conflicts. You’ve accepted how you feel, you just bury it. 

“John, then.” It’s unusual coming out of your mouth, but it’s nice. “I guess you should call me by my first name too.”

He nods. “For sure. I told Jerry to page us at eight.”

“Only an hour?” You grin. “No faith in me?”

“No faith in me,” he says. “I’d rather do a hundred rectal temp checks.”

“Oh my God, it can’t be that bad!” you say, laughing.

“No, it won’t be. I haven’t done this in years. I’m just intolerant, I guess.”

The car pulls up to the establishment: Gibson’s, an upscale American bar and grill. Carter gets out and comes around to your door so you don’t have to slide across the seat. He opens the door and takes your hand, helping you out.

“Such a gentleman,” you say.

“Sometimes,” he says, a little bashful. His cheeks are flushed with cold. “Remember, we’ve been dating a year. We met at school.”

“Got it.” 

Carter links your arm with his. You walk in together. Carter gives his name and helps you out of your coat to give it to the coat check attendant. You rush to unwrap your scarf, and Carter holds your shoulder, a silent message. Relax. You slow down. You deserve to be here too. You were invited, after all.

You’re brought to the table, where Davis is already seated. He waves, calling Carter over. Carter pulls your chair out for you, then pushes you in. He takes his seat next to you. 

“I’m so pleased you could make it,” Davis says, like you had a choice. “Nice having a break from the hospital, eh?”

“We like our work, but it’s nice to have a break,” Carter says diplomatically. “What’s good here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I already put an order in for three ribeyes.” He points at you. “It’ll knock your socks off.”

“Mr. Davis, we appreciate that, but she doesn’t eat red meat,” Carter says.

Davis squints at you. “Since when? Some fad diet?”

“No, it’s just a personal choice. We see a lot of heart problems in the ER, so I’ve been cutting back. But it’s okay, I can—”

Carter interrupts your excuse. “Mr. Davis, surely you understand. She’d really prefer to eat something else.”

Davis sighs like he killed the cow himself. “Sure, fine. A little beef does you some good, you know. John here loves steak! Should’ve found yourself a steak-lover, Johnny.”

Carter just presses his lips together. You awkwardly fold your hands in your lap as Davis waves over a waiter to give you a menu. You order quickly, not wanting to prolong the tension. 

“So, tell me, what do your parents do?” Davis asks. 

“My mother is a teacher, my dad was a mechanic. He retired.”

“Hm. They must be glad you’re becoming a doctor.”

“Yes, they’re very proud,” you say.

“Costly, though. You must be drowning in debt.”

You stutter, surprised at his bluntness. “Oh, um, I was fortunate enough to get some merit scholarships, and other aid, but yes, it’s expensive. I have loans, but who doesn’t, right?”

Davis is silent. Right. No one at this table shoulders loans. You glance at Carter, who looks exhausted already.

“Katrina’s on the board for PNC Bank,” Davis says. “No decent guys at work, though. You’d think that the higher you go, the better the options, but no luck.”

“I’m sure she’ll find someone,” Carter says.

“Has she tried those matchmaking services?” you ask. “I had a friend who got married through one of those, and she’s happy.”

Davis raises an eyebrow. “My daughter can find a good fellow on her own.”

“It was only a suggestion,” Carter says. “The Maynors did the same thing with their daughter.”

Davis hisses through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. That’s because Alexis Maynor had nothing going for her. No looks, no charm, not even a viable career. I suppose if you’re that desperate, you have to rely on those kinds of things.”

Jesus. If this is how Davis is, you’d hate to meet either of his children. 

“So, a teacher. What does your mother teach?” Davis asks.

“She teaches high school biology.”

He raises a brow. “And she didn’t want to become a doctor herself?”

“I think she liked teaching more. She likes the kids and the schedule.”

“Ah, well. Not everyone can do. Some must teach.”

You tuck your tongue into your cheek, trying not to snap. “Respectfully, Mr. Davis, all of history’s greats would never have become great without a good teacher.”

“And yet we never hear about them,” Davis says, chuckling. 

The waiter arrives then with your food—truly wonderful timing. You wish you had a clock to know how much longer you have to put up with this. Hopefully not long. You can weather through it; he’s not much worse than the smarmy classmates and older doctors you’ve dealt with.

“So Johnny, when are you getting married?”

Carter’s cutting his steak with laser focus. He glances at you, then clears his throat. “We haven’t really discussed it, sir.”

Davis guffaws. “Johnny, I didn’t mean you two. Oh, I’m sure you’re a splendid girl,” he says to you. “But Johnny, you need a family woman. Someone who’ll take care of you at home.”

“I take care of myself just fine,” Carter says, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “And we’re very happy together.”

“Two doctors? Your schedules will never work. You’ll fall apart within a year. Not to mention, Jack and Eleanor wouldn’t approve.” He waves a hand at you. “Surely, you can find someone more your speed, huh?”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Someone who shares your background! You can’t have much in common, besides the hospital. What are you specializing in, anyway? Pediatrics? Gynecology?"

You can’t believe it. Davis saw you right next to Carter and Benton. He saw Benton speak to you, address you as his student. And he… what? Assumed you were lost?

You take a slow breath. In, out. “No, actually, I’m studying surgery. I want to be a chief of surgery.”

“A female chief of surgery, wow. Someone’s got big dreams. Johnny, this is what I mean—you don’t want a girl who’s competing with you for the same spot.”

“You know what?” Carter throws his napkin onto his plate and stands. Several people’s heads turn.

“Mr. Davis, you’ve been unbelievably rude tonight. Just because you’re a friend of my father’s doesn’t mean you have any right to judge what I do or who I love. This woman here is fantastic. Her. Right here.”

Carter thrusts a hand at you. You lower your eyes briefly, not wanting to see Davis’ irate expression. But then you look at Carter, and his intensity steals the air from your lungs.

“I’m in love with her! I’d be proud to call her my wife someday. She’s a great doctor, and if she became chief, it would be well-deserved. I am more than my family. I barely see my parents these days, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give a shit about what they think. This is my path. My life. She’s in it, in a big way, and you aren’t.”

Your and Carter’s pagers beep then, and you’d laugh at the timing if Davis wasn’t turning an interesting shade of red. Carter turns the alert off.

“That’s the hospital. We have to go.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses a few bills onto the table. “For our share. And by the way? Katrina’s a bully, and so are you. That’s why she can’t get married.”

Carter helps you out of your chair, then rests an arm around your back as you go to the coat check. Soon enough, the restaurant resumes its usual bustle, letting you leave in peace. Carter’s quiet the whole time. You follow him outside where he tries to flag down a cab in vain. 

“Carter,” you say softly.

He checks his watch and grumbles, failing to wave another cab. “What, do they have somewhere to be?” he mutters. 

“John.”

Carter looks at you, mouth twitching at the name. “Yeah?”

You sigh. “You should go back. Apologize. He’ll complain to Swift. What if you get kicked out?”

“He wouldn’t go that far,” Carter says. “My dad’s a jerk, but if he ever found out Davis was the reason I got dropped from the program, he’d go after him.”

“Still, it wasn’t—I’m not worth all that trouble. You can still smooth things over. Say you had a hard day, say we fought or something.”

Carter blinks at you. “Not worth—what are you talking about? Of course you’re worth it. He was totally out of line. That shit he said about your mom? God, who the hell does he think he is?”

“It was out of line, Carter, but you and I are just friends. We were pretending, remember? It’s not like any of that stuff about you loving me is true.”

Carter glances at the road, the pavement, anywhere but your eyes. Your heart thumps in your chest.

“Carter?” Your voice is weak. “Is it?”

“There’s a reason I said your name,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. “It was… wishful thinking.”

You take a careful step forward. It’s freezing. You want to be wrapped in Carter’s warmth.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nods, staring at his shoes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say, not daring to breathe in case you fill your lungs and it all melts away. “I just thought of a way you can pay me back for tonight.”

The look Carter gives you tells you that he knows what you’ll say, but he needs to hear it anyway. “How?”

“Kiss me.”

He takes your face in his hands tenderly, thumbs rubbing your cheeks. He kisses you, his mouth warm and firm. Not stupid. His bangs tickle your forehead. You close your eyes and push his bangs back, raking your fingers through his hair. He makes a pleased sound and pulls you closer. You’ll never be cold again.

Carter pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, nose bumping your cheek. “You are worth it.”

“Gotta go, John’s having his wisdom teeth out.”

“Oh yeah, I thought he wasn’t going in till half 3, it’s only quarter past.”

She was right, but it was the dead of winter in Chicago, the roads would be pretty busy with gritters. You were also paranoid that your shitty old car wasn’t going to start, you made a mental note to look into getting a new one.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna get held up and I don’t want John to be sat there on his own while he’s loopy on pain meds.”

“Fair enough,” Liz laughed, “see you on Friday night for girl’s night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you grinned as you hugged her, kissing her cheek before leaving the library.

Just as you had expected, the traffic was awful and what should have been a 15-minute drive turned into a 45-minute drive. Doug Ross greeted you as you walked into the ER, shivering from the cold.

“Hey, there she is. Right on time.”

“Oh good,” you laugh, rubbing your hands together, “was panicking that I was gonna be late, traffic was a nightmare.”

“Benton, this is Y/N. Carter’s girlfriend.”

The older man looked at you almost like he was scanning you. John had told you all about him as he was working under him. He looked you up and down, “you’re Carter’s girlfriend, huh? You’re not what I imagined.”

Before you could ask him what he meant, Dr Greene grabbed you as he walked past, “hey, he’s all done, I’m just gonna go and get him a discharge form. He’s in the first room on the left.”

“Thanks Mark,” you smile as you walk down the corridor and into the room that Mark had directed you to.

It was pretty noisy in the room and it took you a little while to find the right bed. When you found him, your heart melted, he looked so cute sat on the edge of the bed, his cheeks slightly swollen and his eyes glazed over. He seemed to perk up, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he saw you walk in.

“Hi, you okay?”

“Uh huh,” he smiled like a loon, his speech slightly slurred, barely concealing a gasp as you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Dr Greene has gone to get a discharge form,” you say as you sit next to him, making sure he had all his things.

“I’m a doctor too, y’know,” he puffed out his chest, making you laugh. It must have been handy for John, getting dental surgery done at the hospital he worked at.

“Yeah, I know,” you spot Mark coming back with the discharge form, “come on, let’s get your stuff together so I can take you home.”

John blinked those puppy dog eyes at you, “you’re taking me home?”

“Yeah, of course, babe,” you say, distracted as Mark gives you the pain medication, “come on, Johnny.”

At your words, he instantly gets to his feet and he’s at your heels like a lost puppy, barely saying a word to his colleagues as you take him out to the car. All the way home, he gazed at you as his hand clung to yours.

You heated up some tomato soup for him when you got back to the apartment, placing it on the coffee table in front of him as you flicked the TV on. As John ate his soup, he kept on stealing little glances at you, almost as if he was in awe.

“You’re like so, so pretty,” he mumbles, leaning his head back against the couch as he looked at you, “just wish I knew who you were.”

You fought hard to smother a giggle, “you wanna know a secret?” you ask and he nodded at you, his eyes as big as saucers, “well,” you started as you straddled his waist. John’s eyes practically popped out of his head as you did this, as he gripped your hips, his fingertips pressing into your skin lightly, “I’m your girlfriend,” you whisper as you press a soft kiss to his lips.

The gasp he makes against your lips confirmed your suspicions and he pulled back slightly to look you in the eyes, “you’re my girlfriend? Really?”

“Really?” you affirmed.

His face lit up, “damn, I got the prettiest girl ever,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck, pressing small kisses to your skin, “so damn pretty. Prettiest girl alive.”

As it turns out, the pain meds not also made him loopy but it made him drowsy as well, John wandered off to the bedroom to take a little nap, demanding kisses as you tucked him up in bed, stroking his hair. He remerges at around 7pm when you’re making dinner, his hair is a mess and he’s got marks on his face from the pillow, he slept good by the looks of it.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

He groaned as he wraps his arms around you from behind, “like shit,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “I didn’t do anything embarrassing did I?”

You giggle as you lace your fingers through his, “well, you kinda forgot who I was.”

“Oh no,” he whines and you can feel his pout against your shoulder, “embarrassing.”

“You were adorable, and a little pathetic.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“But you love me.”

It was late, the hour where exhaustion catches up to everyone at once.

You were stretched out on the couch, half-asleep, resting your head on a pillow while looking at your phone, waiting for your son to tired off. Your two years old son, Tobias, was playing with his toy cars around the coffee table.

Frank was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of tea. His shoulders were tense, his body carried the stress of a long day in the ER.

All he needed was a quiet night with his family.

But there was nothing quiet about it.

Today you had meant to cover your glucose sensor after your afternoon shower, you always kept a protective patch, especially around a curious toddler. But running on low sleep and mom brain, you’d forgotten to patch it.

You’d explained to Tobias in simplified terms:

"Mommy’s button. No touch."

Your little boy paused in his playing, his eyes catching the white plastic disc peeking out from the sleeve of your t-shirt.

To a toddler, it looked like a sticker.

And stickers were meant to be peeled.

He toddled over, leaning against the couch. With zero malice and impulsive toddler curiosity, he pinched the edge of it and gave a hard yank.

The adhesive ripped violently off your skin, taking tiny hairs and a layer of dermis with it, while the flexible sensor filament pulled sharply out of your arm.

"Ouch! Baby, no!" you gasped, sitting up instantly as a stinging pain shot up your arm. A little blood immediately began to bead at the insertion site, trickling down toward your elbow.

The loud tear and your sharp cry echoed straight into the kitchen.

Frank set his mug down on the counter and strode into the room. The sight of blood, the discarded sensor on the floor, and you wincing in pain sent irritation and panic through him, which instantly manifested in authoritative anger.

"Hey!" Frank’s voice cracked across the room like a whip, far harsher and sharper than intended.

The sheer command in his voice startled the toddler. Tobias froze in his tracks, his bottom lip trembling, his eyes wide as he shrank back.

"Frank, wait-" you began, clutching your arm.

"We told you no!" Frank snapped, kneeling down abruptly in front of Tobias, his face tight with frustration. "No touch Mommy’s sensor! You do not pull on her like that!"

Tobias burst into loud tears, burying his face in his tiny hands as he sobbed.

Frank stood up, running a hand over his face. "Dammit, are you alright? Was it new?" He stepped toward you, his eyes scanning your arm with urgency. "He knows better. He has to learn he can't just rip the sensor off you."

"Frank, stop." you said softly, reaching out to catch his wrist. Your voice was calm against his blunt edge. "Love, please."

He looked at you, his jaw still set, his sharp eyes searching yours.

"It’s okay," you whispered gently, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. "It was my fault. I forgot to put the overpatch on after my shower. It was completely exposed."

"That doesn't mean he can just-"

"Frank," you interrupted softly, holding his gaze. "He’s two. He didn't mean to hurt me. He doesn't understand. He just acted on impulse."

Frank closed his eyes, taking a breath. He looked down at his son, who was weeping uncontrollably, shaken by his father's anger.

Regret settled over Frank.

"God," Frank muttered quietly, his tone dropping into something far softer. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I... I just reacted. I hate seeing you hurt, and I am completely out of patience today."

"I know," you murmured. "But it's okay. He didn't do it on purpose."

"Do you need help-"

"Get him first," you nudged him gently toward the crying boy. "He needs his dad."

Frank swallowed hard. He dropped down to his knees in front of Tob. "Hey... hey, buddy. Come here," he said softly.

His little boy hesitated for a second before throwing his arms around Frank's neck, clinging tightly to his shirt as he sobbed into his shoulder.

Frank wrapped his arms securely around his son, resting his hand against the back of Tobias's head and rocking him gently. "I'm sorry, buddy. Dad shouldn't have yelled like that. You're okay. Mommy's okay. I was just worried, alright?"

You watched them from the couch, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Frank held Tobias close, murmuring calm words.

Once the boy had calmed down, Frank carried him over to the couch, setting him down gently beside you.

Tobias reached out tentatively, pointing a finger at your arm. "Mommy owie?" he sniffled. "I sowy."

"Mommy's fine, sweet boy," you smiled, kissing his hair, while Frank leaned his head back against the couch with a sigh.

Later, you sat on the table with a new glucose sensor, an alcohol swab, and a colorful overpatch laid out neatly.

Frank sat across from you, with Tobias on his lap.

Tobias's hands rested on Frank’s arms, his cheeks still a little flushed as he watched every move you made with absolute focus.

"Look, big guy," Frank murmured, his voice low and calm as he rested his chin lightly on top of Tobias s head. "Mommy is putting a new button."

Tobias nodded solemnly. You wiped the back of your left arm with the alcohol swab, letting the skin dry. Then, you picked up the applicator, positioning it against your tricep.

Tobias tensed up on Frank's lap, his fingers digging into his dad's sleeve. He remembered your sharp cry from earlier and looked up at Frank nervously.

"It's alright, buddy," Frank reassured him softly. "It doesn't hurt Mommy. Just a quick click."

With a firm press, the applicator clicked sharply against your skin. You pulled the plastic away, leaving the fresh sensor neatly in place.

Tobias gasped, leaning forward off Frank's chest to get a better look. "New button!" he whispered-screamed.

"Yes, sweet boy, new button," you confirmed with a smile, picking up the brightly patterned overpatch.

"Here, let me make sure the adhesive is set," Frank said, leaning forward to help. He reached out his index finger to smooth down the edge of the sensor.

Before his hand could even reach your arm, Tobias’s small hand shot out and swatted Frank’s wrist away with surprising force.

"No, daddy!" Tobias barked, his forehead furrowing as he glared at his father. "No touch!"

Frank froze, caught completely off guard.

You couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped you. Frank looked down at his son. The strict boundary Frank had enforced earlier was now being thrown right back in his face.

"Buddy... Dad is just helping mommy stick it down," Frank explained smoothly. He reached toward your arm again. "I just need to press right here-"

Tobias swatted at his wrist again, shaking his head firmly. "No! Daddy no! Owie!"

"Unbelievable," Frank muttered under his breath. He pulled Tobias back against his chest with a soft chuckle. "Alright, chief. Point taken."

"Good boy, my baby," you said gently, peeling the backing off the colorful overpatch. "Look, Mommy puts the sticker on top."

Carefully, you centered the patch and smoothed the bright adhesive over the sensor, sealing it safely against your skin.

Tobias sat up straight on Frank's lap and began to clap his tiny hands together, letting out a burst of giggles.

"Yay!" he squeaked, bouncing on Frank's lap. "Button safwe!"

Frank smiled and wrapped his arms around Tobias's stomach, giving him an affectionate squeeze that made the toddler squeal.

"That's right, buddy," Frank murmured softly, kissing his son head. "Mommy's all safe now."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. He’d go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.

If somebody had told you that his ‘work trips’ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.

There’s no way.

How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?

As your newfound legal guardian, he’d been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.

To this day, you’re still not sure how he broke the news. You’ve never asked Mark - it didn’t seem fair to reopen old wounds.

As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, you’d moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didn’t help that Mark’s mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.

If somebody was visiting, they’d never know you even lived there.

In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Mark’s parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didn’t separate, but it was never the same.

All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.

Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dad’s grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.

Life was hard, made brighter only by Mark’s occasional visits. He’d call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.

Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Mark’s influence.

You hadn’t quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldn’t have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.

The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.

You moved into his and Jen’s spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, it’s all making sense.

You’ve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job you’re going to be working until you’re sixty. Being at County helps - you’ve grown very familiar with Mark’s friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.

Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.

After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, you’re finally back until Christmas. You love it here. It’s exactly your speed.

There’s just one problem.

In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because he’s scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.

But because you can’t think straight whenever you’re in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.

It’s not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If you’d been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, you’re pretty sure you would’ve come up with somebody almost identical to him.

Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so popular with women. You’ve never been one for competition - ironic, since you’ve chosen to devote your life to medicine.

You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, they’ve become as much siblings to you as Mark.

Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.

Things have only gotten worse now that you’re in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.

There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.

Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (he’d confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), he’s smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and you’ve studied with him on more than one occasion.

You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, you’d felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didn’t quite share the same sentiment. While she doesn’t seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.

A big one.

If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. She’ll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guy’s guts.

The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.

You’re not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.

It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.

It was like Madeline didn’t exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.

You have no idea what changed.

According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, you’re not jumping to take his advice. You’re too scared to ask for anyone else’s opinion, for fear it gets back to John.

It’s only so long before Mark figures it out.

He may be oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

“What’s your problem?” He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctor’s lounge.

You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madeline’s been even more overt with her flirtations today, and you’re starting to worry that it might be working. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. “You sound like Rachel. And she’s seven.”

You shoot him a glare. “I do not. I just don’t want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.”

“You know - you don’t have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you don’t want to ask for help.”

“I ask for help!” You protest, and Mark snorts.

“Sure. And I’m not getting a divorce.”

Finally, there’s Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, it’s obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like he’s already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.

And for some reason, he’s decided you’re the easiest one to bait.

Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and you’re left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.

“I’ll do it,” You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.

Iain doesn’t stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.

It’s almost worse.

You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.

“Local?” he asks, after a beat.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, sharper than you mean.

A pause. Then, mildly, “Just checking you weren’t going to skip steps.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.

Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch won’t hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isn’t watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.

God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. You’ve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.

But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You haven’t had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iain’s presence.

You’re totally off your game.

“Depth’s wrong,” Iain says.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Your jaw tightens. “I said I’ve got it.”

A small pause.

“Right,” He says. “Looks that way. You’re overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.”

You don’t respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..

“Hand it here,” He adds, already reaching for gloves.

“No,” You snap. “I’ve got it.”

“Based on what?” he replies evenly.

You feel the patient shift under your hands.

“I said I’ve got it,” You repeat, quieter now.

His voice is devoid of all emotion, “You don’t.”

He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.

God, you can’t believe he’s making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But you’d hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.

“Watch,” He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. “This isn’t complicated.”

You leave him to it, for fear that you’re about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. You’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesn’t involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.

By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you don’t actually need.

The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.

It was stupid.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. You’ve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.

A few tears come anyway.

Maybe Mark’s mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.

“Hey.”

You drop your hands immediately.

John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he’s been there a second, like he’s been watching you.

“You alright?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t move. “Carol said you were upset.”

You sigh. Of course she did.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Just - long shift.”

“You’ve had longer. Worse. What’s different about today?”

If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. “Just Iain being a dick. I don’t really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. M’fine. Promise.” You offer him a smile, though you can’t imagine it’s in any way convincing.

“Want me to give him the impaction in four?”

You snort. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Guy's a dick.”

“I think… that would make me feel a little better, yeah.”

“Consider it done,” Carter muses, before continuing. “I know you don’t like to use the Mark connection, but if Iain’s really bothering you-”

“I’m fine, John. Promise.”

He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.”

He doesn’t seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses. “You know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.”

“What?” Your head whips round to face him.

“Not your fault,” Carter shrugs, and then he’s gone.

*****

You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. “Greene, McDougall - I want opinions.”

You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.

“Middle-aged male,” He says quickly. “Chest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,” He passes you a chart, “is his ECG. Talk to me.”

You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way you’d expect from a straightforward MI, but you can’t rule it out yet.

Iain answers first, of course.

“Likely non-cardiac,” he says, glancing briefly at the chart. “Could be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. He’s overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they can’t really tell what’s chest and what’s stomach pain.”

You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance there’s nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. “I would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure it’s not an MI before I move onto other differentials.”

“Based on what?” Iain asks.

“ST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.”

“It’s non-specific,” He cuts in. “You can’t call a posterior infarct off that.”

“I’m not calling it,” You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“A remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.”

The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what he’s waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. “I’ll do another one,” You say, reaching for the leads. “Posterior, this time.”

Iain’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “It’s not necessary,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Carter replies evenly. “But it’s quick, cheap, and if she’s right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.”

It’s a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, you’re so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.

Within minutes, the trolley’s being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.

“You see the problem?” He says.

Iain doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.”

Iain’s expression is tight. “It wasn’t a classic presentation.”

“They rarely are,” Carter replies. “That’s the point.” He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.”

You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, you’re still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesn’t think he would’ve caught it at that age.

Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.

“Hm? Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Carter’s voice is distracted, and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

Madeline falters, just slightly. “Oh - okay.”

But he’s already looking past her.

At you.

“You heading out?” he asks.

You nod, adjusting your bag. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Come on - I’m done too.”

You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.

Finally, he speaks, “You did well back there.”

You glance over at him. “I almost didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” He shrugs. “I watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and that’s what matters. You saved a man’s life today.”

“You knew it was a posterior MI,” You argue.

“I suspected - you confirmed.” He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Long shift.”

The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. “See you tomorrow, Carter.”

He offers you a soft smile. “See you round, Greene.”

*****

You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, you’d been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.

You don’t mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.

“…it’s getting ridiculous.”

Madeline.

You pause, just out of sight of the doorway.

“What is?” Iain’s voice, lower, disinterested.

“Carter,” She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what she’s talking about. “Or have you not noticed?”

A beat.

Then, dryly, “If this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not that,” She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.

You should leave.

You don’t.

“It’s about her,” Madeline continues. “He keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesn’t show the rest of us. I mean, I know she’s his boss’ sister, but come on.”

“He’s overcorrecting,” Iain says. “People do that. Get fixated.”

“On her?” Madeline scoffs. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.

Madeline doesn’t answer straight away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, guarded.

Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. “Come on,” He says. “You’re not that naïve.”

Your stomach twists.

Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You think - what? That they’re…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“I think,” Iain says finally, “that kind of attention usually comes with a reason.”

“No,” Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not - no. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t?” Iain repeats, almost amused. “I thought that was actually kind of his thing. If you’re to believe what the nurses say.”

“He’s not like that,” She insists, but there’s something strained underneath it now. “And she-” a scoff, sharper this time, “-she’s not exactly-”

She stops again, like even she doesn’t quite know how to finish it. She doesn’t have to.

“Right,” Iain says, unconvinced. “Because this makes so much more sense otherwise.”

“It doesn’t have to be that,” Madeline snaps. “Maybe he just… pities her or something.”

That stings in a completely different way.

“Sure,” Iain says. “That must be it.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Either way, it won’t last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means,” He says, “if it’s about performance, she won’t keep up. I mean, she’s a fucking nurse, for Christ’s sake.” A pause. “And if it’s not,” He adds, “that kind of thing burns out fast. She’s just pretending, and they’re all indulging her because they like her.”

Madeline doesn’t respond.

You don’t wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.

She won’t keep up.

That kind of thing burns out fast.

Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now there’s apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter aren’t aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.

You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.

A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesn’t catch up.

When there’s a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times they’ll stick in your brain.

“Practicing or hiding?”

You look up.

Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. “Come on.”

You follow him in without question.

He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. “Show me.”

You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.

He watches your next stitch. “OSCEs coming up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” He says. “They’re more interested in whether you think about what you’re doing than whether it’s perfect.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It’s true,” John shrugs. “Talk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why you’re doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicate”

You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.

“See?” he adds. “That’s already better.”

Before you can respond-

“Carter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.”

“Shit,” Carter scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m sorry-”

You’re about to interject and tell him it’s fine, that he’s done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.

“You want to run through some examinations later?”

“Oh,” You reply. “I uh, I get off at five.” It’s not that you aren’t grateful for the offer. But you’ve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.

“Yeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?”

You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carter’s scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.

“Any time after six is fine.”

*****

It’s only when you’re trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think you’re sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.

Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madeline’s position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, you’re unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon you’ll all be picking electives anyway.

In an ideal world, you’ll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.

You’re overthinking.

This is fine.

Carter is your friend, and that’s all this is.

You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.

Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. “Hey, you made it!”

“Are you like a Kennedy or something?” You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway “Jesus.”

He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. “Uh, yeah - the Carter Family isn’t really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“I don’t think we’d be encroaching on their space even if they were here.”

Truthfully, you’re glad there’s nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, it’s certainly not nice enough to meet Carter’s rich-as-God grandparents.

His room isn’t quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. “Make yourself at home.”

You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. “So… uh, how do you want to do this?”

“Well,” He starts, leaning back against the headboard. “I figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?”

“Are all the medical students getting such special treatment?” Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.

Carter scoffs. “God, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.”

“Really?” You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. “Thought you were quite fond of Madeline-”

“Who said that?” Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Nurses talk,” You shrug. “You’re forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that,” He grumbles. “I do not like Madeline. At all.”

“Got it,” You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe he’s regretting suggesting this. “Shall we get started?”

“What do you want to do first?”

“Um, Cardio.”

*****

“Okay,” Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. “What’s next?”

“I need to listen to the valves of your heart now,” You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. “But uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.”

“Good girl.”

You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasn’t noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-

No.

You can’t think of him like that. Especially not now. He’s your friend, and he’s doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much you’d like him to-

“Mid-clavicular line,” You say, voice barely more than a squeak. “Fifth intercostal space.”

Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. It’s strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than you’d be expecting from a guy Carter’s age.

“What do you notice?”

“It’s a little fast. I should listen to make sure.”

He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.

You swallow heavily. “Still tachycardic.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“Um, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exercise…”

“Close proximity to a pretty girl?”

“What?”

“S’a good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, c’mon. Keep going.”

As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But he’s looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he can’t tell how clammy your hands have gotten.

You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. “No sign of aortic stenosis,” You say softly, and Carter nods.

“Good sign. What next?”

“Um…” Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carter’s cologne tickles your nose. “I don’t remember.”

He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. “You should check my back next.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way he’s sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. “You know,” He murmurs. “Might be easier for you to just sit there.”

The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but you’re not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.

Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, it’s unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesn’t have sacral pitting.

“Nothing interesting?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t really hear you from back there,” He replies. “Sit up a little closer to my ear, honey.”

You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.

Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.

God, you can’t believe this is happening.

In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as you’re crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.

As close as he can humanly get.

“Nobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,” Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.

“You’re so mean.” There’s no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.

His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. It’s definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago you’d assumed that this was simply a study session.

If it were anybody else, you’d feel self-conscious.

Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, you’d known deep down that he’d never make fun of you, even if he didn’t feel the same.

Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure that’s not an issue. “Prettiest girl in the world,” He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.

When it comes to foreplay, you’re used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.

You’re not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.

You’re almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much you’ve managed to soak through them in just a short time. “Is this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?”

He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-

“Oh.”

Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.

There’s no build-up - just John and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You don’t even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. “F-Fuck, John-”

“Yeah, honey? You like that?”

The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. You’ve never been good with orgasms - it’s always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you don’t want to ruin this. “Need you up here-”

He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch.

Everything’s going so well, Carter’s reaching for his bedside table, when…

“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”

You pull back. “You did not just ask me that.”

“What? You're… young.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “I'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-eight,” He grumbles.

“Well - I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried,” He replies, more earnest than you expected. “Just want it to be good for you.”

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.

“You’re sure about this?” He asks, and you laugh.

“Not sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-”

Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. “Fuck.”

He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.

“Thought about this so much, sweet girl,” He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.

It’s a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. “You h-have?”

“Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, ‘cause of that dress. ‘Cause of you in that dress.”

“Didn’t realise you even noticed.”

“S-Should’ve taken you home right there. Shouldn’t have left you wondering how I felt.”

Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and there’s a vein on his forehead that looks like it’s in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.

You’ve never whimpered in your life.

You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. “Kiss me, Johnny.” Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.

You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesn’t feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.

It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.

*****

“God. Your brother is going to kill me.”

“Mhm, he’ll get over it.” You’re currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.

“Easy for you to say,” John snorts. “You won’t be the one he kills.”

“I’ll make sure that you’re remembered,” You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. “I’ll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. It’ll be the event of the season.”

“Glad to hear it. “Make sure to make it tasteful,” He adds, deadpan. “I want something upbeat. Something that says ‘he died young, but at least he had good hair.’”

“You do have good hair,” you murmur, carding your fingers through it like you’re proving the point. “I’ll make sure that’s mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.”

“I’m sure my grandmother will love to hear that that’s my defining trait.”

“Well, you also give really good head. I’m not sure she’d want to hear about that, though.

A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carter’s arm tightening round you. “…You really think he’ll be that mad?” He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.

You shrug against him. “Mad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.”

“He tolerates me. But just so we’re clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

“Life-size.”

“No.”

“Bigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Bronze,” He continues, ignoring you entirely. “Dramatic pose. Maybe a sword.”

“You’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“Details.”

It isn’t until an hour later, when you’re cross-legged on John’s bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. “So… like, was this just a one-time thing, or… what?”

Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure you’d scare him off if you admitted that you’ve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.

“Technically it’s already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.”

“John-”

“Okay, okay,” He concedes, hands in the air. “Comedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well… on that note. I think I’d really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.”

You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.”

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"Andy, wait—no," you say, the insecurity slipping out before you can filter it. "Don't. I'm... I'm too heavy."

Andrew stops instantly, but he doesn't step away. He blinks at you, his brow furrowing. His dark eyes shifts into confusion.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm heavy," you repeat, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. "Just... let me walk. Seriously."

Andrew stares at you for two full seconds. Then, without a word of warning, he effortlessly dips his knees and lifts you off the ground.

You let out a startled gasp, instinctively throwing your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He doesn't stagger, doesn't strain, and doesn't even catch his breath. He just adjusts his grip, pulling you against his body.

"Not my fault you've been dating weak guys," he says completely serious.

A surprised laugh escapes your throat before you can stop it. "Andrew—"

"I'm serious," he interrupts as he starts walking toward his bedroom, carrying you like it's the easiest thing he's done. "Don't say stupid stuff like that."

He carries you down the hall, refusing to put you down until you’re on his bedroom.

When he finally lowers your feet to the floor, he keeps one hand on your waist, using his foot to kick the bedroom door shut behind him.

You open your mouth with the urge to explain yourself or apologize for the insecurity still sitting on the tip of your tongue. "Baby—"

"Shut up," he cuts in softly.

Before you can even react, his hand moves from your waist straight to your neck, his fingers wrapping firmly around the front of your throat; not tight enough to hurt, but commanding, holding you completely still.

He brings his mouth down on yours in a possessive kiss. It’s deep and breathless, completely overwhelming any thoughts you were trying to piece together. Every time you try to melt into it, his grip on your neck tightens just enough to keep you right where he wants you.

"You talk too much, bunny," he rumbles against your lips, his eyes searching yours, completely focused. "You're perfect. You hear me? Fucking beautiful." You bite your lower lip and nod, wrapping your hand on his wrist and he presses a little, making you whisper, melting for him.

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•

“Baby,” you call out quietly.

Your boyfriend, who’s seated right next to you, hums at the nickname. It’s his way of telling you that he’s all ears for you, without removing his eyes from the monitor.

“Are you busy?”

His fingers hesitate on the keyboard, weighing the answer before finally deciding on, “A bit.”

Your eyes sparkle in your mirror before dropping the question that always makes him fold, “too busy for me?”

And like clockwork, his fingers pause indefinitely and rest on the keys before turning to you.  There’s a slight upcurve of his lips, with a tease lingering in his eyes when he narrows them playfully at you.

“You know the answer to that.”

You did. It was always never.

It’s almost funny, you would’ve never imagined that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne had separation anxiety. From the beginning of your relationship, he was the most avoidant guy you’d ever gone out with. He’d say it was fine if you couldn’t see him for a week, or went a full day without talking, or hell even going to bed before saying goodnight.

He wasn’t good at letting himself want things- not truly anyway. Then after a few months and you both got more serious, it was like a light switch flickered on.

He rarely wanted to be apart from you. He’d be with you every opportunity he could. It didn’t always have to be a date, you guys didn’t even have to talk. It was just comforting to know that you were somewhere near him, choosing to exist with him.

It was actually so serious, that when he started organizing the apartment for you to move in, he made room next to his desk for your vanity. While he would spend hours on his computer working on files or looking over spreadsheets for WE, you would spend hours testing new makeup looks. This was just another way for him to coexist with you- a parallel play of sorts.

 When you both visited the manor last week, Selina gifted you a brand new lipstick collection someone sent her in the mail. After her wedding to the most eligible bachelor in Gotham, brands began to send her thousands of packages of PR.

She knew realistically, she wasn’t going to use it all. So, most of the packages ended up donated to woman’s shelters or regifted to some of the bats or bat-adjacent people, like you.

Now, after weeks of putting it off, you finally got to cleaning your vanity. While taking in your work, you began eyeing the new collection from where it rested in front of you for a few minutes; debating what to do with it when the idea hit you.

“Well, Selina gave me these lipsticks when we were at the manor last week,” you start off the pitch and he raises an eyebrow, amused.

“I remember,” he removes his hands from the keyboards. Pushing off the desk, he crosses his arms over his chest turning all his attention to you.

“And I was thinking, how on earth could I test all of these and see what I think of each shade?” opening the drawer to your left without looking away from him, you retrieve the small packet of makeup wipes from it and place it on his desk.

His eyes shoot to it for a second before turning back to you. “I don’t know darling, how do you plan on doing all that?”

A big toothy smile creeps onto your face and he mirrors it. He knew what you were planning, but it was always fun to watch him play along when you got in your moods.

“Well I just remembered,” leaning over, you drag his chair to right in front of you, “I have the perfect canvas right here.”

He laughs, it’s not loud and it doesn’t fill the room, but it fills your heart. It’s a quiet thing that eases every discomfort you’ve had through the day. This little laugh is him unguarded, it’s him giving you a part of him he doesn’t give anyone else.

There’s a small shake of his head, before he picks you up and sits you on top of him. Your legs are straddling his and a small giggle escapes you when he places a hand on your back. Leaning forward to grab the box filled with thirty different lip sticks, he moves them to his desk.

“Come on Ms. Arteest, make me beautiful.”

You can’t help the snort that escapes you. He’s relaxed back on his chair ready for you to attack him with different shades of red, pink, and mauve.

Opening the first one, you twist the bottom to apply it on your lips, and he springs into action. Carefully taking it from your hands, he whispers a quiet domestic “let me,” before applying it for you.

And that- well that, has your face burning to a red that rivals your lips. Tim was always an acts of service guy, so this wasn’t particularly new, but it was still sweet. It winded you sometimes because it always came from nowhere. It was out of the blue when you least expected it, he would jump at little things.

His eyebrows furrow together with a barely there wrinkle between them when he focuses, making sure to apply it on your lips just right.

Pulling back to admire his work, no amount of strength from you biting your cheeks could hold back the smile.

You place the first kiss on his cheek and back away, admiring the first of many. Then Tim reaches behind you and picks up a makeup wipe from your pack to clean the shade off for you, and the process repeats.

You filled his right cheek, then his left, then pinned back his hair to paint his forehead, then his neck. And when you ran out of room, you pulled over his shirt and continued going down. Giggles echoed in the vents of the apartment you shared, and Tim thought he could die happy in this chair looking up at you.

When you got to the last shade, you dropped the kiss right above his heart. His face was pink for an entirely different reason now.

Without saying anything, he holds you close to him and stands up. Your legs wrap around his waist with a yelp. He moves to look at both of you in the mirror and grins.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look this happy before. In your reflections, you don’t see the mastermind vigilante Red Robin. You don’t see the boy who held the world on his shoulders. No, you see your boyfriend. You see the man who always shows up for you, the man who didn’t think he was ever going to be loved, and the man who adored you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“What do you think?” your voice is breathless while making eye contact with him through the mirror.

“I think,” his face has still has the ghost of all your laughs lingering in his cheeks and you would treasure this sight forever, “I think that this one,” he points to the bright red stain on the center of his forehead, “is my favorite.”

Then he turns away from the mirror and starts making his way across the apartment, peppering your face and neck with kisses of his own. Sounds of Joy filling the hallways as you give yourselves a break from the world.

Arriving to the bedroom, he drops both of you on the bed. Caging you under him with his arms, he has a wicked smile before whispering above your mouth,

“Now it’s my turn.”

•───────•°•♡•°•───────•