You were crouched down by the gurney, eye level with a six year old boy who looked ready to bolt. He had a nasty laceration on his forearm and eyes brimming with tears. Jack watched as you pulled a small colored bottle with a glittery silicone holder from your pocket. You clicked it open, rubbed your hands together, and then held them out playfully toward the kid.

"Does this smell like doctors?" you whispered loudly.

The boy sniffed the air, his lip stopping its tremble. "No. Smells like fruit."

"Exactly," you winked, already reaching for the gauze. "No boring hospital smells allowed at this station."

Jack waited until the patient had been stitched, pampered with a dinosaur sticker, and wheeled up to observation before he leaned against the supply cart, crossing his arms.

"Strawberry hand gel?" he asked, a faint and amused quirk to his brow. "I’m fairly certain the hospital spends a fortune on those wall mounted industrial grade dispensers for a reason."

You didn't even look up as you charted, still radiating a faint aura of artificial berries. "The industrial ones smell horrible, Jack. It’s intimidating for the kids."

"It’s sanitary," he corrected gently. "The concentration in those commercial ones is sometimes lower than—"

"Kids hate that smell," you interrupted, finally looking up at him. Your expression was soft but completely certain. "When they’re scared and everything hurts, the last thing they want is a doctor who smells like a chemistry lab coming at them with a needle. This? This makes them think of ice cream and summer. It lowers the heart rate faster than a sedative."

Jack went quiet, watching you tuck the tiny bottle back into your scrub pocket. He looked at the sterile dispensing unit on the wall, then back at you.

He was a man of logic and protocol, but he was also a man who appreciated the way you navigated the chaos of the ER with heart.

"Strawberry?" he asked.

"Sweet Strawberry. And another one of Watermelon Lemonade. The lemonade one is new, bought it yesterday" you corrected, holding your wrist up to his nose. "Want a hit? You look like you’ve had a long shift."

Jack chuckled. He took your hand, leaning in to catch the scent. It was sugary, bright and utterly ridiculous in the middle of a trauma center.

"It’s distracting," he murmured, his thumb grazing your palm before he let go.

"Is it working?"

He looked at you, really looked at you, and felt the tension of the last twelve hours finally start to bleed out of his shoulders.

"Regrettably," he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I think I might prefer the lemonade."

-

The trail of strawberry, lemonade or vanilla that followed you through the halls had become a quiet constant. Jack’d be mid charting and catch a whiff of sweet vanilla, and he’d know without looking that you’d just finished a consult in Peds.

This shift was a heavy one. The waiting room was at capacity, and the air in the ER felt thick with humidity.

Jack was in Exam 3, trying to calm a frantic toddler who was refusing to let anyone near her.

"I heard we have a tough customer," you said, sliding into the room with a calm energy that always seemed to settle the air around you.

Jack sighed, his shoulders tight. "She’s not a fan of the stethoscope. Or me, apparently."

The toddler peeked over, eyeing your blue scrub top. You didn't move toward her immediately. Instead, you caught Jack’s eye. You reached for your pocket, your fingers brushing the familiar plastic clip of your latest scent.

Before you could even pop the cap, Jack surprised himself.

He stopped arguing for the industrial sanitizer.

He didn't offer a lecture on alcohol percentages.

He simply went quiet and held out his hand, palm up.

It was a silent surrender. He didn't say a word, but the gesture spoke volumes. He was choosing your scent logic over his own rigid protocols.

A smile broke across your face. You squeezed a dollop of the antibacterial hand gel into his hand as the toddler watched closely. "Cozy vanilla almond, it's new" you whispered.

Jack rubbed his hands together, the scent immediately cutting through the exam room.

He held his hands out toward the little girl.

"Look, my hands smell funny" he asked, his voice dropping into a gentle tone.

The girl leaned forward, took his hand with a hard grip and sniffed tentatively. Her grip loosened instantly.

"Muffins," she whispered.

"Muffins it is," Jack agreed, catching your gaze.

You were wearing a look of pure I told you so.

"Don't say it," Jack warned, though there was no bite in it.

"I didn't say a word," you replied, your smile widening. "You're definitely a vanilla guy. Smells good on you."

You stayed with him until the toddler was discharged. You felt something on the air, something that made the vanilla scent feel like the best thing he’d smelled all day.

For the rest of the shift, the sweetness stayed on his skin and you caught him several times smelling his hand or asking for more even though there wasn't any sick child around.

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