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[3] Scrub in | H.S

Pairing: Surgeon!Harry x Stuborn!internY/N

Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.

They attend a conference. Just the two of them. Obviously that won’t change anything…or will it?

A/n: Thank you all for all the love these two have been getting. I’m so happy that you’ve been enjoying and buckle up. its only getting better from here ;) This ones a long one with 13k words.

Masterlist

Read Part 1 here first

Part 1.5 in his POV

Part 2

Three weeks pass in a blur of surgeries, rounds, and study sessions. The hospital staff has grown accustomed to seeing Dr. Styles and Dr. Y/L/N together. Their heads bent over patient charts in the cafeteria, walking side by side during rounds, or occasionally spotted at the small bistro down the street that's become their unofficial meeting place.

Their lunches together have evolved from awkward professional discussions to something more comfortable, more genuine. Sometimes they eat at nearby restaurants, sometimes in the busy hospital cafeteria amid the chaos of staff and visitors, and sometimes, on particularly hectic days, in Harry's office, surrounded by medical journals and patient files.

It's during these quiet office lunches that Y/N finds herself most drawn to Harry. Away from prying eyes, he's different. Still demanding and exacting in his medical standards, but softer somehow. More willing to share the challenges he faced during his own training, the mistakes he made, the lessons he learned the hard way.

Today marks their third week of what Niall has taken to calling their "lunch dates" (despite Y/N's continued protests about the terminology). They're in Harry's office, takeout containers pushed aside as they review upcoming surgical cases.

"The Andrews case will be complex," Harry says, pointing to the angiogram on his computer screen. "Multiple occlusions, calcified vessels. We'll need to approach it carefully."

Y/N leans closer, her shoulder brushing against his as she studies the image. "Have you considered using the new hybrid technique? It might allow for better visualization while reducing pump time."

Harry turns to look at her, their faces unexpectedly close. For a moment, he simply studies her, and Y/N wonders if she's overstepped.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," he says finally, a note of approval in his voice. "I'd like you to lead the literature review on outcomes for similar cases. We'll present it at the cardiac conference next month."

Y/N straightens, both pleased by the assignment and suddenly aware of how comfortable she's become in his space. "I'd be happy to. I've actually been following Dr. Chen's work on hybrid approaches."

"I know," Harry says with a slight smile. "I saw the journal on your desk last week."

The fact that he notices such details about her both surprises and warms Y/N.

"Speaking of next week," Harry continues, glancing at the calendar on his wall, "you're scheduled to assist on the Thompson valve replacement, but I noticed it conflicts with your sister's birthday."

Y/N blinks in surprise. "How did you know about my sister's birthday?"

Harry looks almost embarrassed. "You mentioned it when we were discussing the surgical schedule last week. You said something about missing another family event."

The fact that he remembered, and apparently cared enough to check the schedule, touches something deep in Y/N.

"It's fine," she says with a small shrug. "My sister understands. She's used to me missing things."

Harry studies her for a moment. "Is she? Or have you just convinced yourself of that because it's easier than acknowledging the sacrifice?"

The question hits closer to home than Y/N is comfortable with. She looks down at her hands.

"It's part of being a surgeon," she says, repeating what she's told herself countless times. "Missing birthdays, holidays, normal life events. It's what we signed up for."

"Yes and no," Harry replies, leaning back in his chair. "It's part of the job, certainly. But it doesn't have to be all-consuming. Not if you're strategic about it."

Y/N looks at him, curious. "What do you mean?"

Harry's expression turns thoughtful. "When I was a resident, I missed my mother's fiftieth birthday for a surgery that, in retrospect, could have been covered by another attending. I told myself it was dedication, that it showed my commitment to medicine."

He shakes his head slightly. "My colleague Louis, for all his ridiculous behavior, was actually the one who set me straight. He said something I've never forgotten: 'The hospital will always have emergencies, Harry, but your mom only has one fiftieth birthday.'"

Y/N absorbs this, surprised to hear such perspective from the surgeon known for his single-minded dedication to his cases.

"I've rescheduled the Thompson procedure," Harry continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "Dr. Williams can assist instead. You should go to your sister's birthday."

Y/N stares at him, genuinely touched. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," Harry says simply. "But medicine will take everything you're willing to give it, Y/N. Sometimes you need someone to remind you where the boundaries should be."

Over the following days, Y/N notices Harry making similar small adjustments. Ensuring she has adequate study time for her upcoming Step 3 exam, occasionally sending her home when she's been on shift too long, once even bringing her coffee and a bagel when he discovered she'd been up all night with a critical patient.

It's a side of him she never expected. This quiet attention to her wellbeing, this understanding of the challenges she faces as a young surgeon trying to balance her dedication to medicine with the basic human need for connection and rest.

A week later, Y/N finds herself in one of the small study rooms off the medical library, surrounded by review books and practice questions for her Step 3 exam. She's been there for hours, fueled by coffee and determination, but as the night wears on, her confidence begins to waver.

She stares at a question about proper management of acute respiratory distress syndrome, a topic she's studied extensively, yet suddenly all the treatment options seem to blur together. The more she tries to focus, the more her mind seems to scatter.

Tears of frustration begin to well in her eyes. One slips down her cheek, then another. Soon she's crying silently, overwhelmed by sudden doubt in her abilities, her knowledge, her right to even be here.

What if she fails? What if all her hard work, all the sacrifices she and her family have made for her education, amount to nothing? What if she's not cut out for this after all?

The spiral of negative thoughts tightens around her, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. She doesn't even hear the door open.

"Dr. Y/L/N?"

Harry's voice, quiet but clear, breaks through her spiral. Y/N looks up, mortified to be caught in such a vulnerable state by the very person whose respect she's worked so hard to earn.

She quickly wipes her cheeks, trying to compose herself. "Dr. Styles. I didn't hear you come in."

Harry enters the room, closing the door behind him. His expression is concerned rather than judgmental as he takes in the scattered books, the empty coffee cups, and her tear-stained face.

"I was looking for the Braunwald cardiology text," he explains, but his attention is clearly on her, not any book. "Y/N, what's wrong?"

The gentle use of her first name breaks something in her. The tears she's been trying to hold back flow freely now.

"I can't do this," she whispers, gesturing helplessly at the study materials. "I've been staring at the same question for twenty minutes and I can't...I can't remember the protocol for ARDS management. It's basic. I should know this. How can I be a doctor if I can't even remember basic critical care?"

Harry doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he moves some books aside and sits in the chair next to her. His proximity would normally make her self-conscious, but she's too distraught to care.

"How long have you been studying?" he asks quietly.

Y/N glances at her watch and is surprised by the time. "Since...I got off rounds at three, so...nine hours? With a short break for dinner."

Harry nods, as if confirming a suspicion. "And how much sleep did you get last night?"

She hesitates. "Three hours, maybe? Mr. Savitch had some arrhythmias, and I wanted to monitor him personally."

"When was the last time you took a full day off? Not just from the hospital, but from studying as well?"

Y/N tries to remember but comes up blank. The realization is sobering.

"I can't remember," she admits.

Harry sighs softly. "Your brain is saturated, Y/N. It's not failure; it's biology. Even the most brilliant minds need rest to function properly."

He reaches for the review book she's been staring at, glancing at the question that's reduced her to tears.

"ARDS management," he notes. "Lung-protective ventilation strategies with low tidal volumes, appropriate PEEP titration, prone positioning in severe cases, careful fluid management to avoid worsening the edema while maintaining perfusion."

He looks back at her. "You know this. I've watched you implement these exact protocols with our post-op patients who develop respiratory complications. Your clinical judgment is excellent."

Y/N wipes her eyes. "Then why can't I remember it now, when it matters?"

"Because you're exhausted," Harry says gently. "Because you've been pushing yourself beyond reasonable limits. Because somewhere along the way, you've started to believe that your worth as a physician is measured solely by how much you sacrifice."

His words hit with uncomfortable accuracy.

"But that's what it takes, isn't it?" Y/N asks, voicing the belief that's driven her for years. "Complete dedication. Sacrifice. That's what makes a great surgeon."

Harry is quiet for a moment, considering his response.

"When I was a resident," he says finally, "I believed the same thing. I worked myself to exhaustion. Missed family events. Forgot to eat. Barely slept. I thought it made me better than my peers. This willingness to sacrifice everything."

He shakes his head slightly. "I was wrong. It didn't make me a better surgeon; it made me a worse one. My judgment suffered. My technical skills plateaued. I became irritable, rigid in my thinking."

Y/N listens, surprised by this admission from the surgeon she's always seen as the embodiment of medical excellence.

"What changed?" she asks softly.

Harry's expression turns introspective. "I made a mistake. A serious one. Not because I lacked knowledge or skill, but because I was too exhausted to recognize a complication developing right in front of me."

He meets her eyes directly. "The patient survived, thankfully. But it was a wake-up call. I realized that pushing myself to the breaking point wasn't dedication. It was arrogance. The belief that I could somehow transcend basic human limitations."

Y/N absorbs this, feeling a strange relief at hearing that even Harry Styles, brilliant, demanding, seemingly perfect Harry Styles, has struggled with the same doubts and pressures she faces.

"The irony," Harry continues with a hint of a smile, "is that once I started taking better care of myself by getting adequate sleep, taking actual breaks, and maintaining some semblance of a life outside the hospital, my performance improved. My research became more innovative. My surgical outcomes got even better."

He gestures to her study materials. "You're going to be an extraordinary physician, Y/N. You already are. But not if you burn yourself out before you even complete your training."

The sincerity in his voice makes her throat tight with emotion.

"I'm just..." she begins, struggling to articulate the fear that's been building inside her. "What if I'm not good enough? What if I've been fooling myself, fooling everyone? What if I don't belong here?"

Harry's expression softens with understanding. "Imposter syndrome. The persistent belief that you've somehow tricked everyone into thinking you're competent when you secretly fear you're not."

Y/N nods, relieved that he understands.

"Do you know how many brilliant surgeons suffer from it?" Harry asks. "Myself included. There are days I walk into the OR and wonder if today will be the day everyone realizes I have no idea what I'm doing."

This admission is so unexpected, so contrary to Harry's confident demeanor, that Y/N can't help but stare at him in disbelief.

"You?" she says incredulously. "But you're...you're Harry Styles. Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Everyone knows you're brilliant."

Harry laughs softly. "And yet the doubt persists. It's part of being in a field where the stakes are so high, where perfection seems demanded but is ultimately unattainable."

He leans forward slightly. "The difference between those who succeed and those who don't isn't the absence of doubt, Y/N. It's the willingness to acknowledge it without being paralyzed by it."

His words resonate deeply with her, offering a perspective she's never considered before.

"Now," he says, standing and holding out his hand to her, "you're going to pack up these books, go home, and get at least eight hours of sleep. The exam will still be there tomorrow, and you'll face it with a clearer mind."

Y/N hesitates. "But I still have three chapters to review..."

"And they'll make more sense when you're not running on caffeine and desperation," Harry says firmly, his hand still extended. "Trust me on this, Y/N. Doctor's orders."

There's something so caring in his insistence, so genuine in his concern, that Y/N finds herself nodding and placing her hand in his. He helps her to her feet, and for a moment they stand close, her hand still in his, an unexpected intimacy in the quiet of the study room.

"Thank you," she says softly, meaning it for more than just the advice about studying.

Harry's eyes meet hers, and something shifts in his expression. A warmth, a tenderness that makes her heart beat faster.

"You're going to pass this exam," he says with quiet certainty. "And then you're going to continue becoming the exceptional surgeon I already know you are."

His confidence in her, spoken so simply and directly, soothes the raw edges of her doubt like nothing else could have.

As they gather her books together, their hands occasionally brushing, Y/N realizes that somewhere in these past weeks, Harry Styles has become more than her attending, more than a mentor or even a friend. He's become someone whose opinion matters deeply to her, whose respect she values above almost anyone else's, whose presence in her life has shifted from a source of stress to a source of strength.

The realization is comforting and terrifying.

Because the warmth that spreads through her chest when he smiles at her, the way her skin tingles when their hands touch, the fact that his voice is often the last thing she thinks about before falling asleep at night, none of these things fit neatly into the professional relationship they're supposed to maintain.

Yet as Harry walks her to her car, insisting on seeing her safely to the parking garage despite her protests that she's fine, Y/N can't bring herself to regret the shifting boundaries between them.

Whatever is developing here feels too genuine, too meaningful to dismiss. Even if it complicates everything about her professional life.

And when Harry squeezes her hand briefly before she gets into her car, the simple gesture conveying support and something deeper that neither of them is ready to name, Y/N knows with certainty that Niall was right all along.

There is something between her and Harry Styles.

Something worth exploring, despite all the reasons they shouldn't.

Something that makes the challenges of medical training, the doubts and fears and exhaustion, just a little easier to bear.

The annual North American Cardiovascular Surgery Conference couldn't have come at a better time. Scheduled just a week after Y/N's successful completion of her Step 3 exam, it offers both her and Harry a welcome change of scenery from the hospital corridors that have defined their relationship thus far.

The morning of their flight, Harry arrives at the airport early, as is his habit. He's dressed casually in dark jeans and a simple navy sweater that makes his green eyes appear even more striking than usual. His curly hair, typically tucked neatly beneath a surgical cap, falls freely around his face.

They've agreed to meet here rather than traveling to the airport together. A small concession to professional boundaries that feels increasingly arbitrary given how much time they spend together at the hospital.

He checks his watch, then scans the terminal again, looking for Y/N. The conference materials are already prepared, their presentation rehearsed to perfection. There's no logical reason for the slight nervousness he feels waiting for her.

Then he sees her, and something in his chest tightens.

Y/N looks different outside the hospital. Gone are the shapeless scrubs and sensible shoes, replaced by slim-fitting jeans and a soft cream sweater. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders rather than being tightly secured in the practical bun she wears for surgery.

She looks younger, more relaxed, and stunningly beautiful in a way that catches Harry off guard.

He's always been aware of her beauty, of course. From their first contentious interaction, he'd noticed her striking hazel eyes, the graceful line of her neck, the fullness of her lips. But he'd filed these observations away, irrelevant to their professional relationship.

Now, watching her approach with a small rolling suitcase, Harry is struck by how thoroughly unprepared he is for Y/N outside the context of medicine.

"Morning, Dr. Styles," she greets him with a smile, adjusting the strap of her carry-on bag.

"I think we can manage first names outside the hospital, don't you?" he replies, returning her smile with one of his own. "Unless you plan to call me 'doctor' throughout the entire conference."

Y/N's smile widens. "Harry, then. Sorry I'm cutting it a bit close. Traffic was worse than I expected."

"You're perfectly on time," he assures her, resisting the unexpected urge to reach for her bag.

"Have you been waiting long?"

Harry clears his throat. "Just arrived," he lies smoothly. "Ready for your first national conference?"

Y/N's smile widens, a hint of nervousness in her eyes. "As ready as I'll ever be. Though I keep having nightmares about blanking on all our data in front of five hundred cardiothoracic surgeons."

Harry finds himself smiling in return, a genuine smile that comes more easily around her than anyone else. "You won't. You know this research better than anyone, it was your insight about the collateral perfusion that made the whole approach viable."

He doesn't add that he's rehearsed their presentation so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep, or that he's prepared to seamlessly take over if she does freeze up. Some things are better left unsaid.

As they make their way through security and to their gate, Harry finds himself hyper-aware of her presence beside him. He's accustomed to their proximity in the OR, during rounds, over lunch in his office, but there's something different about being with her here, away from the hospital's familiar context.

He notices things he's never had the opportunity to observe before. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking, the small silver hoop earrings she wears, how she seems to prefer walking on his left side. These tiny details fascinate him far more than they should.

Their seats on the plane are adjacent, another first. Harry has always traveled to conferences alone or with colleagues with whom he maintains strictly professional relationships. The intimacy of sitting beside Y/N for the two-hour flight feels significant in ways he can't quite articulate.

"Nervous about your presentation?" he asks as they settle into their seats, noting the way her fingers tap lightly against the armrest between them.

Y/N looks surprised that he's noticed. "A little," she admits. "It's my first time presenting at a major conference."

"Your research is excellent," Harry says with quiet conviction. "The committee wouldn't have accepted your abstract otherwise. They receive hundreds of submissions."

She smiles gratefully. "That's kind of you to say."

"Not kind. Accurate," he corrects, but gently. "I don't offer false reassurance, Y/N. You know that."

The plane begins its taxi down the runway, and Harry is surprised when Y/N's hand suddenly grips the armrest more tightly, her knuckles whitening slightly.

"Not a fan of takeoffs?" he asks, careful to keep any judgment from his voice.

Y/N looks embarrassed. "Is it that obvious? I don't mind flying once we're in the air, but takeoffs and landings always make me tense."

Without overthinking it, Harry places his hand over hers on the armrest, a gesture of comfort he would never have offered to anyone else. Her skin is warm beneath his palm, and he feels her tension ease slightly at the contact.

"Focus on your breathing," he suggests quietly. "Slow and steady. The statistical likelihood of anything going wrong during takeoff is—"

"Please don't quote aviation accident statistics to me right now," Y/N interrupts, but there's a smile in her voice despite her nervousness.

Harry finds himself smiling too, charmed by her directness. "Fair enough. Talk to me about your research instead. Distraction is also an effective technique."

As the plane accelerates and lifts into the air, Y/N does exactly that, discussing the findings of her study on post-operative outcomes in minority populations. Harry listens attentively, genuinely interested in her work but also keenly aware that she hasn't moved her hand from beneath his, even after the plane has leveled off and her initial anxiety has passed.

He should withdraw his hand now. It's the professional thing to do. Yet he allows the contact to linger, telling himself it's merely a collegial gesture of support.

The lie feels transparent, even to himself.

Because the truth is that his feelings for Y/N have evolved far beyond professional respect or even friendship. He's drawn to her mind, her determination, her compassionate approach to medicine. But he's also drawn to her as a woman, to her smile, her voice, the way her eyes light up when she's passionate about a topic.

It's inappropriate. She's his intern. There are professional boundaries that exist for good reasons.

He's dated plenty of women over the years, slept with more than a few colleagues during his residency and early attending years. His reputation within the hospital isn't entirely undeserved, though greatly exaggerated by gossip. But he's never been affected quite like this before. This strange, persistent awareness of another person that seems to bypass his usual defenses.

Y/N has never been a potential conquest to him. From the beginning, she's been something else entirely, first an irritant, then a surprise, then a valued colleague, and now...something he doesn't have a name for. Something that makes him seek out her company over lunch, that has him looking forward to rounds in a way he never has before, that makes him notice when she's tired or stressed and actually care about helping her through it.

And sitting beside her on this plane, her hand warm beneath his, those boundaries feel increasingly arbitrary compared to the genuine connection forming between them.

By the time they land in San Francisco, Harry has come to a troubling realization: Dr. Y/N has somehow become important to him in a way that extends far beyond professional respect or even friendship.

The thought should alarm him more than it does.

When they finally arrive at their hotel, Harry experiences another first. The awkward moment of checking into adjacent rooms, the awareness that only a thin wall will separate them for the next three days. The hotel clerk hands them their key cards with a knowing smile that makes Harry want to clarify that their relationship is purely professional, except that doesn't feel entirely honest anymore.

"Dinner?" he suggests as they step off the elevator on their floor. "We could go over the conference schedule, decide which sessions to attend."

Y/N nods, and Harry can't help but notice the slight flush in her cheeks."Give me thirty minutes to freshen up?"

"Of course. I'll meet you in the lobby."

In his room, Harry showers and changes, choosing a dark blue button-down and charcoal slacks. More casual than his hospital attire but still appropriate for a professional dinner. As he adjusts his cuffs, he catches himself wondering what Y/N might wear, how she might look with her hair down and away from the hospital environment.

The thought gives him pause. He's crossing lines in his mind that he's carefully avoided throughout his career. As Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, he's responsible for maintaining professional standards in his department. Getting involved with an intern would be a serious breach of those standards.

And yet, as he makes his way to the lobby, Harry can't deny the anticipation he feels at the prospect of spending an evening with Y/N outside the hospital context.

When the elevator doors open and he sees her waiting, that anticipation transforms into something warmer, more intense. She's changed into a simple black dress that falls just above her knees, her hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. She looks elegant, sophisticated, and so beautiful that Harry momentarily forgets his carefully constructed professional demeanor.

"You look lovely," he says before he can think better of it.

The words hang between them, more personal than anything he's said to her before. For a moment, Harry worries he's overstepped, but the soft smile that spreads across Y/N's face reassures him.

"Thank you," she replies simply. "You look nice too. Different from hospital Harry."

"Hospital Harry?" he echoes, amused by the distinction.

Y/N's eyes sparkle with humor. "You know, the intimidating surgeon who strikes fear into the hearts of interns and makes nurses triple-check their charting."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "And who am I now, if not that fearsome creature?"

She studies him for a moment, her expression softening. "Just Harry, I think. The one who held my hand on the plane and didn't make me feel foolish for being nervous."

The simple honesty of her answer affects him more than he expects. For most of his career, Harry has cultivated a certain persona, the brilliant but demanding surgeon, exacting in his standards, uncompromising in his pursuit of excellence. It's a persona that has served him well professionally but has also kept others at a distance.

With Y/N, that distance has been steadily shrinking, and he finds he doesn't want to rebuild it.

"Just Harry sounds acceptable for tonight," he says, offering her a genuine smile. "Shall we find somewhere to eat?"

The restaurant they choose is a short walk from the hotel, a warm, inviting place with exposed brick walls and soft lighting. As they settle into a corner booth, Harry is struck by how natural it feels to be here with Y/N, how easily their conversation flows from professional topics to more personal ones.

She tells him about growing up with three sisters, about her parents' initial concerns when she decided to pursue surgery instead of internal medicine. He finds himself sharing stories from his own training that he's never told anyone. The doubts he faced, the mistakes he made, the mentors who shaped him.

"I never would have guessed you had such a difficult time with vascular suturing," Y/N says, looking genuinely surprised after one such story."You're so precise now."

Harry takes a sip of his wine. "I practiced for hours every night for months. Used to carry suture material and needles in my pocket to work on technique whenever I had a spare moment."

"That's...incredibly dedicated," Y/N observes.

"Or obsessive," Harry acknowledges with a self-deprecating smile. "I've never been good at accepting my own limitations. It's both my greatest strength and my most significant flaw, according to my last performance review."

Y/N tilts her head slightly. "I find it hard to imagine anyone reviewing your performance. You're always the one evaluating others."

"Even department chiefs answer to someone," Harry reminds her. "Though I'll admit, I don't always take criticism gracefully."

"Now that I can believe," Y/N teases, and Harry finds himself laughing, actually laughing, in a way he rarely does at work.

As their dinner progresses, Harry becomes increasingly aware of how attentive he is to her. How he notices the way her expression changes when she speaks about her research, how her hands move expressively when she's passionate about a topic, how her eyes catch the light when she smiles.

He's drawn to her intelligence, certainly. Her sharp mind and thoughtful approach to medicine have impressed him from the beginning, but it's more than that. It's her compassion, her determination, her willingness to challenge him when she believes he's wrong. It's the way she carries herself with quiet confidence yet isn't afraid to be vulnerable when the situation calls for it.

In the evening, they explore San Francisco together, walking along the riverfront, visiting the Art Institute, finding small restaurants away from the conference crowds. Harry discovers that Y/N loves impressionist paintings but finds modern art "pretentious," that she has a surprising knowledge of architecture, that she laughs unreservedly at his dry observations about their colleagues.

The conference itself is a whirlwind of presentations, panel discussions, and networking. Harry moves through it with practiced ease, introducing Y/N to colleagues he respects, steering her away from those he doesn't, making sure she has opportunities to contribute meaningfully to discussions with leaders in the field.

He watches with undisguised pride as she holds her own in a debate about minimally invasive approaches with Dr. Levinson from Mayo Clinic, her arguments thoughtful and well-supported by current literature.

"Your intern is impressive," Dr. Chen from Stanford comments during a coffee break. "Most of them can barely string two coherent thoughts together at this stage of training."

"Dr. Y/L/N is exceptional," Harry agrees, his eyes following Y/N as she converses animatedly with a group of young surgeons across the room. "And she's not just 'my intern.' She's a colleague."

Chen raises an eyebrow at his defensive tone but doesn't comment further.

Their presentation on the final day of the conference is flawless. Y/N shows no sign of the nervousness she'd expressed earlier, delivering her portion with confidence and fielding questions with thoughtful precision. Harry finds himself speaking less than he'd planned, content to let her expertise shine.

The applause is enthusiastic, and the questions that follow indicate genuine interest in their approach. As they step away from the podium, Harry feels a surge of something that goes beyond professional satisfaction.

"You were brilliant," he tells her quietly as they make their way back to their seats.

Y/N's cheeks flush with pleasure at the compliment. "We were brilliant," she corrects him. "It's your surgical technique that makes the whole approach possible."

Harry shakes his head slightly. "The technique is just mechanics. Your insights about the physiological adaptations post-procedure, that's what makes it innovative."

He doesn't normally share credit this way. In fact, he's known for being rather territorial about his research. But with Y/N, it feels natural, right. Because it's true. Her contributions have elevated his work in ways he hadn't anticipated.

The conference concludes with a gala dinner, a formal affair where achievements are recognized and connections reinforced. Y/N wears a long burgundy dress that makes Harry momentarily lose his train of thought when she meets him in the lobby. He's seen her in scrubs, in professional attire, in casual clothes, but this elegant version of her affects him in ways he struggles to conceal.

"You look..." he begins, searching for a word that won't cross too many lines.

"So do you," she replies with a soft smile, seemingly understanding his unfinished compliment. "Very handsome in a tuxedo, Dr. Styles."

"I thought we were using first names," he reminds her, offering his arm as they walk toward the ballroom.

Y/N's eyes meet his, warm with affection and something deeper. "Harry, then. You look very handsome, Harry."

The way she says his name sends warmth spreading through his chest.

The gala is exactly what Harry expected, good food, mediocre speeches, and the usual networking that characterizes these events. What he doesn't expect is how naturally Y/N fits into this world, how easily she engages with leading surgeons and researchers, and how many of them are impressed by her work and her insights.

He watches her from across the room as she discusses a complex case with the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery from Mass General, noting the respect in the older surgeon's expression as he listens to her. Pride swells in Harry's chest, not the proprietary pride of a mentor taking credit for a protégé's success, but something more personal, more genuine.

When the formal portion of the evening concludes and the attendees begin to disperse, Harry finds Y/N speaking with a group of young surgeons from various institutions.

"Ready for a celebratory dinner?" he asks as he approaches. "Just the two of us. To mark the end of a successful conference."

Y/N's face brightens at the suggestion. "I'd like that very much."

"To celebrate our successful presentation," he explains, though they both know there's more to it than that.

The restaurant is elegant without being stuffy, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge illuminated against the night sky. They're seated at a corner table that feels intimate despite the open space around them.

As they order drinks , a scotch for him and a glass of cabernet for her, Harry finds himself studying Y/N in the warm lighting. She's changed for dinner into a simple green dress that accentuates the elegant line of her collarbones and the graceful curve of her neck. Her hair is swept to one side, revealing a delicate gold earring that catches the light when she turns her head.

She's stunning, but it's more than physical beauty that draws his attention. It's the intelligence behind her eyes, the compassion he's witnessed in her interactions with patients, the determination with which she pursues excellence in their field.

"What are you thinking about so intensely?" Y/N asks, breaking into his thoughts.

Harry considers deflecting again, as he did on the plane, but finds he doesn't want to. "You," he admits simply.

Her eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised by his candor.

"You surprise me, Y/N," he continues, his voice low enough that only she can hear. "From that first day when you challenged my treatment plan, which was the right call by the way, though I was too stubborn to admit it then. You've continually defied my expectations."

Y/N takes a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good," Harry says without hesitation. "Very good. Most people in the hospital are...predictable. Residents who are either terrified of me or trying desperately to impress me. Colleagues who either resent my position or want something from me. But you've never fit into any expected pattern."

He traces the rim of his scotch glass thoughtfully. "You push back when you think I'm wrong, but never out of ego. You work harder than anyone I've ever trained, but not for recognition or advancement. You care about the medicine, really care, in a way that reminds me why I chose this field in the first place."

Y/N looks genuinely touched by his words. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it," Harry replies with a small smile. "I have a reputation for being an impossible bastard to maintain."

Their food arrives and the conversation shifts to lighter topics: memorable cases they've worked on together, amusing hospital gossip, stories from Harry's residency days that have Y/N laughing so hard she nearly chokes on her wine.

The evening has taken on a dreamlike quality for Harry. It's the most relaxed he’s has felt in years, possibly ever. There's no need to maintain the careful distance he typically keeps between himself and others. No need to be Dr. Styles, the intimidating surgical prodigy. With Y/N, he's just Harry, still demanding, still occasionally arrogant, but also capable of humor, vulnerability, genuine connection. He can't remember the last time he's felt this comfortable with anyone, this engaged

Their desserts have just arrived, a dark chocolate torte for him and crème brûlée for her, when a commotion erupts from across the restaurant.

"Help! Somebody help!" a woman's panicked voice calls out. "My husband can't breathe!"

Harry's head snaps up immediately, his attention shifting from Y/N to the source of the distress. Three tables away, an elderly man is clutching at his throat, his face rapidly turning an alarming shade of purple.

Without a word, Harry and Y/N are both on their feet, moving toward the distressed couple with the instinctive urgency of medical professionals.

"I'm a doctor," Harry announces as they reach the table, his voice calm but authoritative. "What happened?"

"He was eating his steak and suddenly started choking," the woman explains frantically. "Then he grabbed his chest and—"

Harry doesn't wait for her to finish. The man's lips are turning blue, but his hands are now pressed against his sternum rather than his throat, suggesting this is more than simple choking.

"Sir, can you hear me?" Harry asks, placing two fingers against the man's carotid artery. The pulse is rapid and irregular.

Y/N has already moved to the man's other side, her earlier elegance transformed into clinical efficiency. "Possible cardiac event complicated by airway obstruction," she assesses quietly to Harry.

He nods in agreement. "Let's get him on the floor."

Together, they carefully help the man from his chair to a cleared space on the restaurant floor. By now, other diners have moved back to give them room, watching with concerned expressions.

"Has anyone called 911?" Y/N calls out to the gathering crowd.

"Already did," the restaurant manager confirms. "Ambulance is on the way."

The man's eyes are wide with panic as he struggles for breath, his skin now taking on a cyanotic hue. Harry can see that they don't have time to wait for paramedics.

"He needs a Heimlich now," Harry says to Y/N, who nods in understanding.

Harry positions himself behind the man, wrapping his arms around his torso and placing his fist just below the sternum. With controlled but firm pressure, he delivers an abdominal thrust.

Nothing.

He tries again, more forcefully this time.

Suddenly, a piece of meat dislodges from the man's throat, flying several feet away. The man gasps, drawing in a desperate breath, but the relief is momentary. His face contorts in pain, one hand clutching at his chest.

"Myocardial infarction," Harry says, immediately transitioning from airway management to cardiac assessment. "Y/N, check if there's an AED in the restaurant."

As Y/N rushes to speak with the manager, Harry helps the man lie flat, loosening his tie and collar.

"Sir, I believe you're having a heart attack," he explains calmly. "We're going to help you. Try to stay calm and breathe slowly if you can."

The man's wife kneels beside them, tears streaming down her face. "We're on vacation," she says shakily. "He forgot his heart medication at the hotel."

"What medication?" Harry asks sharply.

"Metoprolol and...and something for cholesterol," she replies. "He had a stent placed last year."

This information immediately shapes Harry's approach. The man is a known cardiac patient with previous intervention, likely coronary artery disease with at least one compromised vessel.

Y/N returns, slightly breathless. "They have an AED. Manager's bringing it now." She kneels opposite Harry. "Sir, I'm Dr. Y/L/N. Can you rate your chest pain on a scale of one to ten?"

The man holds up eight fingers, his breathing labored.

"Does anyone have aspirin?" Harry calls out to the crowd. "Any kind will do."

A young woman steps forward, digging through her purse. "I have some Bayer," she offers, producing a small bottle.

"Perfect," Harry says, taking it from her with a nod of thanks.

He turns to the man's wife. "Is he allergic to aspirin?"

When she shakes her head, Harry quickly prepares a tablet. "Sir, I need you to chew this aspirin. Don't swallow it whole. It will help thin your blood."

The man complies, grimacing at the bitter taste. Moments later, the restaurant manager arrives with the AED, and Harry takes it with practiced hands.

"I'll set up the AED as a precaution," he tells Y/N. "Monitor his vitals."

As Harry prepares the device, Y/N continues her assessment, her manner calm and reassuring despite the tension of the situation.

"Pulse is rapid and irregular," she reports. "Respiration shallow but no longer obstructed. Skin diaphoretic."

The wail of approaching sirens filters through the restaurant doors, a welcome sound to both physicians.

"Help is almost here," Harry tells the patient, who nods weakly, still clutching his chest.

The paramedics arrive with impressive efficiency, pushing through the crowd of onlookers with a stretcher and equipment. Harry stands to brief them, delivering a concise summary of the situation.

"Sixty-something male, known cardiac history with previous stent placement, presenting with acute chest pain following choking episode. Possible MI. We've administered 325mg aspirin. No loss of consciousness, but pain rated 8 out of 10. We have an AED standing by but haven't needed to use it."

The lead paramedic nods appreciatively at the thorough handoff. "We'll take it from here. Thanks, Doctor...?"

"Styles. Harry Styles. And this is Dr. Y/L/N."

The paramedic glances between them, taking in their dinner attire. "You two certainly dressed appropriately for emergency medicine," he quips as his team transfers the patient to the stretcher.

"We're cardiac surgeons," Harry explains. "Attending a conference here."

"Well, this gentleman's lucky you were here," the paramedic says, already attaching monitoring equipment to the patient. "We're taking him to San Francisco General Hospital. It's the closest cardiac center."

Harry exchanges a look with Y/N, both of them thinking the same thing.

"We'll follow you there," Y/N says decisively. "I'd like to see this through."

The patient reaches out weakly, grasping Harry's wrist. "Thank you," he manages to say between labored breaths.

Harry nods, squeezing the man's shoulder reassuringly. "We'll see you at the hospital."

As the paramedics wheel the stretcher out, Harry turns to find the restaurant manager approaching with their coats and Y/N's purse.

"Your bill is taken care of," the manager says firmly when Harry reaches for his wallet. "Thank you both for what you did."

Outside, they quickly hail a taxi to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Sitting in the back seat, the adrenaline of the emergency still coursing through their systems, Harry suddenly realizes that Y/N's hand has found his, their fingers intertwined.

He doesn't pull away.

At San Francisco General Hospital, they identify themselves to the emergency department staff and provide additional context about the patient's presentation. The attending physician, grateful for their expertise, invites them to consult on the case.

Hours pass as they work alongside the hospital team, reviewing ECGs, consulting on the angiogram results, discussing treatment options. It's nearly midnight when the patient is finally stabilized, diagnosed with an acute myocardial infarction that had triggered an arrhythmia and subsequent aspiration.

"He's lucky you were there," the ED attending tells them as they prepare to leave. "Another few minutes without intervention..."

Harry nods, understanding the unfinished thought. "He should make a full recovery with proper care. His coronary arteries are actually in better shape than I initially feared."

The patient's wife approaches them before they go, her eyes red from crying but her expression composed now. "The doctor told me you were just having dinner. That you're not even from San Francisco."

"We're here for a medical conference," Y/N explains gently.

"You saved Robert's life," the woman says, her voice breaking slightly. "I don't know how to thank you."

"No thanks necessary," Harry replies, his typical professional reserve softened by the genuine emotion of the moment. "We're glad we could help."

It's after one in the morning when they finally make it back to their hotel, both physically and emotionally drained from the unexpected extension of their evening.

In the elevator, Y/N leans against the wall, exhaustion evident in the slope of her shoulders. "Not quite the dinner I expected," she says with a small smile.

"No," Harry agrees, feeling his own fatigue settling in now that the adrenaline has worn off. "Though I must say, watching you work outside our usual environment was...illuminating."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "Illuminating how?"

"You're remarkably calm in a crisis," he observes. "Many physicians with your level of experience would have deferred entirely to the senior doctor present. But you were assertive, focused, contributed valuable insights."

The elevator doors open on their floor, and they step out together.

"I had a good teacher," Y/N says quietly as they walk down the corridor.

Harry glances at her, touched by the simple acknowledgment. "You're a natural physician, Y/N. Your instincts are excellent. That can't be taught."

They reach her door first, and she fumbles slightly with the key card, her hands trembling with fatigue. Harry gently takes it from her fingers, opening the door and handing the card back.

"Thank you," she says, hesitating in the doorway. "For the compliment. And for including me tonight. Some attendings would have taken over completely."

"We were partners tonight," Harry replies, the words feeling significant as he says them. "Not attending and intern."

Y/N looks up at him, her hazel eyes reflecting the soft hallway light."Partners," she repeats softly. "I like that."

There's a moment, brief but charged, where Harry considers leaning forward, closing the small distance between them. The thought startles him with its clarity and intensity.

Instead, he takes a step back. "You should get some rest. Your presentation is at ten tomorrow."

Y/N nods, but doesn't move immediately. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you were there tonight. Not just for the patient, but...I'm glad we were together."

The simple honesty in her voice touches something deep in him.

"So am I," he admits, allowing himself this small truth.

Y/N smiles, then surprises him by reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly."Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

He walks the short distance to his own room, his hand still warm from her touch. Inside, he moves through his evening routine mechanically, his mind replaying the events of the night, not just the medical emergency, but the dinner before it, the easy conversation, the way Y/N had looked in the soft restaurant lighting.

Harry has never been one for self-deception. He recognizes what's happening, even as professional caution warns him against it. His feelings for Y/N have evolved beyond mentorship, beyond friendship, into something he hasn't allowed himself to feel for anyone in years, perhaps ever.

The realization should concern him more than it does. Instead, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about her smile, her quick mind, the way they had worked together tonight as equals despite their different positions in the hospital hierarchy.

He's just drifting toward sleep when a soft knock at his door startles him fully awake. Harry glances at the clock, 1:47 AM, before rising to answer, already knowing who it must be.

Y/N stands in the hallway, still in her dress from dinner but with a hotel robe wrapped around her shoulders. She looks exhausted, almost vulnerable in a way he's never seen her at the hospital.

"I can't sleep," she says simply. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him collapsing, hear his wife screaming..."

Harry understands immediately. The adrenaline crash after a medical emergency can be brutal, especially for younger physicians still developing their emotional calluses.

"Come in," he says, stepping aside to let her enter.

Y/N hesitates just inside the doorway. "I'm sorry. This is inappropriate. I shouldn't have—"

"It's not inappropriate to need company after what we experienced tonight," Harry interrupts gently. "The first time I lost a patient, I couldn't sleep for three days. And this man didn't even die, we saved him, but the body doesn't always distinguish between types of stress."

Y/N nods, visibly relieved by his understanding. "I kept thinking about what would have happened if we hadn't been there. If we'd chosen a different restaurant, or left earlier..."

"That kind of thinking is a rabbit hole," Harry warns softly. "Trust me, I know. But we were there, and he's alive because of it. That's what matters."

He gestures toward the armchair in the corner. "You're welcome to sit for a while, if it helps."

Y/N sits perched on the edge of the armchair, her fingers fidgeting with the belt of her hotel robe as an awkward silence settles between them.

"I should probably change out of these clothes," Harry says after a moment, gesturing vaguely to his dinner attire, now wrinkled and bearing subtle evidence of their emergency medical intervention. "Give me a moment?"

Y/N nods, grateful for the brief reprieve to collect her thoughts. Coming to his room had been impulsive, something she rarely allows herself to be, but the thought of lying alone in the dark, replaying the events of the evening, had been unbearable.

Harry disappears into the bathroom with a small overnight bag, leaving her to take in the details of his hotel room. It's identical to hers in layout, but somehow feels different, a book on the nightstand, his laptop open on the desk, a cashmere sweater draped over the back of a chair. Small glimpses into Harry Styles outside the hospital that she finds herself cataloging with unexpected interest.

A sharp knock at the door startles her from her observations.

"Dr. Styles?" a voice calls from the hallway. "Room service."

Y/N hesitates, unsure if she should answer or wait for Harry to emerge. Before she can decide, Harry steps out of the bathroom in navy pajama pants and a simple white t-shirt, looking younger and somehow more approachable without his usual formal attire.

He moves past her to open the door, accepting a covered tray from a uniformed server with a quiet "thank you" and a generous tip.

As the door closes, Y/N raises an eyebrow in question.

Harry sets the tray down on the small table by the window, looking uncharacteristically self-conscious. "I, um...I realized you never got your dessert. Back at the restaurant, before..." he gestures vaguely, "everything happened."

He lifts the silver cover to reveal a perfect crème brûlée, its caramelized top glistening under the room's soft lighting.

"You ordered me dessert?" Y/N asks, genuinely surprised by the thoughtful gesture.

Harry runs a hand through his curls, a gesture she's noticed he makes when he's uncomfortable or uncertain, a rare enough occurrence that she's always found it endearing when it happens.

"You mentioned earlier that it's your favorite," he explains. "And after everything tonight...I thought you deserved something nice." He pauses, then adds with a hint of his usual dry humor, "Saving lives works up an appetite, after all."

The gesture touches Y/N deeply, not just the dessert itself, but the fact that Harry had been listening closely enough to remember her casual mention of loving crème brûlée during their dinner conversation.

"That's incredibly thoughtful," she says softly, moving to the table. "But I insist we share it."

Harry looks about to protest but then nods, retrieving two spoons from the tray.

They sit across from each other at the small table, taking turns breaking through the caramelized sugar crust and savoring the rich vanilla custard beneath. The simple act of sharing dessert in the quiet of the hotel room feels unexpectedly intimate, far removed from their professional relationship at the hospital.

"This is delicious," Y/N says after a few bites, finding comfort in the simple pleasure after the evening's intensity.

"Almost worth the medical emergency," Harry replies with the hint of a smile, then immediately looks chagrined. "That was inappropriate, wasn't it?"

Y/N laughs softly. "Probably. But gallows humor is a medical tradition. I won't report you to the ethics committee."

Their eyes meet over the shared dessert, and something shifts in the air between them, an acknowledgment of the unique space they now occupy, neither fully professional nor purely personal.

When the crème brûlée is finished, Y/N rises from her chair, adjusting her robe. "I should go back to my room. Let you get some sleep before tomorrow."

Harry stands as well, hesitating before speaking. "You could stay," he says quietly, then quickly adds, "Just to sleep. If you think it would help with the adrenaline crash."

The offer hangs between them, weighted with unspoken implications.

"I don't want to impose," Y/N says carefully, though the thought of returning to her empty room still fills her with a vague dread she can't quite rationalize.

"You wouldn't be," Harry assures her, his voice gentle in a way she rarely hears at the hospital. "The bed is certainly big enough, and frankly..." he pauses, seeming to choose his next words carefully, "I might sleep better knowing you're not alone and anxious next door."

The admission of concern, so unlike his typically self-contained demeanor, convinces her.

"Alright," she agrees softly. "Let me just change quickly. I'll be right back."

Harry nods, and Y/N slips out to her own room, her heart beating a rapid rhythm that has nothing to do with the evening's medical emergency. She changes into her own pajamas, thankfully, she'd packed her nicer ones, soft cotton shorts and a matching tank top, and returns to Harry's room with a quiet knock.

He lets her in, his expression carefully neutral despite the unusual circumstances. The main lights have been dimmed, leaving just the soft glow from the bedside lamp.

"I'll take this side, if that's alright," Harry says, gesturing to the right side of the king-sized bed.

"Of course," Y/N agrees, moving to the opposite side.

They settle under the covers with careful distance between them, Harry reaching over to switch off the lamp. In the darkness, the sound of their breathing seems amplified, neither quite able to relax despite their exhaustion.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Y/N shifts to her side, facing the center of the bed. Her eyes have adjusted enough to make out Harry's profile in the faint light filtering through the curtains.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For everything tonight. The dinner, helping that man, following up at the hospital...the dessert." She pauses. "For letting me stay."

Harry turns to face her, their eyes meeting in the dim light. "You don't need to thank me for any of that," he replies, his voice low and intimate in the darkness. "Especially not for wanting you to stay."

The honesty in his tone makes her breath catch. There's a vulnerability to him now, lying here in the dark, that she's never witnessed before. The careful walls he maintains at the hospital, the ones that make him Dr. Styles, the intimidating surgical genius, have lowered, leaving just Harry, a man whose complexity she's only beginning to understand.

"I've never seen you like this," Y/N admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Like what?" he asks, equally quiet.

"Just...you. Not Dr. Styles, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Just Harry."

A soft exhale escapes him. "I'm not sure I know how to be 'just Harry' very often," he confesses. "It's been a long time since I've let myself be anything other than the surgeon."

"I like this version of you," Y/N tells him, the darkness making her braver than she would be in daylight. "Though I've grown rather fond of the demanding surgeon as well, despite his tendency to make interns tremble in fear."

Harry's quiet laugh warms the space between them. "You never trembled," he points out. "Not once. Even when you probably should have."

"I was terrified," she admits. "I just hide it well."

"You don't need to be afraid of me, Y/N," Harry says softly, the words carrying more meaning than their simple reassurance.

"I'm not," she whispers, and realizes it's true. "Not anymore."

The air between them feels charged, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Harry shifts slightly closer, his hand finding hers atop the covers.

"We should sleep," he murmurs, though his eyes remain fixed on hers, searching.

"We should," Y/N agrees, making no move to pull away.

Neither speaks for a long moment, the only sound is their synchronized breathing in the quiet room. Then, with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with his usual decisive movements in the OR, Harry reaches up to brush a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek.

The touch breaks whatever last hesitation remains between them. Y/N leans forward slightly, closing the remaining distance until their lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss.

It's brief, gentle, a question more than a declaration, but when they part, both feel the significance of what has just transpired.

Harry's eyes search hers in the darkness, looking for any sign of regret or uncertainty. Finding none, he leans forward again, his lips meeting hers with more assurance this time, his hand coming up to cradle her face with unexpected tenderness.

The kiss deepens gradually, neither rushing despite the desire that's been building between them for longer than either would admit. It feels like a culmination and a beginning all at once, the acknowledgment of something that has been developing since their first contentious interaction in the OR months ago.

When they finally part, both slightly breathless, Harry rests his forehead against hers.

"We should probably talk about this," he whispers, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

"Tomorrow," Y/N replies softly, already feeling sleep tugging at her consciousness, the combination of emotional exhaustion and newfound comfort proving irresistible. "Right now, I just want to sleep with you here."

"We'll figure it out," he says, surprising himself with how much he means it. "I promise."

The reassurance seems to satisfy her. Y/N moves closer, resting her head against his chest as his arm wraps around her shoulders, drawing her into his embrace. The position feels natural, as if they've been finding their way to this moment since that first confrontation in the OR months ago.

"Goodnight, Harry," she murmurs against his chest, her voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he replies softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

As exhaustion finally claims them both, Harry's last conscious thought is that in all his years of medicine, through all the surgeries and emergencies and life-or-death decisions, he's never felt quite as right, quite as centered, as he does in this moment, holding Y/N as she sleeps peacefully in his arms.

The sharp buzz of Harry's phone vibrating against the hotel nightstand jolts them both awake. Y/N blinks groggily, momentarily disoriented to find herself in Harry's bed, his arm draped comfortably across her waist.

Harry reaches for his phone with a sleepy groan, squinting at the screen.

"Shit," he mutters, suddenly alert. "Y/N, wake up. It's 7:23."

She stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before the significance registers.

"Our flight is at 8:30," she gasps, fully awake now as she scrambles out of bed. "How did we—"

"I forgot to set an alarm," Harry admits, already moving with purpose, grabbing clothes from his suitcase. "We must have been more exhausted than we realized."

Y/N rushes to the door. "I need to pack! I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes?"

"Make it ten," Harry calls after her, his voice carrying the same authoritative tone he uses in the OR when time is critical.

What follows is a frantic blur of activity, hasty showers, clothes tossed haphazardly into suitcases, toiletries gathered with none of their usual precision. Y/N manages to make it to the lobby in twelve minutes, her hair still damp, to find Harry already there, looking remarkably composed despite the rush, though a closer inspection reveals his shirt buttons aren't quite aligned properly.

"Taxi's waiting," he says, taking her suitcase without comment and adding it to his own at the curb.

The ride to the airport is tense with shared anxiety about missing their flight, neither having the mental space to address the kiss they shared just hours earlier. They arrive with barely thirty minutes before departure, rushing through security with the practiced efficiency of frequent travelers and making it to their gate just as final boarding is announced.

It's not until they're settled in their seats, the plane pushing back from the gate, that they finally have a moment to breathe, and to acknowledge each other properly for the first time since waking.

Harry glances over at Y/N, taking in her slightly disheveled appearance, and a smile tugs at his lips. "That was..."

"A complete disaster?" she supplies, smoothing down her hair self-consciously.

"I was going to say 'unexpected,'" he replies, his smile widening. "I don't think I've ever missed an alarm in my professional life."

Y/N can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "The great Dr. Styles, who schedules surgeries down to the minute, nearly missing his flight because he overslept. The residents would never believe it."

"Then I trust you won't tell them," Harry says with mock seriousness, though his eyes are warm with amusement.

"Your reputation for infallibility is safe with me," she assures him, settling more comfortably into her seat as the plane begins to accelerate down the runway.

There's a moment of charged silence between them, both aware of the more significant topic they're avoiding. Harry opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again as the flight attendant begins the safety demonstration.

By unspoken mutual agreement, they spend the flight discussing the conference sessions they attended, the insights gained, Y/N's successful presentation, professional topics that feel safe, neutral. The kiss, what it might mean, what happens next, all remain unaddressed as the plane carries them back to their regular lives.

When they land, the reality of returning to their hospital roles seems to settle over them both. They collect their luggage in silence, the easy camaraderie of their hotel room feeling increasingly distant with each step back into the familiar.

"I should get home and unpack," Y/N says as they reach the airport exit. "I have rounds at 7 AM tomorrow."

Harry nods, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course. I'll see you at the hospital."

"Right," she agrees, searching his face for any hint of what he might be thinking, any acknowledgment of what transpired between them, but finding only his usual composed professionalism.

They part with an awkward half-wave that feels painfully inadequate after the intimacy they shared, each heading to separate cars and separate lives, leaving the question of what happens next hanging unanswered between them.

The familiar antiseptic smell of the hospital greets Y/N as she steps off the elevator the next morning, her stomach knotted with a combination of anticipation and dread. She'd barely slept, replaying the kiss in her mind, analyzing Harry's behavior afterward, wondering if she'd somehow misread the entire situation.

She joins the other surgical residents gathered for morning rounds, nodding greetings and responding to questions about the conference with carefully curated professional insights, making no mention of cardiac arrests in restaurants or shared desserts in hotel rooms.

When Harry strides into the ward twenty minutes later, looking every inch the formidable Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery in his crisp white coat, Y/N feels her heart rate quicken. His gaze sweeps over the assembled residents, landing on her for just a moment before moving on without any special acknowledgment.

"Good morning, everyone," he says briskly. "Let's begin with Mrs. Rodriguez in 412."

The rounds proceed with Harry's usual efficiency, concise case presentations, pointed questions to test their knowledge, clear directives for patient care. He treats Y/N exactly as he treats the other residents, calling on her no more and no less than usual, maintaining the precise professional distance that has always characterized their interactions in the hospital.

It's as if San Francisco never happened.

As the group moves from patient to patient, Y/N feels a cold weight settling in her stomach. Had she imagined the significance of that kiss? Had it meant nothing to him, just a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by adrenaline and exhaustion? The thought makes her chest ache in a way that surprises her with its intensity.

After rounds, she retreats to the residents' lounge, needing a moment alone to compose herself. She's standing by the coffee machine, staring blankly at the dark liquid filling her cup, when the door opens behind her.

"Dr. Y/L/N."

Harry's voice sends a jolt through her. She turns, carefully controlling her expression.

"Dr. Styles. Did you need something?"

He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him. For a brief moment, she thinks she sees uncertainty flicker in his eyes, an unusual departure from his typical confidence, but it's gone so quickly she can't be sure it was ever there.

"I wanted to check if you had any questions about the Zimmer case," he says, all business. "The approach we'll be taking tomorrow is somewhat unconventional."

"No questions," she replies evenly, though her mind is screaming with questions of an entirely different nature. "I've reviewed the literature you recommended. I understand the procedure."

Harry nods, his posture formal, hands clasped behind his back. "Excellent. I'll see you in OR 3 at 8 AM sharp, then."

He turns to leave, and something in Y/N breaks, the careful professional veneer she's been maintaining cracking under the weight of her confusion and hurt.

"Is that all?" she asks, her voice quieter than she intended.

Harry pauses, his back to her, hand on the door handle. "Was there something else, Dr. Y/L/N?"

The deliberate use of her title feels like a wall being erected between them, and Y/N feels a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. Had she completely misunderstood what had happened between them? Had that moment of connection been entirely one-sided?

"No," she says finally, squaring her shoulders. "Nothing else, Dr. Styles."

He hesitates for just a moment longer, then nods once and leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

Y/N stands motionless by the coffee machine, the cup cooling between her hands. The pit in her stomach deepens as she tries to reconcile the man who held her hand on the plane, who ordered her favorite dessert, who kissed her with such gentle care, with the detached professional who just left the room.

Had she imagined it all? Or worse, had it meant something to her that it clearly didn't to him?

She takes a deep breath, forcing her emotions back under control. Whatever happened, or didn't happen, in San Francisco, she has patients who need her focus and a career that demands her full attention. She can't afford to dwell on a moment of connection that apparently meant nothing to the other person involved.

With renewed determination, Y/N straightens her white coat, discards her untouched coffee, and heads back to the surgical floor, where at least the challenges she faces have clear solutions and defined protocols, unlike the confusing tangle of emotions she's trying desperately to ignore.

The insistent knocking at her apartment door comes just as Y/N is changing into comfortable loungewear, her hair still damp from the shower where she'd tried to wash away the frustration of the day.

"Coming!" she calls, padding across her small living room to peer through the peephole.

Niall's familiar face greets her, his expression somewhere between concerned and mischievous as he holds up a paper bag that clearly contains bottles.

Y/N opens the door with a sigh that's equal parts exasperation and relief. "Let me guess. You heard I'm back from San Francisco and figured I needed alcohol?"

"Not just alcohol," Niall corrects, stepping past her into the apartment. "The good stuff. And yes, I figured after three days with Dr. Man-Whore himself, you'd either need to celebrate surviving or drown your sorrows." He sets the bag on her kitchen counter and begins unpacking bottles. "Though I'm not sure which from the look on your face."

Y/N closes the door, leaning back against it for a moment. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's watched you rant about Harry Styles at least once a week for the past year," Niall replies, pulling out two glasses from her cabinet with the familiarity of someone who's been here many times before. "So what happened? Did he criticize your suturing technique in front of the entire conference? Question your diagnostic skills in the middle of a presentation? Or did he try to add you to his legendary list of conquests?"

Y/N moves to the counter, watching as Niall pours generous measures of whiskey into each glass. "Nothing like that, actually. He was...different. Outside the hospital."

Niall pauses mid-pour, looking up at her with sudden interest. "Different how?"

"Just...more human," she says carefully, accepting the glass he slides toward her. "Less Dr. Styles, more...Harry."

"Fascinating," Niall drawls, hopping onto one of her kitchen stools. "And here I thought he was assembled in a lab somewhere specifically to terrorize surgical residents and seduce hospital staff. Please tell me he did something embarrassing that I can use as ammunition next time he makes me recite the entire cardiac conduction pathway backwards."

Y/N takes a long sip of her drink, wincing slightly at the burn. "Actually, we worked together to save someone's life. At dinner."

Niall's eyebrows shoot up. "You had dinner with him? Like, willingly?"

"It was a professional dinner," she clarifies quickly. "To discuss my research. But then a man at the restaurant had a cardiac event and started choking on his food. We both jumped in, stabilized him, followed the ambulance to the hospital..."

"Wait, wait," Niall interrupts, holding up a hand. "You and Styles performed emergency medicine in a restaurant, then spent the night at a hospital that neither of you work at? That's your idea of a conference break?"

Despite herself, Y/N laughs. "I guess it does sound very on-brand for us."

"So what's the problem?" Niall asks, studying her face. "Sounds like you two were a dream team. Did he take all the credit or something? Or—" his expression turns knowing, "did he turn on that famous Harry Styles charm that's left a trail of broken hearts across every department of this hospital?"

Y/N hesitates, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "No, it's not that. He was...actually really great about everything. Respectful of my input, treated me like a colleague rather than just an intern..."

Niall's eyes narrow as he takes in her conflicted expression. "Y/N Y/L/N, there's something you're not telling me."

She drains her glass in one go, then holds it out for a refill. "We might have...kissed."

Niall nearly drops the bottle, his mouth falling open in genuine shock. "I'm sorry, did you just say you KISSED Harry Styles? Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, Casanova of the Cardiac Wing, Terror of the OR Harry Styles?"

"It wasn't planned," Y/N says defensively, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "We were exhausted, it had been an intense night, we were just talking and then..."

"Holy shit," Niall breathes, refilling her glass and then his own. "I've been joking about the sexual tension between you two for months, but I didn't think you'd actually join his long list of conquests!"

Y/N glares at him. "I am NOT one of his 'conquests.' It was just a kiss."

"Mmhmm," Niall hums skeptically. "That's how it starts with Styles. Remember what you told me when I first suggested you had a thing for him?"

Y/N groans, already knowing where this is going. "Please don't."

Niall clears his throat dramatically. "'Even if I was attracted to him, which I'm not saying I am,'" he mimics in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like Y/N, "'the man has a reputation. He's slept with half the hospital staff.'"

"I don't sound like that," she protests weakly.

"And then I helpfully reminded you," Niall continues, ignoring her interruption, "about the nurses, residents, that radiologist from the third floor, and the pharmaceutical rep from last year's Christmas party."

"You're not helping," Y/N mutters, moving to sink onto her couch, Niall following with the bottle.

"Though, now that I think about it," Niall says, settling beside her with a thoughtful expression, "when was the last time you heard of him sleeping with someone at the hospital? Been a while, ain't it?"

Y/N pauses, glass halfway to her lips. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Niall elaborates, "that for all his legendary reputation, I haven't heard any new Styles conquest stories in...I don't know, at least six months? Maybe longer?"

Y/N considers this, realizing that Niall is right. The rumors about Harry's romantic exploits, once a regular feature of hospital gossip, have indeed been noticeably absent recently.

"Maybe he's just gotten more discreet," she suggests, though the possibility that Harry might have changed his ways sends an unexpected flutter through her chest.

"Or maybe," Niall says with exaggerated patience, "he's been too busy terrorizing a certain stubborn surgical resident who refuses to admit she's fallen for his charms."

"I have not fallen for his charms," Y/N insists automatically, then sighs at Niall's knowing look. "Fine. The kiss was...nice. More than nice. But now he's acting like nothing ever happened!"

"What do you mean?" Niall asks, leaning forward with interest.

"Today at the hospital, he was completely normal. Dr. Styles, Chief of Surgery, not even a hint that anything changed between us. He called me 'Dr. Y/L/N' in that same professional tone he always uses, kept the exact same distance he always does during rounds..."

Niall's expression softens with understanding. "And you were hoping for...what? A declaration of love in front of the residents' lounge? A repeat of his famous supply closet tryst with Dr. Chen from Neurology?"

Y/N covers her face with her hands. "I don't know what I was hoping for. Just...something. Some acknowledgment that it meant something. That I didn't imagine the whole connection."

"Did you try talking to him about it?" Niall asks gently.

"How exactly am I supposed to bring that up?" Y/N drops her hands, looking at him with exasperation. "'Excuse me, Dr. Styles, before we discuss this patient's aortic stenosis, could you clarify if that kiss meant anything to you or if I'm just number fifty-seven on your hospital conquest list?'"

Niall snorts into his drink. "I'd pay good money to see his face if you actually said that."

"This isn't funny, Niall," Y/N says, though a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "I hate him so much right now."

"No, you don't," Niall says quietly. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

The simple observation hits her with unexpected force. Y/N feels tears welling in her eyes, much to her horror.

"Hey, no, I didn't mean to—" Niall begins, alarmed by her reaction.

"I don't hate him," she admits, her voice breaking slightly as she angrily wipes at a tear that escapes despite her best efforts. "And I hate that I don't hate him. I hate that I let myself believe, just for one night, that I might be different from all the others. I hate that I'm sitting here crying over a man who's probably already forgotten our kiss and is planning his next conquest."

Niall wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him in a comforting side-hug. "For what it's worth, I think there might be more to this than you're giving either of you credit for."

"What do you mean?" Y/N asks, leaning into his support.

"I mean that for all his reputation, Styles has never been known to mix business and pleasure quite so...directly. Sleeping with nurses or doctors from other departments is one thing, but a resident under his direct supervision? That's crossing a line even he has respected. Until now, apparently."

Y/N considers this, frowning slightly. "So you think he regrets it? That he's pretending it didn't happen because he knows it was inappropriate?"

"Or," Niall suggests, refilling their glasses, "maybe he's actually taking this more seriously than his usual flings precisely because it is crossing that line. Maybe the reason he's not acknowledging it at the hospital is because he doesn't see you as just another conquest."

Hope flickers briefly in Y/N's chest before she ruthlessly suppresses it. "That's a lot of 'maybes' for a man with his track record."

"All I'm saying is, you won't know unless you talk to him," Niall says simply. "Outside the hospital, where you're just Y/N and Harry, not Dr. Y/L/N and Dr. Styles."

She takes a sip of her drink, considering this advice. "What if I've completely misread everything? What if I'm just setting myself up to be humiliated?"

"Then at least you'll know," Niall replies. "And you can stop crying on my shoulder about it and go back to just complaining about his impossible surgical standards like you used to."

This draws a watery laugh from Y/N. "When did you get so wise about relationships?"

"I'm Irish," Niall replies with a grin. "We're naturally insightful after two drinks." His expression turns more serious. "Look, Y/N, I've watched you and Styles dance around each other for months. The way he challenges you more than any other resident, the way you rise to meet every impossible standard he sets...there's something there. Maybe it's just professional respect, maybe it's more. But you won't know unless you talk to him."

Y/N nods slowly, wiping away the last of her tears. "You're right. I need to talk to him." She takes another fortifying sip of whiskey. "Tomorrow. Maybe. If I don't lose my nerve."

"That's my girl," Niall says approvingly, clinking his glass against hers. "Now, shall we drink more and talk about literally anything else? Like how Dr. Montgomery almost set the lab on fire trying to impress the new pharmacist?"

Y/N laughs, grateful for the change of subject and for Niall's unwavering friendship. "Yes, please. Tell me everything."

As Niall launches into the story, Y/N feels some of the tension leave her body. The hurt and confusion about Harry remain, but having voiced her feelings aloud has helped clarify her thoughts. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for tonight, she allows herself to laugh with her friend and push thoughts of green eyes and gentle kisses temporarily aside.

Part 4 here :)

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