#slowmo-md

A month into the transfer, and Jack has somehow become everybody's favorite resident. The nurses wave him over when they need a hand. Consultants take his calls without immediately sounding annoyed. Patients leave their rooms smiling even when he's delivering bad news. He's always been good with people—good at making conversations feel easy, good at putting others at ease. Most days, he can talk to just about anyone without thinking twice about it.

Samira Mohan is apparently the exception. Not because she intimidates him. At least, that's what he tells himself.

The department has finally settled into one of those rare lulls between disasters when Jack spots her across the nurses' station. He's supposed to be finishing his notes. Instead, he finds himself heading in her direction with a coffee in hand and a chart tucked under his arm as a half-hearted excuse.

"You know," he says as he reaches the desk, leaning one hip against the counter, "I've been here a month now, and I'm starting to think I've been lied to."

A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Everybody keeps talking about this mysterious thing called a life outside the hospital." He gestures vaguely with his coffee. "I've seen evidence that most of the staff possesses one. Friends. Hobbies. Apartments. Some of them even claim to sleep." His gaze settles on her for a moment.

"I haven't found any proof that applies to you yet." The smile lingers, easy and warm rather than challenging.

The rooftop air bites cold against his skin, sharp enough to keep him moving. Jack paces near the edge with restless energy, one hand dragged repeatedly through his hair while the city glows far below in restless streaks of light. He’s been up here long enough for his coffee to go cold somewhere behind him on the ledge, long enough to replay the conversation in his head so many times the words barely sound real anymore.

The rooftop door finally creaks open behind him. Jack turns immediately at the sound, and the second he sees Samira step out onto the roof, whatever carefully rehearsed version of this conversation he had planned disappears completely. He stops pacing outright, breath catching hard enough to make his next words come rough around the edges.

“I played it safe instead of chasing after you to say stay,” he says immediately, like if he hesitates now he’ll lose the nerve entirely. His eyes stay locked on hers, tired and honest in a way he usually avoids at all costs. “But that’s not what I want.” A humorless breath escapes him as he shakes his head once, frustrated more with himself than anything else.

continued from here {x}

Jack glances over at the sound of her voice, the shift immediate but not subtle this time. There’s recognition first, quick and automatic, but it doesn’t stop there. His gaze lingers a second longer than it should, taking her in properly, and something in his expression flickers. It’s brief, controlled, but there. She looks… different. Not really. Just not in scrubs, not half buried under a shift and fluorescent lights. It catches him off guard enough that he forgets to answer right away.

“Yeah,” he mutters finally, a little slower than before, one corner of his mouth pulling slightly as he drags his attention back where it belongs. “Pretty sure that gets you escorted out.” A faint huff follows, but there’s less edge to it now. “Might still be worth it.”

He shifts his weight against the column, angling toward her a little more fully this time. The whiskey glass lifts in a small, absent motion, but his focus doesn’t drift back to the room like it had been. It stays on her, steadier now, like he’s still adjusting to the change in context.

“McKay didn’t rope me in,” Jack adds after a second, voice settling back into something easier. “Gloria needed bodies in suits. Guess I drew the short straw.” His brow lifts faintly, a hint of dry amusement slipping in. “Robby’s smarter than me. He probably found a way out of it.”

His gaze flicks over her again, not as openly this time, but not exactly subtle either. The green dress, the way she’s loosened up now that she’s out of the crowd, the shift in her posture now that she can breathe. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You clean up…” he starts, then pauses, like he’s deciding how much to say, before finishing it a little more carefully, “different.” There’s a beat, then his mouth twitches faintly, like he’s aware of it.

“Good different,” he adds, quieter. He takes another slow sip, more for something to do with his hands than anything else, then nods slightly toward the ballroom.

“And yeah,” Jack continues, tone dropping just enough to keep it between them, “you look about five minutes from making a run for it.” A small pause, his eyes settling back on hers. “So what’s the plan? Subtle exit… or we causing a scene?”

Rather than joining the latest set of dancers, he claims a quiet spot near the open terrace doors where the evening breeze slips into the ballroom. After so long standing on the polished marble, he subtly shifts his weight onto his good leg, an unconscious habit born from the prosthetic hidden beneath the tailored trousers of his evening attire. The gardens beyond are dotted with lantern light, the winding paths promising far more peace than the crowded ballroom ever could.

His attention settles on Samira the moment she appears. She moves through the sea of guests with effortless composure, exchanging greetings as though she'd been born to this world. Jack waits until the gentlemen surrounding her drift away before making his way over, offering an easy smile that comes far more naturally than anything he'd managed all evening.

"I've decided something," he says, stopping beside her. "If I spend another five minutes discussing horse breeding or the merits of one estate over another, I may have to enlist again just for the excitement." A quiet laugh escapes him before his expression softens. His gaze flicks briefly to the dance card tied neatly at her wrist, then returns to her face. "So before someone else beats me to it..." He offers a small, almost bashful smile. "May I claim your next dance?"

He climbs out and walks around to the back, lifting out a woven picnic basket along with a thick blanket from behind the rear seat. The sheepish smile that follows makes it obvious he'd been planning this longer than he'd let on. "I know," he says with a quiet laugh. "It's a little cliché." He shrugs a shoulder before tucking the blanket beneath his arm. "But we've got an ocean, a quiet beach, and nowhere we have to be until we wander back to the hotel. Seemed like a waste not to take advantage of it."

"Before you ask," he says, unable to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "no, this isn't a consult. And no, nobody from the hospital knows where we are."

He climbs out, retrieves their bags from the back, and waits until she's beside him before fishing a small brass key from his pocket. The cottage is tucked far enough away from everything that there isn't another house within sight, just a wraparound porch, swaying dune grass, and the steady rhythm of the ocean stretching endlessly beyond it. The only sounds are the waves breaking against the shore and the breeze moving through the sea oats, a welcome change from monitors and overhead pages.

"You spend every day taking care of everybody else," he says more quietly, offering her the key instead of unlocking the door himself. "So for the next week, you're off the clock. No attendings. No residents. No pretending we barely know each other if somebody walks around the corner." His smile softens as the breeze catches the front of his shirt. "Just you, me... and an unhealthy amount of seafood if you'll let me get away with it."

The corner of his mouth lifts to himself as his thoughts drift somewhere else entirely. Tonight was supposed to be different. He and Samira had somehow managed to line up their schedules without anyone asking too many questions, another quiet dinner tucked carefully between shifts where nobody from the hospital would see them together. It wasn't anything extravagant, and maybe that was why he'd been looking forward to it so much. Lately, every date had been interrupted by a trauma activation, an admission, or someone getting called back in. This one felt like it might actually happen. He catches himself wondering if she'll let him pay this time before the traffic light changes.

An SUV tears through the red light without slowing, slamming into the driver's side with enough force to send the Jeep spinning across two lanes before it crashes broadside into a utility pole. The world erupts into twisting metal, exploding glass, and the violent crack of airbags deploying. Then everything goes quiet.

Consciousness returns in a blinding rush of pain. Every breath burns. His head throbs so violently it feels like it's splitting apart, and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He tries to move, only to be met with the groan of twisted metal wrapped around the driver's side of the Jeep. His left wrist sends a bolt of agony up his arm the instant he instinctively braces against the steering wheel. Somewhere outside, voices are shouting, distant at first, then closer. He can't make out the words. His vision swims, the edges darkening again as sirens begin to cut through the haze.

The next time he opens his eyes, someone is calling his name. Sunlight flashes through shattered glass while firefighters work inches from his face, hydraulic cutters screaming against the crumpled door. A paramedic keeps one hand against his shoulder, speaking calmly despite the chaos. He catches fragments—"Stay with me"... "Almost there"... "Don't move your neck." His phone continues to ring somewhere beneath the passenger seat, muffled beneath broken glass and twisted plastic. By the time they're finally able to free him from the wreckage, blood has matted the dark hair above his temple where a deep scalp laceration disappears beneath it. Countless cuts from shattered glass streak his face, forearms, and hands, and his left wrist hangs at an unnatural angle, already swollen from where it struck the steering wheel.

Consciousness fades again as paramedics secure a cervical collar, dress the worst of the bleeding, and splint his wrist before loading him into the ambulance. His phone falls silent only long enough for voicemail to answer before it starts ringing again, the hospital's number flashing across the cracked screen over and over beneath the mangled passenger seat. Minutes later, a trauma alert is called ahead for a young male with a significant head injury, altered mental status, multiple lacerations from broken glass, a fractured wrist, and blunt chest trauma—headed for the emergency department where he was supposed to start his shift.

For a moment, Jack just looks at her. Every smart response dies before it reaches his mouth. Every reason this is a bad idea is already sitting between them. Attending and resident. Professional boundaries. Common sense. He's spent months reminding himself of all of them. The problem is that none of those things make it any easier to stand here and hear her say that.

A slow breath leaves him as his gaze drops briefly before returning to hers.

"You think you're the only one?" he asks quietly.

There's no teasing in his voice this time. No easy charm. Just honesty. "I've spent the last few months trying very hard not to be the guy who follows his attending around the department looking for excuses to talk to her." The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. "Pretty sure I failed at that around week two."

His expression softens as he studies her. The honesty of the moment makes looking away feel impossible.

"I know we shouldn't," he says. The words come out low and certain. "Trust me, I know exactly why we shouldn't." He lets out a quiet breath and shakes his head.

"But if we're being honest..." His eyes remain fixed on hers. A faint, humorless smile appears at the corner of his mouth. "The part that's been driving me crazy isn't wanting you."

The smile fades, leaving only the truth behind it.

"It's pretending I don't."