#workplace romance

a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.

of course you knew who he was.

if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.

and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.

and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.

all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.

"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.

then, he adds.

"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."

all around the bullpen, the air was charged.

agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.

you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.

not if it wasn't for spencer.

the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.

prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.

"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."

something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.

a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.

no one needed to know.

not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.

spencer made it a difficult task.

“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”

quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.

“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.

hotch asserted himself once more.

"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.

the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.

"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"

morgan ?

the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.

you weren't a profiler.

you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.

the one that was jealous.

so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.

turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.

and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.

at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.

"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.

"you're like a female version of reid or something."

you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.

"i'll take that as a compliment."

"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."

the door opened.

he stared. spencer.

files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.

morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.

the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.

“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.

“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”

morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.

“woah, someone’s jealous.”

with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.

suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.

the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.

he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.

"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."

your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.

spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.

"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.

you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.

"i think you did,"

of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.

"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."

gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.

"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”

you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.

“not of the case, idiot.”

he knew what you meant.

and paused. swallowed again.

you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.

never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.

and then he met you.

“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.

barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.

“i don’t think i liked it, though.”

“being jealous ?”

he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”

the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.

“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”

your lips part, a silent gasp.

“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”

the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”

“so perfect !”

it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.

you.

"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."

he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."

right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.

"i am interested in you, though"

his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.

"in me ?"

"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"

he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"

"i speak five. not that we're counting"

no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.

he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."

there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.

"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"

"and the elevator"

he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"

jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.

and that ? that looked even better.

When the restroom door closed behind Robby, he let out the biggest exhale. Head thrown back, hands on his hips, trying to relieve the weight of this shift. What a shit show.

Between the overflow of patients and the pure exhaustion he has felt in the past couple of months, Robby’s resolve was cracking. He was losing sleep and dwindling like a candlewick at its final strands. If there was something left for him, he couldn’t see it. But despite that, today's shift, the usual, felt like his smallest problems.

Apparently, he should’ve worried about something greater than a full, understaffed department.

In reality, he wasn't hiding in the restroom from his responsibility (even if he felt he was drowning in it). He slipped away to dissolve the simmering boil in the pits of his guts.

Every time he closed his eyes, trying to maintain a peaceful attitude with deep breathing and steady concentration, the scene played over in his head.

You stood across from him while he sat at the work station, looking over a chart. A 23-year-old patient who suffered fall injuries from climbing over his neighbor’s backyard fence. Dr. Santos had put in the consultation, and when you went to speak with the patient, the Lorazepam administered had already taken effect.

“I’m just here to tell you I have no intentions of evaluating an unconscious patient. The next time you need a consult, page once the patient is available for an eval.” You coldly remarked, eyes hooded as you stared at him.

You had searched for him to deliver the message personally. Who did you think you were?

The initial shock he had came from the surprise of Dr. Jefferson not being on-call. Robby had warmed up to Caleb Jefferson, who, in the wake of the PittFest shooting, had taken a personal interest in Robby’s well-being. Robby had intended to take his recommendations, but he hadn't wrapped his mind around therapy, as Jack had.

So, when he found a young woman asking around for the attending physician of the emergency department, he certainly didn’t expect that confrontation.

And to really top it off, he didn’t even get your name.

You, a nameless psychiatrist, had been arrogant enough to approach him and remind him of protocol, as if he were your resident. He assumed you felt entitled to purposefully not introduce yourself. As quickly as you came, you slipped away, claiming to have more patients to check in with.

That was two hours ago.

And here he was, still reeling from it.

He shouldn’t have let it get under his skin so much. He had dealt with worse from administration once he became the chief attending physician of the department.

But he had had enough of the different surgical departments. Garcia questioning his judgment or Park imposing his ‘shark’ demeanor over his students. Even Shamsi came down a time or two to remind them they were ‘fixing’ their butch surgical jobs.

The last thing he needed was a psychiatrist imposing herself in a department she wasn’t familiar with.

Walking out of the restroom, only slightly calmer than before, he headed straight for the central hub. There were still six hours left of the shift, and he was sure the rest of his staff was feeling it.

When he saw Santos, he knew. Her temple rested against her fist, dictating notes. He slowly approached, craning his head to catch her attention. Lifting her sights, she sighed, pausing her notations. Her hand fell onto the desk, resigned and visibly flustered. “How can I help you?”

Robby furrowed both his brows, hands stuffing into the pockets of his jacket. He shook his head, a small chuckle of endearment escaping him. “You sound peachy.”

“Don't ever say that again,” Santos warned, twisting her neck from side to side. She grimaced, with tense muscles and an achy back. “I’m just ready for today to be over.”

“Well, you still have half your shift left and patients to see. I’m sure your charts can wait a moment.” Robby pointed out, glancing around the ED, where everyone was bustling in a chaotic rhythm.

Santos held in the groan she wanted to let out, opting to throw her head back, leaning further in the chair. Robby noticed the tick in her jaw. “Hey, are you doing alright?”

A scoff left Santos’ mouth, amused by the question. ‘Understatement of the century‘ was starting to become her motto. She flashed her boss a tight-lipped smile, “Yup, just waiting for this day to be over.”

Wheeling back, Santos lazily stood from the chair to walk over to the patient board. She let out a heavy sigh, arms crossing over her chest.

Robby followed her, staring up at the board. That was when he was awfully reminded of the patient. He saw the name on the board, still occupying South 20. He bowed his head, sighing. “Question: How come you ordered a psych eval on an unconscious patient?”

Santos scrunched her face, turning slowly to look at Robby. He turned his body to face her, expectantly waiting for an answer. He lifted a finger to the board, “You gave South 20 Lorazepam, which knocked him out, and then ordered a psych consultation for a patient unable to answer any questions.”

Santos silently cursed under her breath, glancing around as if her psych consult would come around. She had totally forgotten to check in on that. “I just wanted to make sure psych was included. Mohan thought he had some other issues that caused him to jump into his neighbor’s backyard.”

She was no stranger to corrections. It felt like, since she joined, she was on a straight, narrow path of constantly being told what she was doing wrong. He saw the pressure get to her sometimes. Her first day as an intern proved to be a test of her will, and since then, he felt she was grasping at straws sometimes.

Robby crossed his arms, leaning forward a bit. “I appreciate the proactivity, but not when I have psych down my throat about it.”

Santos raised her eyebrows, eyes wide. Robby didn’t look pissed, but he would sure get there if another attending had to call him out for her incompetence. “Dr. Jefferson ripped you a new one?”

“No, the new psychiatrist the hospital hired. She made it clear she doesn’t like wasting her time.” Robby groaned, running a hand down his face. That was putting it lightly. With an audience consisting of Perlah and Princess overhearing your injunction, he felt it was an attempt to demean him.

With much relief, Santos snickered, approaching the nursing station to take one of the charts. She slowly scrolled through to find the patient’s chart. “Ironic considering she’s in psychiatry.”

“Just make sure the patient is alert and oriented when you put in the next consultation request.” Robby gave her a nod, to which she silently agreed.

Before he could walk away, he found Dr. Mohan walking alongside someone. A young woman not dressed in scrubs, but in professional office attire consisting of slacks and some blue blouse. You were staring ahead, listening to Mohan rattle off about something, possibly about a patient.

Santos had turned, her small ponytail swinging with her. When she caught wind of Mohan turning a corner with someone obviously not from the ED, she knew. Clumsily, Santos subconsciously handed the tablet to Robby, who took it. With slight embarrassment, she followed the two of you towards the South rooms.

Despite his better judgment, Robby trailed Santos' steps. He coolly looked around, as if he were doing mid-day rounds. He stopped at the nearby workstation, leaning forward to watch. He saw you sit on the patient's bedside, a chart in your hand as you carefully explained intelligible information. Mohan and Santos stood behind, letting you take the reins.

You sat with the patient for ten minutes, smiling at him before standing from the stool. With your body facing his direction, he saw your relaxed demeanor change. Your face went stoic, lips pressed into a thin line.

Santos tried to hide herself behind Mohan, with the seniority, taking over the patient's care. All three of you approached Robby's direction, and he pretended to be reading a chart.

“Dr. Santos, I appreciate your effort to be involved with your patient.”

Was the first thing Robby overheard you say dryly. He glanced over and saw Santos freeze, hands in her pocket. Your back now turned to Robby, your head cocked to one side. “Need I remind you we all value time, and I can’t respond to consultation appropriately when patients are predisposed.

“Yeah, of course.” Santos fumbled, mustering up a polite smile. The blood had rushed from her face, leaving her staring at something she suddenly feared.

Before she could utter anything close to an apology, you stuck the chart out. “I’ll have a bed ready in an hour. Don’t stall the transfer any longer than necessary, Dr Santos.”

You briskly stepped away, leaving Mohan staring at Santos apologetically. Robby was now shamelessly watching the scene unfold. Comfortingly, Mohan placed a hand on Santos' shoulder, whispering something before continuing with her work.

Santos stood in front of the South rooms, chewing the inside of her cheek. Robby watched as she internally beat herself up before walking away with a huff.

Without hesitation, Robby followed your direction. He was a man on a mission, and when Jesse caught him passing by, he knew it from the look on his face.

Robby found you speaking with the police, posted by the nursing station. You were giving them a report of their detainee’s state. The police didn’t seem pleased by what you were telling them, and you didn’t seem to mind. Your aloofness ignored the restrained objections from the officers. Your candid shrugs and head shakes did little to lighten the tensions in the small pocket of the department.

He only approached you once you had excused yourself, turning away from the officers. Meticulously, Robby had swiftly spun to walk in tandem beside you. With a mere glance, you noticed him. He bowed his head so you could hear him, “Did you do the eval for our patient in South 20?”

“I did, and he presents concerning signs of acute psychosis.” Your steps continued with precision, and Robby felt like he couldn’t keep up the same pace. “I spoke with him twice, and the second time he appeared more apprehensive. We’re moving him upstairs for further observation.”

“The police didn’t like that?” Robby pushed, glancing back once to see the two officers speaking in hushed voices.

You shrugged, making your way around corners and staff like you were made for the bustling crowds. “They never like it when an arrest isn’t simple. More paperwork.”

Robby hadn’t realized he had followed you straight to the elevators till he saw the sleek doors. You stopped abruptly to press the up button. When stepping back, Robby looked around to ensure privacy. “No one likes more paperwork.”

He saw the menial shrug of your shoulders, your gaze barely registering your attention to his words. You kept looking ahead, waiting for the doors to open. He shook his head, hiding the same boil he tried to alleviate in the safety of the private restroom. “The same way my residents don’t appreciate being belittled in front of their peers.”

Your head finally turned to him. Your eyes had squinted at him, like you were reading in between really fine lines. He cocked his head, “This is a teaching hospital, and I'm not sure of your teaching methods, but insulting my residents will provide little educational value.”

You stood there, unfazed by his obvious irritation. Robby wasn't sure if he should be more ticked off by how calm you were or the fact that you looked at him like it mattered little what he said. He squared his shoulders, expectantly waiting for a verbal response.

The elevator dinged, and as you were heading to step in, Robby interfered. Casually sidestepping, his taller frame stood in your way. His height left you craning your head to look at his face. He pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head in disapproval. “Look, we can be civilized about this matter. I don't want to zealously escalate this. I just want to know if you understand.”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Robinavitch.” Your head had cocked to one side, an eyebrow raised.

With one-step, your path was clear. Gracefully, you stepped towards the elevator, stopping on the threshold. “If you feel other appropriate measures are necessary, you can speak to Dr. Jefferson. I’m sure he’d welcome criticism about his fellow.”

You wasted no time watching Robby’s dumbstruck expression. With the click of a button, the elevator doors swiftly closed, and he saw his reflection in the sleek metal. One hand dragged down his face, the disbelief hitting him like a freight train—a fellow.

He had let an insufferable fellow under his skin. A psychiatric one at that. The concept felt ironic, as if the universe had planted you in his department to screw with him. If the past few years had felt like being stuck in a labyrinth of self-wallow and despair, you were starting to feel like the Minotaur.

“What are you looking at, Cap’?”

Robby’s head whipped to see Dana approaching him, hands rubbing together. He looked back at the elevator, sparing his reflection one more look before letting out an irritated laugh. “Dr. Jefferson’s new fellow, know anything about her?”

Dana hummed, positioning herself beside Robby as the two walked casually. “I’ve met her a couple of times. She’s pleasant."

“That’s not what I would call her.”

The corner of Dana’s mouth curled upward. She looked him up and down, taking in his edged look. As of late, that was the only appearance he had, but she’d describe this current phase as worse. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, maybe the fact that she dug into Santos about not wasting her time.” Robby huffed out, a strained and sarcastic smile on his face. Dana's eyes widened in response, “And me, as a matter of fact.”

“You?” Dana questioned, seemingly impressed by that information. Robby gave her a look, which only made her chuckle. “You aren’t the type to let anyone give you a piece of their mind, let alone a psych fellow.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Robby’s dry laugh made Dana cheese harder. She did enjoy being particularly punchy, especially at this moment.

Dana shrugged, feigning innocence. “You doctors get your panties in a bunch when something sounds remotely offensive. The girl has other patients to see, too, you know?”

Robby appeared bewildered as they continued strolling beside each other. “Since when do you take the side of a psychiatrist?”

Dana joked while shrugging, before bumping her arm against his. “Full of surprises.”

After walking a lap around the Pitt, they ended up back at the central hub. Robby stared up at the patient board, measuring how much worse the shift could get. He wouldn’t have walked out the restroom if he knew another moment of you was waiting for him. It somehow was worse than the first and he didn’t like you anymore than the first time you spoke to him.

“You should speak to Jefferson. There has to be a reason she’s still around.” Dana insinuated, putting on her glasses to grab a tablet.

Robby shrugged his shoulders, uninterested in the suggestion. There couldn’t possibly be a reasonable explanation for Caleb allowing you to continue your fellowship. The two didn’t match.

Caleb had immeasurable patience. It was the only reason he hadn’t given up on pushing therapy options to Robby. However, the longer he got to know you, the more it felt like you were the complete opposite. You didn’t fit the bill to even potentially fill in Caleb’s shoes. Naïve and arrogant was one way Robby would describe you. He couldn’t imagine working with you upstairs in the behavioral health department. There was no hesitation on your part to act conceitedly for the sake of the ‘job.’

It might not be his place to tell Caleb how to manage his department or his fellows, but Caleb was bound to sniff you out if he hadn’t yet. Robby was sure.

A few days had passed, and Robby was keeping an eye on you. The way you strolled into the ED relaxed and stoic. He thought the conversation you two had would strike some nerve, but you appeared very normal. During his shift, you answered consultations promptly, and you’d disappear just as quickly.

You definitely didn’t like to waste time.

The few times he did see you in the week, you were with Mohan or Collins. From the windows or open curtains, he noticed you in your natural habitat, like some animal in an exhibit. You cared about the patients, but the minute you walked out of the rooms, you were clinical. It was as if you had trained to detach yourself. You gave the imitation of a smile and brief ‘hello’s’ when necessary, but he wasn’t sure he had seen you crack a joke or be nice.

Today there was radio silence on your end. He was on the last two hours of his shift, and you hadn’t brushed by with your cold shoulder. The atmosphere didn’t feel as tight or charged, even if Robby felt that way almost every shift.

When he turned to the corner to where the central hub was, he saw Dr. Jefferson wheeling in the opposite direction. Robby smiled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Caleb, it is very good to see you.”

Caleb laughed, removing the glasses from his face. “Why’s that? Have you finally considered my offer to meet some good friends of mine?”

Robby shrugged, looking away. Dr. Jefferson had been around long enough to meet Dr. Adamson, and Robby, for that matter. Therefore, when the department unfortunately lost him, he kept closer tabs on Robby. Everyone knew the late Chief’s protégée would take up the pedestal, even if he felt himself inadequate for the title. 

They’ve been friendly since then, and with the aftermath of the PittFest shooting, Dr. Jefferson hung around the ED more often than not. He wasn’t personally treating most of the staff, but he connected them with trusted professionals in the field. He had yet to succeed with Robby.

“Still working on that, but I did want to talk to you about something else,” Robby mentioned quietly, walking in the direction Caleb was heading. 

Attempting to hide a grin, he nodded. “Shoot.”

Robby tried to word it lightly, but the strain in his voice gave away enough for Caleb to reach his own conclusion. “There’s a new fellow you failed to mention, and we might have got off on the wrong start.”

Caleb humorously said your name, stopping off to the side of where the elevator was. Robby froze, processing that name; which he hadn’t exactly heard of till now. Labeling the face with a name, the way he did when patients were wheeled in unconscious and unidentified. He’d humanize them and reason with the idea that someone knows and loves the person he’s treating. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to empathize with the likes of you, even with your name.

Caleb placed his hands in his lap, breaking through Robby’s absorbed thoughts. “She’s here for an emergency psychiatry fellowship. I’m glad you two finally met since you’ll see her around more often.”

“About that,” Robby pointed out, with obvious discomfort from the idea. He didn’t want you around. “I don’t know if she’s a good team player.”

“What makes you say that?” Caleb questioned, intrigued by the sudden concern. You must have been different around Caleb for this to pique his interest. You were a psychiatrist after all, how hard would it be to hide your true nature?

Robby sighed, head bowed. “She had no problem reminding me how to consult psychiatry when she found a patient sedated for an eval.”

Caleb made an ‘ah’ noise, relaxing in his wheelchair. When Robby really looked down at him, there was an indistinguishable amusement. The type that felt wrong for the moment. Robby furrowed his brows at the psychiatrist, who returned it with an easy expression. “That’s it?”

What? Robby’s arms crossed over his chest, hands gripping onto his bicep to restrain from acting erratically in front of a psychiatrist. He sputtered a bit, trying to find some other observation of his to alarm Caleb of this new fellow he was gleaning over.

“For someone training to work alongside my department, she seems indifferent to my staff.” Robby rattled off. If he hadn’t noticed, Caleb would have described what he was seeing as behavior from a five-year-old in school. “She insulted an intern in front of a third-year resident.”

Caleb casually rolled himself in front of the elevator. Robby stepped beside him, pressing the up arrow button. “I don’t know of her plans after this fellowship. She is still exploring her options, but have you noticed any other interactions?”

Robby shook his head, lips pursed. He could ramble about how you never cracked a smile or bothered to greet the other doctors when responding to a consultation. You show up, speak with the patient, debrief with his staff, and leave. Simple and efficient, but robotic. He had noticed the weird looks from his residents, unsure if they watched the interactions transcribed correctly.

“Well, maybe it was just a bad day.” Caleb shrugged. He sat pensively staring at Robby. He never liked it when Caleb did that. “She’s working the night shift tonight.”

The elevator dinged with the doors sliding open smoothly. Robby pressed his hand against the slot to keep it from closing. Caleb wheeled inside, spinning gracefully to face Robby again. “Test your theory. Ask the night shift attending if he finds anything of concern, and I’ll follow up with her.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Robby gave Caleb a stiff nod while taking a reluctant step back. The sleek doors slid closed, and the last thing he saw was Caleb chuckling to himself.

That was the opposite of how he expected it to go. Caleb treated the matter as if he expected it to happen. Was this a cruel joke? Was the universe mocking him with an immature, presumptuous fellow? Exasperated, Robby stalked off towards the central hub, looking for a worthy distraction of his time.

Collins was sitting at one of the workstations in front of their behavioral rooms.  He browsed around the ER, checking his surroundings for anything needing immediate attention. His senior resident hadn’t bothered to lift her head as she continued typing and his shadow casted over the desk.

Robby leaned against the workstation, eyes fixated ahead as he lowered his mouth to a level that let them talk privately. “Can I get your opinion on something?”

Collins smiled softly, a tad entertained by the idea. “Depends. As long as it has nothing to do with trying whatever dish you plan to bring for the Thanksgiving party.”

Robby shook his head, catching the small look she gave him from the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat, “No, but thanks for the brutal honesty. It’s about the new psych fellow.”

Collins hummed, the tapping of the keyboard filling the silence of her thoughts. “What about her?”

“Have you seen her interact with any of the other residents or med students?” Robby questioned, eyes narrowing at her as he tried to phrase the question casually. No matter how he put it, she knew he was looking for something implicating. 

Collins furrowed her brows, pursing her lips. “A few times. She’s been responding to most of our consultation requests.”

“And what are your professional thoughts about her?”

Collins paused for a moment, hesitant to answer the question. Robby expectantly looked at her, and Collins knew whatever she said would have weight over his opinion of you. Collins straightened her back, “I think she’s professional. Doesn’t tend to make small talk with us, but then again, that’s not really necessary for patient care.”

“And with patients?” The question came out quickly, like a planned interrogation to find an answer from his earnest resident.

“I don’t tend to stick around to see her interact with them. Mohan seems to think she’s good.” Collins commented. She watched Robby’s reaction from the corner of her eye. She knew he respected her opinion, but he was also fixed in his opinions at times.

“Mohan’s too soft.” Robby offhandedly commented, glancing away as he chuckled more to himself.

Collins shook her head, a teasing look on her face. “Ouch. Tell me how you really feel.”

Robby inhaled sharply, recollecting his thoughts. “I mean, Mohan sees the good in everyone. I’m sure she was impressed by her approach.”

“So you agree she’s good?” Collin’s fingers were moving over the keyboard, logging off. She spun in her chair, facing her attending. He took a step back, letting Collins stand comfortably. 

Looking down at his feet, Robby shook the jab off. Collins meant well, but she could sense there was something more. Maybe he truly didn’t trust you, but she got the idea he was blinded by something out of your control. “My unprofessional opinion? I think if she were a man, you wouldn’t scrutinize her so much.”

Robby scrunched his face, a displeased smile on his face. He made an effort; he was sure Collins recognized that, but even when he was wrong, she always stopped to remind him. Before he could counter, she raised her hands in retaliation. 

“I’m just saying. Anyone can be driven and patient-centered without wanting to be friends with everyone.” Collin reminded, “You do.”

Collins saw a refutation in his eyes. He had been living on the edge as of late. Between Langdon's sudden hiatus and whatever else he was dealing with silently, he was sparking a reputation of a man haunted. She hated to say she spared herself the grief of witnessing what occurred a couple of months ago, but if it saved her from looking like Robby? She was relieved. 

“Robby, incoming trauma. 5 minutes out!”

The attempt was futile. He knew just as much as he did the day before, which was nothing. He should’ve known better than to bet against odds with a psychiatrist. He was beginning to feel confident in the idea that this was an orchestrated, cruel joke.

Coming in for shift change, Robby was antsy to know he was right. He wasn’t opposed to you due to your gender, as Collins suggested, or because he felt emasculated, as Dana inferred. There was something inherently wrong. He had to believe in his instinct about you. 

He had missed the substance abuse signs from Langdon, whom he spent countless shifts and cases working with. His mission was to nip the problem before it spiraled out of his control again. It was for the benefit of the department, he reminded himself

Therefore, when Jack told him nothing imperative of a self-absorbed psychiatrist, he silently cursed under his breath. That doesn’t mean your reclusive persona didn’t go unnoticed. Jack didn’t mind it per se, but he did find it odd when the only person you made small talk with was Shen.

From then on, Robby made sure to keep track of all the cases you assessed. His resident may have noticed their attending hovering more than usual during cases that required psych consults. He was sure you were aware of the new vigilance over his department–because of you.

Robby was walking out of the breakroom when he bumped into you. The two of you were heading in the same direction, and your brisk walk had startled him. You had turned over your shoulder, catching the polite smile on his face. Halting your step, you turned to him. “Dr. Robinavitch, just the person I was looking for.”

“Is that so?” Robby asked with an amused tone. He pumped hand sanitizer, rubbing it into his hands. “What can I do for you?”

The phrasing of his words must have been humorous, because for once, the corner of your lips curled upwards. You didn't let him bask on that reaction for long, shaking your head. “I have an update on your patient in Central 12.” 

Stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket, he shrugged. “Isn’t that Dr. Collins patient?”

“Yes, but I know you have a special interest in the case.” You teased. The relaxed expression on your face didn’t resemble that of the comment, but you were testing the waters. Better put, you were testing him. 

Considering this was one of the few times the two of you had spoken, he was impressed by your professional demeanor. He scoffed, shaking his head. “I am especially interested in all the patients that come into my department.”

“Well, isn’t it strange that you tend to linger and question those that require my consultation?” You cocked your head to the side, eyes narrowed at him. He didnt miss the satisfaction in your eyes. A small triumphant glimmer in your eyes, seeing him crack a little, the center of his forehead creasing.

Robby opened his mouth, finding some cool and respectable way to deflect the accusation. You glanced away, watching nurses pass you both by. “That’s beside the point. I’m putting the patient on a psych hold. He will have to stay down here for the meantime.”

“May I ask why?” Robby posed, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

From what he recalled of the patient, a 28-year-old male who came in reeking of booze with a head laceration after some drunk and disorderly pick up from officers. The patient had come in slightly combative and agitated, which, after looking at his tox report, was explained by alcohol and drugs in his system. How could it have escalated enough to validate a psych hold?

“He’s a danger to others. Presents grave disability.” 

Robby stared at you with wide brown eyes. He was expecting more than eight words to justify keeping a patient with substance abuse. He pressed his lips firmly, “Which would be what exactly?”

“I spoke with Mr. Romano’s family, and he has a history of schizophrenia. Apparently, he’s been off his medications for months.” You directed him away from the break room, moving over to the corner by pedes, where a small kitchenette was. Robby had his back to the rest of the ER. “When I spoke with the patient, he endorsed auditory hallucinations.”

“And you’re sure that is not a result of the drugs and alcohol in his system?” Robby questioned.

The prompted mistrust in your judgment must have rubbed you the wrong way since you cringed, nose twitching subtly. “EMS report supports what I heard from the family. The patient all but confirmed it when he kept rambling about ‘demon in walls.’”

A hand rubbed the back of Robby’s neck. He was almost done with the shift. He didn’t need to deal with the added luggage of another occupied bed. “I also overheard from Dr. Collins that he was walking, talking, and demanding discharge.”

“And I’m telling you, if you discharge him, he will decompensate on the streets.” Your firm voice was one he had yet to hear. Typically, you spoke with little cadence, but now, he knew he had pushed your buttons.

The sentiment of your voice left no doubt in Robby that you were offended by his objections. Robby had obvious authority over the department, over his residents' actions, and the ultimate say in many of their decisions. You were the gray area. Working in the emergency room required Robby’s involvement, but he wasn't your boss. 

Robby crossed his arms, a displeased smile on his face. “We don't have the availability to hold him.”

“Put him in one of the behavioral rooms.” You suggested, waving off his obvious irritation. “All he needs is routine medication dispensing and soft restraints, if necessary.”

Robby shook his head, the idea hitting deaf ears. “I don't have enough nurses to spare to dispense meds on a schedule. Why can't you take him upstairs in behavioral health, where he’ll actually receive the proper treatment?” 

“We don't have availability. Current bed wait time is at least 24 hours.” 

“Fuck me.” Robby groaned out loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear. His hand dragged down his face, lazily shaking his head.

You noticed the sideways glances. The staff noticed the tension between the two. Robby’s reluctance to give in and your reluctance to compromise. Besides the chief’s tight face, you were internally seething, evident in the way your hands tightened, crossed over your chest. 

You shook your head, scoffing, “That hardly seems like appropriate language, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby’s cold-stone stare didn’t go unnoticed by you. He should’ve admired your dedication to proper patient care, but he couldn’t help but feel this was all deliberate. “I can start the patient on his first dose of meds and put it into his chart for the next dispense.”

Right as you were going to brush past him, you stopped, craning your head to look at his side profile. “I appreciate your due diligence, but I am capable of doing my job without you breathing down my neck. You can at least show me that respect.”

When he felt the cold air hit him, he turned around, barely catching your back disappearing around the corner. He couldn't distinguish whether you leaving with the last word, or him letting you walk away at all, frustrated him more. He let out a heavy sigh, hands on his hips. It was just luck when he turned his head to see Caleb approaching him. 

Wheeling away from a patient in the north rooms, he warily looked in the direction you headed. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

“I told you. I don’t think your fellow plays well with others.” Robby groveled, stalking past Caleb.

Without missing a beat, Caleb maneuvered his wheelchair, strolling closely behind Robby. He heard the rolling of the wheels behind him, but did not intend to turn back to explain himself. Caleb chuckled, “Well, I have a minute if you’d like to voice your concerns.”

“I don’t think that’ll do much.” Robby offhandedly commented, wanting to strike a chord in Caleb. Maybe you were picking up since transferring this ugly habit. You had to have learned it from somewhere. 

“You could give me the benefit of the doubt by talking to me,” Caleb emphasized, which halted Robby’s steps.

The two had somehow made it to the lockers, where Robby found himself practically gridlocked between the double doors and Caleb. With slight shame, he turned to face Caleb who patiently waited for the right moment to speak again. 

“Look, I’m sorry if you felt dismissed the last time.” Caleb initiated genuine sincerity in his apology. “I liked to believe my favorite fellow and ER physician can learn to get along on their own in a perfect world.”

The smile threatened to cross his lips. Caleb’s grin certainly didn’t help Robby hold the stoic expression. Robby shook his head, “Flattery? Is that something new you’re trying in your practice?”

“I’m still workshopping it. You’ll have to let me know if it’s effective or not.” Caleb joked, smiling up wider at Robby.

With easier breathing, Robby crossed his arms, shouldering his words with some dignity. If he was going to grovel about a colleague, he wanted to sound like the situation warranted it. “She seems to go out of her way to make my job difficult. I find it hard to believe she isn’t doing it out of enjoyment.”

“Funny. She told me the same thing about you.” Caleb responded, watchful eyes on Robby’s reactions.

Furrowed brows and a displeased frown told Caleb everything. Robby had been holding on to moments where he felt you ruined the ‘harmony’ of the ER. If he was on edge, everyone else was walking on eggshells. Robby narrowed his eyes at Caleb, “Considering the one time I saw her work with my residents, she insulted them, I wasn’t pleased. It warranted taking another look at her work ethic.”

“She thinks you're scrutinizing her every move, which doesn’t help her treat patients properly, if that is the case.” Caleb pointed out respectfully. His response was diplomatic, even if he knew more than he let on.

Considering how much effort Caleb put in defending you, Robby should’ve assumed you’d share your observations of his rather egregious behavior. You had just called him out about. There must be more discourteous observations you had made known to your superior in the privacy of your shared office.

“Maybe I don’t want some overly confident psychiatrist disrespecting my staff.” Robby scoffed, offering Caleb a tight-lipped smile. He no longer needed to pretend to be nice. They were close enough for Caleb not to be offended and for Robby to be blunt.

“You mean you?”

Robby stood dumbfounded by the question. Everyone seemed to misinterpret his message. Collins, Dana, and now Caleb. He had made his bed, totally approaching the situation of you with little bias, he thought. If he did it all for the sake of the department, no one could question his judgment over you.

“If your residents have a problem with her, let them come to you,” Caleb suggested, friendlier intentions than when you told him to back off. Robby stood with his hands on his hips, still unsure. “If this is about you feeling disrespected, find a way to work it out.”

“She’s not malicious. She just has a hard time letting people in. You should identify with that.” Caleb gave Robby a firm nod.

Reluctantly, Robby agreed. Caleb wheeled backwards before turning and disappearing in the chaos of the department. There couldn’t possibly be anything the two of you shared in common. Robby refuted the idea that the two of you could find a comfortable middle ground to become friends or friendly.

You probably would’ve made it your mission, so it wouldn’t be so easy if Robby dared to attempt. Your cocky attitude was an enigma eating away at him, and if he let it go longer, his department would suffer for it. He’d head Caleb’s words, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to waste his energy on a lost cause.

Pretending to be civil must be a hidden talent of yours. A superpower reserved to further dig yourself under Robby’s skin. Whether intentional or not, it was working. 

In the last couple of weeks, you’ve kept your dialogue with him minimal. He knew you sought him out regarding all your cases, and neither of you made any comment on the fact. You’d give him your thoughts on a patient, any patient-care requirement from the psychiatric side, and disappear without so much as a farewell.

Robby didn’t expect it whatsoever. He didn’t assume you’d recover from the heated encounter with pleasantries and fake niceties. Robby couldn’t say the same about himself. He did attempt to compliment your efforts, but before he could get a word out, you’d wander away, abruptly ending his chances.

He stopped after the third attempt.

“Someone called for a psych consult.” Robby overheard as he was passing by the nursing station. He had recognized the sound of your voice by this point, from the rare times he heard it.

Robby halted his steps, peering over the brim of his glasses. You leaned against the central hub, speaking with Perlah, covering Dana while she (undoubtedly) took a smoke break. It was almost surreal to see you more comfortable than ever. You were sporting dark tortoise shell glasses, and the cardigan over your button-up was cozy. Maybe the holiday spirit was warming you up.

“I’ve got it, Perlah,” Robby called out from behind, making his way around the circular station. Perlah smiled politely before stepping away.

Robby glanced knowingly at you through the top of his glasses. He scrolled through a device in his hands while you stood around, bored almost. “I assume Dr. Jefferson is currently unavailable?” 

“That is a safe assumption to make.” Your vague response had his finger freeze, hovering over the screen. If you were amused by the scrunch on his face, you kept it to yourself. With a sigh, you nodded. “He stuck with a patient upstairs. I was available.”

Robby’s sights landed on the middle-aged man sitting in BH-1, hands on his head, and elbows resting on his knees. The room was empty and cold, for necessary precautions. Your eyes followed the direction he was looking at, examining the patient from afar. 

“Escorted by police, brought in by ambulance, after he threw acid on a pedestrian's face,” Robby informed in a low and serious tone. Standing beside him, his head craned down to be closer to your ear, defined the gravity of the situation.

“Right before Christmas.” You scoffed, shaking your head. Business was particularly busier with the change in whether and the usual holiday injuries that brought more people to the ER; which only meant more work for Robby and his staff. 

“Why was he brought in and not immediately detained?” You questioned, lips pursed in deep thought. 

Robby made the mistake of glancing at you. He saw the pensive expression, watching the man rock back and forth on the cold mattress top. The subtle rise of your chest was evident. You weren’t rattled or shaken yet. If he could describe the fleeting look in your eyes, he would see something human. The case was already personal for you, as all the others once you took them on.

“He suffered bruising and other surface wounds from bystanders attempting to stop him from fleeing.” Robby chuckled dryly at the irony of the situation. You reap what you sow. “He has proven defiant to treat, but police won’t allow us to discharge him until we at least do a tox-screen.”

You hum, nodding as you digest all the information. Craning your head, you looked up at Robby, who was staring at the man. “And why page psych? Because he chose a bizarre way to assault someone?”

Robby scratched the side of his beard, admittedly humored by your statement. He shrugged. “Witness statements claim he was aggravated but unprovoked before the attack. They want to make sure there is some legitimacy to those claims.

“So, sniff out the crazy?” You joked, gracing him with a crooked smile. It was a crude joke, but it also appeared like you had made it countless times before. 

Robby awkwardly chuckled, unsure how to properly react to the remark. You simply shrugged, “Dr. Jefferson would’ve thought it was funny.”

You straightened your back, hands digging into your pockets as you pulled out a couple of pens, tossing them onto the counter. “Considering this patient is high-risk, I’ll need security and a nurse on standby outside the room.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to have two physicians in the room?” Robby questioned. He took off his glasses, stuffing them into the pocket of his scrub top. 

You began to take off your jewelry, consisting of dainty necklaces and small hooped earrings, as if it were second nature.  “I’ll be fine on my own. Since this is your department, I’ll have you assign a nurse.”

“I assign what nurses work in what cases.” Dana casually strolled up behind you, pressing a tablet into her chest. 

Her eyes shifted from Robby, then to you. When she looked back at Robby, she was watching his posture and grip on the tablet. You spun around, nodding in understanding. Dana peered at Robby from over your shoulder. He stood there silently, too silent for comfort. 

Dana slowly looked around, noticing Jesse passing by. “Jesse! You’re with me!”

Jesse halted, staring among Dana, you, and Robby. Dana pointed her head toward the behavioral rooms. “Stand watch with me while psych does their eval.”

“Great.” You clapped your hands with little enthusiasm. Looking at Robby one more time, it was obvious he had reservations about the entire operation. “You’re welcome to observe, Dr. Robinavitch, but I understand you’re busy here. I can find you once I’m done. Wish me luck.”

Without waiting for his response, you walked over to the officer, calmly explaining the approach you were going to take. Robby leaned back into the nursing station, carefully gazing over your soft movements. When the door unlocked, you walked into the room, calm and collected. Robby held his breath when the door closed, and he saw you position yourself by the right wall. 

“She’s ballsy for wanting to go in there on her own,” Dana muttered, scooting closer to Robby. When her arm brushed his, she felt the tense muscles in his shoulder. With concern, she turned to head to get a better look at the rest of him—on edge and skeptical.

Jesse scoffed beside the charge nurse, shaking his head as he casually leaned against the nursing station. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with a man like that.”

“Robby,” McKay came around Robby’s other side, hands in her jacket pocket. She came to a halt when she noticed the small crowd watching in the behavioral room. “Is that the guy?”

Robby pensively nodded his head. From the window, you were lowering yourself onto the ground, disappearing from behind the door. He teared his eyes away to look at his second-year resident, gawking at the scene. “I can’t believe they brought him here instead of arresting him.”

“Did you need something?” Robby posed the question, hands on his hips. 

With his back turned towards Dana, she was positive something was bothering him. She knew he was on the cusp of crawling towards a hole no one could pull him out of. Whether it was drilling himself in the work or not allowing himself a second to breathe, it was all slowly drowning him. 

What she didn’t expect was for you to enter the behavioral room to elicit such a response in him as it did. Sure, he grovels a bit about protocol. Last thing she suspected he wanted was for you to break the rules right under his nose, but she sensed it went beyond that. It was like when the door closed, separating you from the safety of outside the behavioral room, an odd, doom-like chill ran through him.

McKay gave him a tight-lipped smile, turning away from the gallery, observing the interaction. The last thing Dana and Jesse heard was her motioning to a patient in one of the central rooms. The small glance Robby threw towards your direction over his shoulder didn’t go undetected by Dana or McKay as he was pulled away.

The air was uneasy, or so Robby thought. It felt thick and opaque as he jumped around the ER from patient to patient. The unsettledness tended to appear when an apprehended patient came in, especially one known as violent. 

Everyone kept a watchful eye when passing by the behavioral room. Apart for Dana and Jesse, who were the assigned nurses to the case, as well as the officers and Ahmad, everyone still felt inclined to check in. When Robby answered a trauma, luckily passing by BH-2, he caught your eye through the glass. One firm nod, and he stalked the ambulance bay. 

Almost two hours had passed by, and you were still in the room with the detainee.

Dana and Jesse had gone in a few times. The room had somehow felt chillier than outside, and you were comfortable in it. Administering meds or checking vital signs made the detainee flinch. You had easily distracted him. Although he hid his face under his long, dark hair, he engaged with little grunts and noises that you could coherently interpret.

“How is she still in there?” McKay questioned, leaning one arm on the nursing station. She turned to Dana, who was writing away on the device. “I thought she convinced him to do the blood test already.”

“She did,” Dana responded, partly focused on checking in with their current available room. There were four hours left of the day shift, and the tension was still on the roof. “Apparently, she hasn’t finished her eval. Have you discharged the patient in Central 15 yet?”

“Still waiting on her CT results,” McKay answered, her head still turned to the behavioral room. She furrowed her brows, watching you through the glass. 

“Good news! It came in a few minutes ago, and I need a bed. Get to it, Missy.” Dana grinned, shooing away McKay from continuing her staring, like they were in a zoo.

McKay begrudgingly walked in the direction of the patient, pulling Javadi with her as they crossed paths. Dana shook her head, muttering something about kids. With her head down, she didn’t notice Robby walking up behind her, but she did sense his large presence. 

“How are we doing?” Robby questioned, arms crossed as he stopped beside Dana. It was the first time in the past couple of hours that he could do a proper analysis of the current standing of his department. He appreciated the split second to breathe properly.

“Four hours left. I’ve got a couple of beds opening.” Dana informed, peering at the attending through her eyelashes. 

Robby rubbed the back of his neck, the bags under his eyes sunken in and darker than before. He exhaled heavily, shaking himself awake. “Okay, good, the more patients we can move out, the better. We still have two patients—“

“Hula-hoop!”

All the staff in the vicinity turned their heads in the direction of the call. Robby felt the dread in him at the term thrown. It wasn’t used loosely, and everyone knew to react quickly. When his sight landed on the behavioral rooms, the wave of staff rushing in alarmed him. 

With a burst of adrenaline, Robby rushed over to the room, weaving around the nurses watching. Pushing through to the doorway, the scene played out in chaos. Ahmad was already on the patient, with Jesse pulling him off and tossing him onto the bed. 

A couple of nurses rushed over, beginning to hold him down, putting on soft restraints. When Robby looked down at the ground, you were sitting up, nursing the left side of your face. There was blood dripping down your nose. The crimson red stained the front of your blouse. The hardened look on your face made it clear it was hurting.

Tipping your head back, he heard your labored and uneven breathing. Robby approached you on the ground, examining for other superficial wounds. “What the hell happened?”

When Robby brought up his hands, flashlight pen clicking on, you brushed him off. Maneuvering your head to watch the detainee instead of treating your current wounds. “Push 6mg of Ketamine.”

Your voice was raspy and hoarse, and when Robby’s eyes landed on your neck, he saw the bright red mark. The imprints resembled those of hands, and your skin was raw. He firmly stated your name, “Did he choke you?”

“He punched her before pushing her onto the ground and strangling her,” Jesse informed while stepping away from the patient as the medication was administered. 

Robby looked over his shoulder, watching as the patient succumbed to the medication, no longer thrashing or screaming profanities. Looking back at you, he saw the fresh bruising around your eye, blood surfacing under the skin.  His pen light came up to your face, checking your pupils for reactions.

In an instant, you swatted the light away, cringing at its brightness of the light. You scooted back, providing space to slowly stand. Dana immediately came up to your side, arms hovering under your elbows. “Honey, you need to let Robby check you. You can have a concussion.”

“Occupational hazard. “ You choked out, the strain in your face evident from the pain of suckered in the face and pushed to the ground.

Everyone in the doorway cleared out as you cautiously made your way out. The nurses debated on stopping you, pushing you into a wheelchair, and immediately taking you into a room. They opted not to once they saw you glaring at everyone staring at you. 

Dana trailed your tail, and Robby followed her. One of the arresting officers approached Robby, “Is she alright?”

“I don’t know yet.” Robby sighed, his eyes stuck on you. Dana pulled up an office chair, sitting you down with reluctance on your part. “Your detainee assaulted a physician and is currently sedated. We will have another psychiatrist assigned to no longer waste your or our time.”

The officer scoffed in Robby’s face. The sudden distaste as he looked at you fueled Robby’s current temperament. Shaking his head, the officer tightened his jaw. “We offered our services to the shrink. She thought she could handle hardball.”

Robby let out a sour laugh, his eyes squinting at the heavy-set officer. Before he could boil things over further, Dana called out his name. “We need you over here!”

With one more glare, Robby turned away, approaching the scene of nurses surrounding you and Dana like hawks. Even some of his residents had huddled into the group. Whispering of questions and concerns barely made their way to his ear,

“Okay, everyone, give her space!” Dana instructed, imitating a boundary as she pushed her hands outwards to provide a greater space between you and the ED staff.

“How does your head feel?” Robby started crouching slightly to get a better look at the bruising around your eye.

“I’m fine, Dr. Robinavitch.” You mumbled, pulling your face away from his grasp. 

The incredulous stare he gave you only opposed you more to treatment. Against your wishes, the pad of Robby’s thumbs began to press against your cheekbone, under your eye. He continued this until he reached the side of your nose, where you cringed harder from the pain. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Robby mumbled back, quiet enough for you to hear. You rolled your eyes at him, turning your head.

His examination travelled down to your neck, the swelling going down gradually. Pulling on his stethoscope, he pressed the chest piece to your back. Without much instruction or previous reluctance, you took in deep breaths, holding it, before letting go.

“O2 stats look good,” Jesse informed, lifting the pocket-sized meter. Robby nodded subconsciously, still listening to the sound of your lungs. 

With the proximity, he could smell the subtle hints of vanilla and fruit. The warmth of your skin radiated onto him, and the scent grew bolder. From behind you, he saw the flushed skin on the back of your neck. He safely assumed it was from the manual strangulation, but he wondered if you thought about the little distance between you, too. 

Robby had to remember to focus when he felt you start to sit taller. He removed the chest piece, throwing the instrument around his neck. “Clear lung sounds.”

“We can stick her in North 5.” Dana grabbed your cardigan, still on the desk, and threw it over your shoulders. Your skin may have felt warm, but you were shivering in your seat.

“I don’t need to be coddled.” You looked around at the nurses. The statement was firm, almost self-assured, but you gratefully stuck your arms through the sleeve.

“Pupils were reactive, but I want to rule out a concussion. CT head and maxillofacial.” Robby spoke to Dana, standing at full height. He was no longer focused on your previous disagreements or blow-up; he was acting as the attending physician, now having to care for a colleague hurt on the job. 

“Top of the line for CT,” Dana affirmed, beginning to write you down.

“Page Dr. Jefferson. I’ll talk to him about finishing the evaluation.”

“I can finish it.” You interrupted, standing up with little stability. Your hand immediately grabbed the back of the chair, gripping tightly. “I built rapport with him.”

“And he assaulted you as a result,” Robby argued, stepping closer to you. If you were uncomfortable with the public confrontation, you didn’t let it show. 

He knew the adrenaline was keeping you up, eyes flickering around like a lamb amongst wolves. He did not intend to hound you, but you certainly weren’t thinking logistically. It was probably foolish on his part to assume presumptuously that you’d go down without a fight. If your history had taught him anything was that you were stubborn. Fighting was in your DNA.

“I can do my job, Dr. Robinavitch.” You seethed, fired up by the extra boost coursing in your body.

To the other watching, you seem infuriated from being actively booted from the case. It didn’t make sense why you were fighting so hard if it wasn’t to protect your ego. Yet, Robby wasn’t convinced that was the reason. Your forehead creased, and your lips transitioned downward. A frown? 

“What happened?”

The voice echoed loudly over the ruckus you two created. Dr. Jefferson wheeled around Perlah and Princess, coming up behind you. Closing your eyes and turning your head to hide the masterpiece on your face.

Robby cleared his throat, still staring down at you like a child acting defiantly. “Your fellow was just assaulted by a patient while conducting an evaluation.”

Jefferson called your name, wheeling closer beside you. Jesse had stepped away, and Dana had shooed the rest of the nurses glued to the situation. You knew you couldn’t hide it, so you turned around, looking down at Jefferson. 

He stayed quiet while he looked from the swelling under your eye, to your neck, to the blood drying up. Silently, he evaluated the rest of you, intact but shaken up, even while you tried to hide it.

“Are you okay?” Caleb asked concernedly, which surpassed that of his role as an attending. He asked as a friend or even something fatherly.

You let out an agitated breath, glaring at Robby from the corner of your eye. “I don’t understand all the fanfare. I’m not concussed, and I am competent enough to do my job.”

Caleb, taken aback, looked over at Robby, who disapprovingly shook his head. The environment felt hostile, and if it wasn’t before, it was sure now. Caleb scooted back, “That wasn’t my question.”

Your hands fell to your sides. While the two of you held strained eye contact, your body depleted, the weight of confronting your current dilemma weighing on your chest. All Robby saw was the subtle shake of your head, and Caleb's face contorted.

“Do you have a room for her?” Caleb directed the question to Robby.

“North 5. She’s next in line for a CT.” Dana cut in, offering empathetic smiles all around.

Caleb jerked his head to the side, hands on his wheels as he led the way towards the north rooms. Jesse pulled up smoothly with a wheelchair behind you. Without much thought, you carefully lowered yourself onto the chair, slumping down, your body caving into itself. Once Caleb stepped in to take the reins of the situation, you succumbed to his direction. Robby furrowed his brows, watching Jesse wheel you away, disappear with Caleb into a hallway.

Dana sighed, shaking her head. “Poor girl. She looks confused.”

She turned to Robby for him to respond with some quip about her arrogance or inflated ego, but all Dana saw was an appeal to nurture. Robby saw a deer in the headlights, frightened by the incoming danger. He thought he had you all figured out. Now, he was more confused than ever about what Jefferson saw in you.

Dana expectantly raised her eyebrows at him, and once the silence registered, he faced her with an exasperated sigh. “Right. Alert me when the patient wakes up. We’re going to need the police to take a statement after the CT results.”

Without waiting for Dana’s reply, he stalked in the direction of North 5. Maybe he should know better than to beat a dead horse. You weren’t going to be okay with passing on the case. After three hours with the patient, he would assume not. Yet, he incorrectly thought that if he acted civilly, he might change the outcome.

He slowed down as he approached the North 5 room. The curtain had been pulled closed, appropriately to provide you privacy after the dramatic show in the middle of the ER. Glancing around once, he prepared to announce his presence, his curled fist lifting to the door, until he heard voices.

“No one will think less of you if you drop the case. You were beaten and almost choked to death, for crying out loud.”

Caleb sounded almost infuriated. The man abandoned his patience, and it sounded like a different person to Robby. Even when Robby tested the waters, making comments, passing jokes, and warranting worry, Caleb never faltered.

“I told myself that too once, but I can’t risk dropping from another program.”

Robby furrowed his brows. He knew eavesdropping on a conversation between two psychiatrists was ironically improper, but now he was hooked. He stepped back to obscure the shadow on the curtain, hiding his presence a bit longer.

“The two are hardly comparable.” The exasperation in Caleb’s voice was evident through his sigh.

“Aren’t they?” Your dry, bitter laugh was oddly familiar to Robby. He was starting to feel the same way about this department. “First, this fucking disease, and now this patient? What more do I have to give up until I can just be a good fucking doctor?” 

“Nothing else.” Caleb sighed, and Robby held his breath as the silence settled between you two. “No one is kicking you out of this program, but you can’t tire yourself out with this job either.”

“Caleb, you’ve got a minute?” Robby spontaneously asked, feigning no knowledge of the conversation the two were having in there. 

He heard you mumble something, probably egging him to leave with Robby. After a beat, the curtain pulled back, and Robby caught a glimpse of you. Hands covered your face as you lay back on the gurney; you didn’t bother to lift your head and acknowledge him.

Caleb let the curtain drop, containing you back to the room. Robby stepped aside as Caleb passed the threshold. He motioned to Robby off to the side, putting distance between the two attendings to talk. “What did you need, Michael?”

Robby peculiarly watched Caleb’s expression. The lingering remnants of the heavy conversation settled in Caleb’s eyes as he looked into an abyss. You had an effect on people, Robby thought.

“We need to reassign the case to another psychiatrist,” Robby stated, more as a demand than a suggestion. “The sooner we finish that up and get the report to the police, the better for everyone.”

Caleb nodded with little indifference to Robby’s authoritative stance. Robby casually slipped into the break room, walking over to the coffee pot. Caleb positioned himself by the doorway, leaving the entrance open.

“I agree.” Caleb folded his hands in his lap, he glanced down at his watch. “I’ll debrief later about the patient. I’m sure we have enough.”

Caleb saw Robby nod in silent agreement, hands busy pouring himself coffee in a mug. He fiddled around with sugar packets, the rustling of the packaging clear to Caleb. He bowed his head, inhaling softly. “So, how much of our conversation did you overhear?”

Robby hummed, nonchalantly shaking his head. His nervous smile definitely gave him away when he turned back to look at Caleb. The knowing smirk on his face told him so much. “I’m going to assume you heard enough to have more questions about my fellow.”

Leaning back against the counter, Robby nursed the mug in one hand. He stared expectantly at Caleb. He certainly didn’t owe him anything about you; but if you two were bound to work together for the next year of your fellowship, he should know pertinent information.

Caleb shrugged his head over to the table, inviting Robby to take the moment to listen. Without argument, Robby silently slumped into the plastic chair, mug on the table. Caleb slotted his wheelchair in a space. “Psychiatry wasn’t her first choice. Better yet, a choice at all.”

“She used to be a surgical resident in California.” Caleb laughed earnestly, “I’ve been having a hard time shaking that icy demeanor.”

That must have been a drastic change, Robby assumed. Surgery provided an exhilaration that boosted their egos. He could see a hint of that attitude left, considering how the two of you met. If what he heard was correlated with what Caleb said now, there was something complex with your case. Dropping out of a residency program to join another drastically different program didn’t seem rational.

“How come she’s not a surgeon?”

Caleb paused, and Robby thought he instantly regretted speaking of the topic. It was somewhat invasive of Robby to ask your supervisor why you were different. He should’ve stopped it before it got too far. The coy smile told him the opposite: “You should ask her that.”

Robby bowed his head, laughing to himself. Of course, it was a ploy. Some way to get him hooked enough to push him in your direction. “Well played, Dr. Jefferson.”

With shameless pride, Caleb shrugged his shoulder, feigning humility. When Robby lifted his head, he took a hasty sip of his coffee. “Does this have anything to do with you trying to get us to bond?”

“I think you'll have a much different lens on her if you do try to get to know her,” Caleb suggested, almost certain that his attempts and theories would work. He was occasionally hopeful in his line of work, which sometimes was dangerous. But these weren't his patients; these were his colleagues. Something told him now was the right moment to be optimistic. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll like the person behind the curtain.”

“If you ask me, it sounds like you’re playing matchmaker.” Robby joked, a small nervous chuckle following.

Pushing him to get to know you as physicians working in the same environment was one thing. Caleb didn’t appeal to Robby as the type to be a wingman for either party. Besides, there would need to be a lot of work done for either party to remotely agree to those terms.

Caleb shook his head, a joyous laugh echoing in the breakroom. “No. I just think there’s a lot for me to learn about her as well. But what I do know is she is more human than you make her out to be.”

Before Robby can formulate a response, sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floors outside the breakroom. Robby turned his head towards the door, finding Whitaker stopping at the threshold. Robby sat up straighter. “Did you need anything?”

Whitaker nodded, eyeing Dr. Jefferson, who only offered a polite smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Don't worry, we were just finishing up.” Caleb shook his head, hands on the wheels of his chair. He teetered back and forth, looking at Robby. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said?”

Robby gave him a curt nod, sighing as he stood from the chair. Satisfied, Caleb excused himself, wheeling out of the room as Whitaker stepped aside. Bracing himself to finish the shift with the little strength he had, he followed behind Whitaker as he debriefed him. Passing by the north rooms, particularly the one you were occupying, he couldn't help but look in.

The curtain was still pulled closed, providing little view of how you were doing, but Robby imagined this was the biggest inconvenience. His head continued to play the conversation between him and Caleb. A former surgical resident, dedicating herself to Psychiatry, enough so to agree to a fellowship in an emergency room setting. 

It did intrigue him. Enough so, he might note Caleb’s observance. 

It wasn’t news to anyone that the ED staff loved to decompress with alcohol and camaraderie. With winter rolling in with lower temperatures at night, they traded in the outdoor park benches for an indoor, rugged bar. The lights were severely dimmed compared to the fluorescence of the hospital. The antiseptics sticking to their clothes were succumbing to the stench of beer and fried food.

The group that decided to stop by after their shift collectively sat around a booth. Their laughs may have been the loudest in the establishment, tucked away in a corner, but no one made any complaints.

Robby felt the weight of the shift leaving his shoulders. It was rare nowadays that he didn’t take the baggage of his job back home. Lying under the covers, staring at some rerun playing on T.V. had become his way of forgetting. He was trying to convince himself that it was working. 

While in the presence of his staff off-duty, he leaned back in the padded bench, listening to Santos and Javadi lead the conversation. It ranged from reality television to the weird patients they had that day. While Princess was talking about the third patient with a foreign object found inside them, Robby heard the wind come in from the front door.

Sitting at the corner of the booth, he noticed a patron come in, hugging a black wool coat. You had made your way over to the bar, slumping into a stool. The bartender came up to you, taking your order, and when he left, you exhaled the deepest sigh.

From the side profile, he could see you wince as you removed your coat. You were internally intact after the CT. No concussions or breaks in your nose or cheekbone. Simple fractures and soreness that would have to heal on their own. It didn’t mean the exciting shift didn’t leave you wiped. 

He wasn’t able to check in with you during handoff since he didn’t see you leave. Once Dr. Jefferson finished the evaluation for you, resulting in the detainee transferring to a state psychiatric hospital, you had disappeared since then. Mohan had been the one to clear you, and when he came around North 5 for the last time, the bed was empty and cleaned.

Robby didn’t realize he had been staring until Donnie called out his name. Focusing back on the group, they all stared at him, expectantly waiting for a reply. He hummed, raised eyebrows, before his eyes turned back to you.

Most of the group in a position to look in the direction of the bar craned their necks. Their advantage gave them a view of your back, but it was like they all shared the knowing feeling.

“Do you think that was her first time?” Javadi asked, readjusting in her seat beside Whitaker and Perlah. 

“Something tells me this isn’t her first rodeo,” Whitaker mumbled beside Javadi, eyeing you carefully.

You were nursing some dark liquor, taking careful sips while scrolling on your phone. Robby gnawed on the inside of his cheek. Despite the occasional shifting in your seat, you seemed perfectly fine as you could be. The bartender had given you a look when he noticed the bruise, and a few others around the bar had done double takes.

Robby wasn’t sure what his intention was when he excused himself from the group, wandering to the empty seat at the bar beside you. When you turned your head at the sound of the glass bottle hitting the wooden counter, he re-imagined his approach.

He said your professional title politely, while he sat down carefully. His pace allowed a moment for you to object or ask him to leave; yet, when he looked up from the ground, he saw the hint of a smirk. A name came out of your mouth, which wasn’t your surname. He stopped, curiously looking at you.

“I don’t like being called by my professional title outside of work.” You shrugged, taking another sip of your drink.

Robby chuckled, letting the name sit comfortably in his tongue. It rolled out with a smoothness he didn’t expect. Baby steps. “Maybe you should call me what everyone else calls me. ‘Robinavitch’ is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

You shrugged, turning halfway to face him. Your knees brush his, and he couldn’t help the reflex to flinch away. “I don’t like to get too comfortable with colleagues.”

“You seem not to like a lot of things.” Robby pointed out, resting his arms on the bar. The reverb of his chuckle extended to his arms, which jumped with him. 

“I have a system,” Your eyes darted around the bar methodically, while thinking to yourself. “I don’t like straying away from that.”

“And that means not making any friends?” Robby dragged out his words. While his head was slightly bowed, he looked up at you through his eyelashes. 

Your shirt was different, some grey cable-knit sweater. Surely you had changed after the last blouse was ruined with your blood. Apart from the bruising around your eye, you were still as cleanly maintained as usual. Maybe it was the lighting that hid the dark undereyes they all had from work exhaustion and lack of sleep; but he found it hard to notice a fault in your appearance.

He wouldn’t say he was a lightweight—far from it, actually. After an hour of hanging around at the bar and sipping on beer, he didn’t feel as uptight when he left the PTMC, that was certain. You had looked down at him, the same hooded eyes that had reminded him how to do his job properly when you first met. Even when he felt there could be a turning of a new leaf, you were strict in your program of self-development.

“I prefer to see it as prioritizing the patient’s needs first. I shouldn’t have to make friends to do that properly,” You deadpanned. This hadn’t been the first time you explained yourself, and Robby wandered back to the conversation he had with Caleb.

Your defensive and offensive style of communicating did resemble the type of banter he and Garcia had, except you pushed further than you pulled. A former surgical resident must have been an offensive strike on your record. Especially if the reason was humiliating enough for you to want to hide it.

“There have to be some exceptions.” Robby probed, leaning back into the chair, “How about Shem? I’ve heard you two are pretty friendly.”

The blank expression on your face gave him little notion of what to think. You weren’t visibly taken back from the question, but you didn’t think he had noticed enough to ask. Your eyes then narrowed; more displeased, he had voiced the observation as if there was something more to it.

Lying on the side of your head on a curled fist, you stared at Robby. “I met Shen when he was in med school at UCSF. He did a few rotations while I was a resident.”

“In psychiatry?” Robby followed up easily, now facing you. One elbow propped on the back of the chair, while the other rested on the counter.

You furrowed your brows, eyes hardening to something like a glare. You were skeptical. Robby wasn’t exactly discreet with his line of questioning, and his expectant body language gave away exactly what he was asking for. 

“Did Caleb tell you?”

Your voice sounded strained, and one could’ve assumed it was from the exhaustion. What Robby saw as he examined your face was displeasure. Maybe you were angry with Caleb for sharing your information or Robby for faking pleasantries to dig into your life. Regardless, your tense muscles told him he was entering territory you had marked away as ‘dangerous.’

“He may have mentioned that psychiatry wasn’t your plan A.” Robby’s voice softened, and he almost sensed your disgust from the change of tone. He should've known that you hated pity or anything remotely sympathetic. 

The way you reacted when he and Dana were attempting to examine you made it clear. You were protecting yourself, the way an injured animal may act defensively in the presence of something more intimidating. Robby understood the instinct. 

You dryly chuckled, shaking your head. Apart from that, you crossed your arms. When Robby noticed the grinding of your jaw, he had prepared to excuse himself from the conversation. The tension was palpable, and the stakes were too high to bet. Caleb failed once more on changing Robby’s mind, and he should’ve heeded his own words before tempting fate.

“I was a surgical resident.” You calmly spoke, and Robby felt a shiver from the shift. You had managed to relax the contorted muscles in your shoulder, slumping in the seat once more. “After my third year, I withdrew and joined Psychiatry.”

Robby, who was stunned silent, nodded aimlessly. He offered a tight-lipped smile, “Caleb didn’t mention anything more than that.”

The slow nod brought Robby an odd relief. He finally figured it wouldn’t be the brightest idea to push his luck. Your shaky sigh released the icy resolve you had before this moment. Your eyes shifted quicker, and your foot had started thumping up and down. “It’s not exactly his place to.”

When you turned your face away, the discoloration looked brighter under the overhead lamp. He was forced to look into your glassy eyes. “He seems to think we are more alike than we think.”

“So he thinks we can be friends? He is a sucker for lost causes.” You stated, reaching for your coat hanging on the back of your chair.

Robby's mouth fell agape. Lost causes? His patience was withering, and that might’ve been the last straw. He wanted to give Caleb the benefit of the doubt. He was actively finding reasons to change his point of view about his life, his work, and his relationships. He didn’t need to get along with you, nor did he want it, but he attempted to desire it. 

Lost causes, right?

“So, that’s it?” Robby said with disdain. He noticed the same disinterest in your face from the time you two spoke in front of the elevator. His reflection from that moment came up in his mind, and he wondered why he bothered with all of it in the first place. 

You didn’t bother to look up as you pulled your wallet out of your coat. Slipping cash out of one of the pockets, you drop it on the counter. A twenty. “What more do you want, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Chugging down the rest of your drink, you stepped down from the stool, shrugging on your coat. “You’ve made it pretty clear to me and my superior of your indifference towards me. How can we ever be friends after that?”

“Well, I can admit when I’m wrong.”

“Except, you think you aren’t.” You quickly retorted, giving him a sideways glance while you fixed your coat. You eventually shoved your hands into your pockets, “I don’t mind that whatsoever, but I don’t need you to befriend me to make up for it.”

Despite preparing yourself to leave, you were rooted in your position. He didnt know what you wanted, and he was left with no cards to play with. Pretending to be nice didnt work, nor did actually showing a sincere interest in getting to know you. With the jarring agitation, he was comfortable in believing you were the lost cause. Maybe the universe was fated to make the professional relationship challenging for as long as you were at the PTMC.

“You may think no one notices your devolving behavior, but you’re not doing as good a job as you think you are at hiding it.” 

Robby’s body stiffened. You barely flinched from how stone-cold his face became. Chin raised, and eyes narrowed on him, you were sniffing him out like a dog. He had tried to gracefully push you to open up, even if it meant disclosing he had some insider information. The impression he got was that you made sure to puncture the wound with your words, leaving no confusion.

“You’re not my fucking shrink,” Robby warned, shaking his head as he stood from the bar. In any other scenario, it would be alarming to see a tall man like him go toe-to-toe with a woman at a bar. Especially one already sporting a bruise. 

“And we’re not friends.” You retorted back, head cocking to one side. “Remember that.”

You took a measured step back, letting yourself breathe away from Robby’s frustrations against you. “I’ll let Dr. Jefferson believe that, though–to get off both our backs. But, there’s nothing more you and I need to be doing outside of treating patients.”

Turning away, Robby was forced to stare at your back, once again awarding you the rights of having the last words. It was like every time he was ready to take steps forward, he was pushed back several hundred feet. You were certainly making it impossible for him to make some sort of personal development, if that was in the cards for him at his age.

Time was escaping him, and his hope of turning things around was diminishing with it as well. Caleb had him believing there was a chance to fix something in both of you by mending the tense atmosphere that lived with you both in the same room. 

Robby didn’t need a shrink to fix his problems, and he didn’t need to waste his time fixing whatever was wrong with you, too. So, he’d agree to work in whatever conditions you’d want to live in. So long as you didn’t pretend to know what was wrong with him, and he wouldn’t naively assume anyone could be friends with you.

A/N: Breaking my hiatus to bring you this Cassie McKay fic. Huge thanks to @rozmrazaradelfinow for the request and for being insanely patient and gracious about waiting for it. I don’t know very much about medics or emergency services so my assumption that flight medics can be EMTs who are cross-trained might be wrong. This fic also reminded me that I can’t spell “restaurant” to save my life and I rely heavily on autocorrect.

For anyone interested, I wrote the entire smut sequence listening to Do It For Me by Rosenfeld and Apartment by BOBI ANDONOV over and over.

For some reason, Tumblr refuses to allow me to add a screenshot of the request, so it’s based on this request:

“Hi!

Your fics are amazing, especially the Mel ones. I would like to please request any lady from The Pitt (but specifically Cassie McKay if that's okay with you) with a paramedic! reader or where reader is one of those chopper medics (don't really know what they're called). But basically the reader is new and sees Cassie (or any other lady) and starts to seek them out any chance they get.

From there - whatever you want. Could include smut if you feel like it (with reader being a top if that's alright)

Thanks!”

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

Cassie McKay learned a long time ago that voices matter more than faces.

Faces blur for a multitude of reasons: behind masks, with time, behind shields, they change with exhaustion and lighting and haircuts and weight loss, with grief and with sleep deprivation. Faces lie and change under the weight of so many different things.

Not voices.

A voice will come stripped of everything except the truth: lie about smoking for twenty years? Your voice will tell on you. You can hear urgency, confidence, fear, things a good poker face can hide but a voice cannot. 

A voice can become familiar long before you ever meet the person attached to it. Some you would recognize anywhere, and some live in your head long after they’re gone for good.

The bay doors slide open before the wheels of the ambulance have even fully stopped.

“GSW, left chest,” you’re calling as the stretcher pushes into the emergency room. “Twenty-eight year old male, found conscious but deteriorated en route.”

Hands reach towards you, or probably towards the patient or the stretcher, you aren’t really sure which. But someone grabs the gurney frame and someone else is attaching monitor leads, so maybe it’s both. The lights in the ER are too bright in your eyes after the lower lighting of the rig, and they bleach everything white in a way that hurts to look at.

“Single penetrating wound, I couldn’t find an exit. Breath sounds diminished on the left. We needle-decompressed at the five-minute mark. There was brief improvement, then his pressure started tanking again.”

The receiving team falls into formation around the stretcher as your partner guides it into place.

A man with silver at his temples meets you at the head of the bed, already gloved. You know him, Dr. Robby, you’ve seen him a hundred times, though never without the visor of your helmet before. He looks more weary under the harsh light.

“BP?”

“Eighty systolic, last manual. Heart rate is one-forty and climbing.”

“Fluids?”

“Two large-bore IV’s, a liter of saline in. We started blood ten minutes out.”

Dr. Robby nods his head in approval. “Good call.”

That’s when you notice her.

She’s stepping in on the patient’s left side, hair pulled back into a ponytail though her bangs fall into her face. She’s younger than Dr. Robby, but she doesn’t look nervous at all, she looks focused. Her hands are steady as she takes up the trauma shears. You recognize her, not only physically, but by the feeling in your chest and the heat in your cheeks that always accompanies her arrival.

You know her too: Dr. McKay.

She’s already looking at you when you notice her, but it’s quick, her eyes drop back down to the patient the moment you catch her staring.

You assume she’s evaluating your report, or maybe she needs more information, so you add: “Patient was GCS fourteen on pickup, dropped to twelve about seven minutes ago. He’s still protecting his airway but tiring. We held off on intubation to keep scene time down.”

You look at her expectantly to find her looking at you, again.

She isn’t saying anything, and now that the patient’s clothes are cut off, she isn’t really moving anymore, either. She’s just looking at you with a strange expression, almost confused. You stand there, waiting to see if she needs clarification.

But it’s Dr. Robby who fills the silence. “Prep for a chest tube.”

The sound of her Attending’s voice seems to snap her back into focus. “Breath sounds diminished,” she reports, turning to the instrument tray beside her.

You step in with them as they transfer the patient to the hospital bed, automatically shifting to the position that keeps the lines untangled. You’ve done this dance too many times to count.

Dr. McKay reaches for an IV line at the exact same moment you adjust the pump and your hands touch. She seems to startle, but it’s not dramatic, just a tiny jerk of her hands back toward her body.

It’s weird. She’s usually more steady than that.

Dr. Robby is already gloving up. “Pressure?”

“Seventy-eight,” someone - the Charge Nurse, you can never remember her name, you don’t work with her enough - announces. “…and dropping.”

“More blood, let’s go.”

Dr. McKay’s focus is clear now, hesitation and weird disposition about you both gone. She anticipates Dr. Robby’s demands before he voices them, from the scalpel he asks for down to suction ready. 

This is the Dr. McKay you’re familiar with.

You ease up, giving them space to work while staying close enough to answer any more questions they might have. It isn’t often you have the leisure of following a patient through more than dropping them off at the ED, especially when you’re working on the CCT. You’re ready to jump back in if you’re needed.

“Anything else from the field?” Dr. Robby asks without looking at you.

You run through your mental checklist. “Negative, Dr. Robby.”

He nods, and your handoff is officially complete.

From the other side of the table, Dr. McKay looks up again, her eyes settling on you. There’s nothing soft about the way she’s looking at you, she doesn’t even look relaxed; very un-Mckay, compared to the way she’s treated you in the past. She looks like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. 

You give her a small smile, as reassuring as you can make it without flushing under the weight of her gaze, and she blinks, as if thrown off.

“Doctor?” Nurse Dana prompts gently as she passes McKay an instrument.

Dr. McKay looks down like she’s forgotten what she was doing, and then resumes with renewed focus.

Okay…that’s new.

You strip off your gloves, chucking them into the biohazard bin. 

“Good hands,” you say quietly as you take another step back. It’s not a compliment so much as professional acknowledgement, you’ve said versions of it to her (and every other doctor in this Emergency Room) before. Usually through a visor or over rotor wash, sometimes already halfway back to the aircraft.

Her head snaps up like you’ve said something shocking.

You’re already turned toward the doors. Behind you, your partner is resetting the stretcher, the sound of metal clanking following you. The trauma bay swallows the sound as the doors close behind you.

You take a single glance back and find Dr. McKay outright staring now. She’s looking at you, her eyebrows drawn together with confusion, eyes narrowed like she’s looking at some sort of stran–

Oh.

It dawns on you.

Oh, that’s rich.

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

Cassie is having a weird day. 

It started before she even opened her eyes, with an alarm she slept through on accident. By the time she woke and found her phone to shut off the second - or was it the third? - alarm, she felt like she missed something important.

Which she did, because she overslept.

There was no time to shower, which would have been fine because she took one last night, except that her hair was still damp from that one. She’d twisted it into a knot on top of her head that never fully dried while she slept. 

And when she finally raced down the hall, Harrison was sitting on the edge of his bed, awake but somehow not dressed, staring into space.

His backpack was missing. His homework was only half-finished the night before. He didn’t want the granola bar she practically threw at him, but when he (begrudgingly) ate it, crumbs rolled down his shirt, sticking as they go. When she finally got him to the bus, her coffee had already gone cold on the kitchen counter, but she was too far behind to drink it at that point anyway.

Traffic was worse than usual, and by the time she pulled up to the hospital, she had a headache and she hadn’t had a second to breathe.

Weird day.

Dana had called her out the moment she walked through the door with a loud, “You’re late.”

And just when she’d finally been settling into her routine in the hospital, finally feeling like she was back on track, her ankle monitor went off. It’s not bad enough that they watch her everywhere she goes, but the shrill alarm caused heads to turn and conversations to stop.

Later, after the chest tube is in and the blood is hanging and surgery has taken the GSW patient up to the surgical floor, Cassie finds herself standing in the aftermath with her hands finally clean and a moment to rack her brain.

She knows she knows you.

She’s worked with you before, your voice is familiar to her, she just can’t figure out why. Robby had greeted you, and you’d used his name. You seemed comfortable enough in the ER, you knew where you were going as you came in, you’ve obviously been here before.

And then there was “good hands.”

She’s heard that before, she’s definitely heard that before.

Cassie stands near the nurse’s station, watching where you’d disappeared out into the ambulance bay. 

“Who was that?” she asks, turning toward Dana.

Dana pauses what she’s currently doing, throwing her a confused look. “Who was who?”

“That medic,” Cassie says impatiently. “The one who brought him in, I haven’t seen her before.”

Across the station, Collins also stops what she’s doing except for her head turning in Cassie’s direction. Langdon, who’d been lingering, tries to hide his laugh behind a cough and his hand. 

“What?” Cassie asks, looking around.

“Are you serious?” Collins asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Langdon turns away, pressing a fist to his mouth, silently laughing hard enough that his shoulders are shaking.

“Frank,” Cassie snaps, “if you laugh -”

“I’m not -” he chokes. “I’m not laughing.”

“You’re laughing.”

“It’s just -” He lets out a hard breath, running a hand over his face. “Wow.”

Cassie looks between Langdon and Collins, and Dana, who’s still staring her down with eyebrows raised. 

Dana’s arms cross slowly. “You’re telling me you have no idea who that was?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking!”

“I had no idea you were so oblivious, Cassie,” Collins says casually, but with a small smirk. “You can’t even tell when people are flirting with you.”

Cassie blinks in surprise. “What? No she wasn’t.”

There’s a shared look among the three.

“Maybe not this time,” Langdon says with a roll of his eyes.

“She wasn’t.”

“Baby,” Dana says with a scoff, “that woman has been making eyes at you for months.”

“That is not true.” Cassie stares at her incredulously. “I’ve never even seen her before.”

Langdon fully loses it, turning away to hide his laughter.

“It is true,” Heather insists. “Honestly impressive considering she had to do it through a visor.”

Cassie’s brain stalls out. The lights are on but nobody’s home, even as she racks her brain. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she says slowly. “I would’ve noticed someone looking at me.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly not.”

Dana and Heather exchange a look.

Cassie sighs, frustrated. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That,” she says, gesturing wildly with her hands. “That thing where you know something and you’re not telling me.”

Langdon is fully here just for the hilarity of it all, existing only to laugh at her dismay.

She whips around to look at him warningly. “Frank.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, very much not sorry at all. “It’s just…you’re usually so observant.”

“I am observant.”

“Mhm.”

“I am!”

“Cassie,” Heather says, leaning back against the counter as she folds her arms across her chest, “you’ve never noticed the paramedic who’s been staring at you like she forgets how to act every time she rolls in?”

Cassie opens her mouth to argue and then promptly shuts it. Because no, of course she hasn’t, she’s certain you’ve never brought a patient in before. She has to know you from somewhere else, you’re not even -

“She’s not one of ours,” Cassie voices the thought out loud. “She’s county, I saw the rig, it says Allegheny County Emergency Services. I would remember if someone external was -”

“Flirting with you?” Langdon offers when she cuts herself off. 

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“But it’s true.”

Dana cuts in before Cassie can argue with him again, using the tone typically reserved for her own children when she’s guiding them toward an answer. “Robby trusts her.”

That gets Cassie to switch her focus off Frank. “What?”

“He didn’t ask a single follow-up question during that handoff,” Dana says. “Not one. When does he ever do that?”

Cassie frowns, missing her point. “When the report is good?”

Dana nods, making a sound of confirmation. “And when he knows the person giving it.”

Replaying the scene in her mind, Cassie tries to focus. The way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you said -

“Good hands.”

That causes her pause. 

She hears Collins speak distantly. “There it is.”

She knows those words.

“I’ve heard that before,” Cassie says slowly. “Why have I heard that before?”

Dana has an all-knowing smirk on her face as she tilts her head at Cassie. “You’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Cassie groans, exasperated. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

In an infuriating way that’s definitely meant to piss her off, Dana just smiles. “Because I’m gonna enjoy it more this way.”

Across the counter, Langdon mutters, “This is the best day ever.”

Cassie ignores him, snatching the patient clipboard from Dana’s hands. 

She’s furious. Recognition has taken root in her mind, but it’s just out of reach, like she’s barely grasping at it with the tips of her fingers. She’s angry at herself, she knows she knows you. She even looks back toward the doors to the bay like she’s willing you to walk back in.

You don’t, of course, because you’re probably on your way back to your dispatch station, or out on another call already.

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

It’s two whole days before she sees you again.

It’s ridiculous that she knows that, really, she’s aware of it. She’s worked back-to-back shifts, managing full patient loads both days, she’s discharged more people than she can remember, and still…you linger in her mind.

It’s not constant, there’s no way she could do her job if she couldn’t think properly. But you’re there, especially in the quiet moments. She can’t sleep, because when she closes her eyes, there you are. But never all of you. It’s mostly your voice, and your eyes. You’re bright, and focused, and younger than she expected, somehow.

This is stupid.

She doesn’t fixate on people like this. But she can’t get the way you look at her out of her mind. She knows that Heather and Dana are right, she can see your eyes looking at her the way they’ve described, but again, it’s ridiculous because she can’t even remember where she’s seen you before.

It’s been a weird two days.

“Dr. McKay!”

Cassie looks up.

Robby is already halfway across the ER, calling back to her as he goes. “There’s an incoming trauma, MVC, two minutes out,” he says. “I need you to help unload, then you can get back to your patients, you’re maxed out right now.”

“You got it,” she says, following him. She snaps on gloves, yanks a gown from where they hang. “You ever going to take a day off?” she asks, throwing a look back at the coffee cup Robby left on the counter at his workstation.

He snorts. “Bold coming from you.”

“I took one,” Cassie protests as he helps her tie the gown around her back.

“When?”

“…recently.”

“Uh-huh.”

The doors to the ambulance bay slide open and they’re greeted with the cool air that comes with late fall in Pittsburgh. They’re shielded from the light rain that falls from grey clouds overhead by the roof over the bay.

“You look like shit,” she adds, though it’s good-natured.

“Thank you,” Robby throws back. “That’s actually very grounding.”

Cassie chuckles, adjusting her gloves under the sleeves of the gown. “Just saying.”

They take their usual positions near the doors, waiting for the sirens they can hear in the distance to arrive. 

Robby glances sideways at her. “Harrison good?”

She flexes her fingers, though the tightness of her jaw is noticeable. “Yeah. He’s good.”

“You seen him?”

“A couple of days ago,” Cassie nods. “Before my shift.”

Robby nods along. “…and Chloe?” he carefully prods. He’s pushing it.

Her tongue prods the inside of her cheek. “Still exists.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She filed another complaint last week,” Cassie says. “Nothing came of it.”

His mouth flattens into a line. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

That’s his cue not to push any further. 

Breaking the tension, Langdon’s voice carries through the doors. “If this patient dies because you two are bonding over personal stuff, I’m not filling out the paperwork.”

Cassie doesn’t turn to look at him. “You don’t fill out paperwork anyway.”

“I delegate to my interns.”

“You avoid responsibility.”

“Same thing.”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. The R3 and R2 are known to bicker constantly - scratch that, Frank tends to bicker with everyone he sees, Cassie is just no exception.

An engine roars through the conversation as the ambulance turns into the bay, breaks squealing a little as it comes to a harsh halt in front of them. The words Allegheny County Medical Services are printed in bold letters across the side.

Cassie’s stomach flips. 

The back doors of the ambulance fly open and you jump down from the back of the rig, reaching for the stretcher before the doors have fully cleared. 

“On my count,” you’re saying, breathless with urgency. “One, two -”

The stretcher yanks out fast as your partner joins from the front of the rig. The second the wheels hit the ground, you’re climbing. You grab the side rail and plant one foot on the lower bar, hauling your body up to align yourself over the patient in a motion that’s so smooth it’s almost like gravity doesn’t apply to you. Your shoulders stack over your hands, your elbows lock, and you begin to push.

Cassie is watching you do something she’s seen literally everyone else around her do at some point or another, something she herself has done a thousand times. Compressions. But holy shit, for some reason when you do it, it’s hot. 

“Get out of the way!” you demand loudly, not even looking up at her.

She’s so entranced by you that she doesn’t even realize she’s standing in the way of the stretcher.

“Move!” your partner yells, nearly shoving the stretcher into her.

Cassie shakes her head as she snaps back into motion, grabbing the side to help guide the stretcher. Robby is at the head, Langdon at the other side, and your partner takes the other end to pull.

“Status?” Robby asks. 

“Cardiac arrest, likely secondary to blunt trauma,” your partner answers him. “She lost a pulse two minutes out.”

“Do I have an airway?”

“Supraglottic in place,” you confirm from atop the stretcher. 

The doors slide open to let you into the ER, and you distinctly hear one of the doctors yelling “Clear!”

Dr. McKay shoves one of the doors to a trauma room open, keeping it in place as the stretcher rolls into the bay. You don’t stop your compressions.

“Switch on my count,” you say, glancing up at Dr. Robby as he takes stance across from you. Your eyes slide over everyone, making sure they’re all in place, and they finally land on her. Where they stay. “One, two, three. Switch!”

You step back just long enough to help with the transfer, and then Robby has taken over compressions on the table.

“Run me through it,” Robby says, his eyes still on the patient but his ears on you.

You nod. “High-speed MVC, this is our driver,” you start. “Found unresponsive on the scene with agonal respirations. Lost both pulses shortly after extraction.”

Cassie pauses with lines still in her hands as you present. The familiarity of your voice, even just the cadence of the way you speak, she knows it, she knows you, if she could just place it.

“CPR ongoing from the lose of pulse, total downtime approximately six minutes prior to arrival.”

“Obvious injuries?”

“Chest trauma,” you confirm. “Steering wheel deformity with severe bruising.” 

You step out of the way to give Dr. Collins room without needing to be told as she enters the trauma room. She doesn’t even look up when she takes your place at the side, like she trusts you to be where you’re supposed to.

Like she knows you.

Cassie is going to scream.

You glance up at her again, and hold her gaze when you catch her already looking at you. Then there’s the tiniest lift of one corner of your mouth. Smirking, you’re smirking. Somehow, you know, you know she can’t figure out who you are, and Cassie is horrified at the realization that you seem to think it’s funny.

“Got it,” Robby nods at the end of your presentation. And then he adds an afterthought: “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you without the flight helmet.”

Cassie freezes.

Flight helmet.

The words settle in her brain slowly and take too long to register as understanding dawns on her. The first thing that comes to her is the sound of rotor wash, hearing your voice through the noise without ever seeing you clearly. Your voice is familiar because she has heard it so many times before, but never without the sound of helicopter blades accompanying it. And then there’s your eyes, the only other part of you that’s familiar to her, because you’re always wearing a full-face helmet with your visor down and your voice filtering through comms. She remembers a single moment when you lifted your visor just enough during a handoff, just barely high enough that she could catch your eyes before you turned back toward the patient and finished offloading. And then the final nail in the coffin, the one that settles in place like the very last piece of a million piece puzzle:

“Good hands.”

Not once, but every time you offloaded a patient on the roof. The same words in the same tone, said at the same point during every single handoff you ever did. Words of trust that the Emergency Department would take care of the patient that belonged to you long before they got their hands on them. 

And Cassie understands that she had not been meeting you for the first time two days ago. She has been recognizing you in pieces for months without ever having the full picture.

“Oh,” she says out loud, though it’s quiet and nobody pays it any attention.

But when she turns her head, she finds you already looking at her, that same smile on your face, though she can see certainty on your face now and has no doubt you’ve just watched her realization in real-time. Cassie can’t help the heat in her cheeks, and she’s not sure if it’s from embarrassment or shame. Maybe it’s both. 

When the trauma bay finally begins to settle into a more controlled version of an emergency, when the worst has passed and the patient begins to stabilize, everyone seems to sigh in relief at the same time.

“Alright,” Robby says finally as he steps back from the table. “I think Dr. Langdon and I have this. Doctors Collins and McKay, you’re both dismissed, thank you for your assistance, go reset.”

Cassie doesn’t need to be told twice. She’s already leaving the room, desperate to get away from her own embarrassment.

Your partner and yourself step out of the trauma bay a moment later, stretching your shoulders and trying to rid them of the stiffness that always comes with compressions lasting more than two minutes.

Your partner is already walking back toward the rig, checking his phone. “Meet you back in the truck?” he calls over his shoulder with a knowing look past you.

“Yeah,” you confirm without even looking at him.

Cassie doesn’t even see you approaching her in the central ED. You slow when you catch up and do your best not to surprise her. “Hey.”

She jumps and turns quickly, which proves to be a mistake because she’s now looking at you directly and suddenly remembering things she doesn’t want to be remembering quite this vividly. Like your voice and your face, in her head, in the bay. Even worse, in her bed, every time she tries to close her eyes.

“Hi.” She almost chokes on the word.

You tilt your head and your lips curve up into a smile. “I wanted to apologize,” you say. “For earlier. You know, in the bay.”

Cassie blinks, obviously confused.

“I…yelled at you?”

Oh yeah. Right.

She clears her throat. “No, um…I was in your way. Sorry for that.”

She hopes that’s the end of it. But it isn’t, of course not. You’re still staring at her, looking amused at the way she seems to struggle with words.

Cassie shifts her weight on her feet almost absently. It’s kind of cute. “I um…also didn’t realize it was you.”

There it is, out in the open. She immediately regrets it.

Your eyebrows lift and your smirk widens. You didn’t expect her to actually say it out loud. 

She can feel the tips of her ears turning red. “I mean,” she says quickly, “you were wearing the helmet. And the - everything -”

“The everything?” you repeat, amused. 

Mocking her, you’re making fun of her and Cassie is horrified. She shuts her eyes tight for just a moment before opening them, hopefully with some composure this time. “You know what I mean.”

You laugh then, and it’s genuine and filled with warmth, all traces of your former smirk gone. “I do,” you say. “And I find it kind of flattering.”

“Flattering,” Cassie deadpans.

“You didn’t recognize me,” you say, completely unbothered with that giant grin on your face as you look her in the eye. “And now you’re embarrassed about it. It’s kinda cute.”

Cassie’s mind grinds to a halt at that. “I’m not -” she starts defensively.

Your smile just widens. It’s like you’ve decided for her that she’s not actually mad about any of this. “I’m not judging you, promise. I think it’s funny.”

“You think it’s funny,” she repeats, her face falling and her eyebrows furrowing. 

“I sure do,” you say. “I’ve been making eye contact with you through my visor for months. I’m kind of offended it took you this long to look at me too.”

Cassie sputters for a moment. “I - you…you think I’m looking at you?”

Leaning in, your voice drops to spare both of you from the prying ears you know are everywhere in this hospital. “I know you’re looking at me.”

You stare her down, and to Cassie’s credit, she holds your gaze without backing down. Then she lets out a laugh in disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s not a no,” you shrug.

She laughs again, and this time it doesn’t sound upset in the slightest. She shakes her head, and when she looks back at you again, she’s not flustered in the defensive way anymore. She’s flustered in the interested way. 

There’s a little pause where neither of you speak, and the silence makes you very aware of your partner waiting for you back in the rig.

“Give me your phone.” You hold your hand out toward her expectantly.

This time, Cassie doesn’t hesitate. “Bold.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling when she pulls it out of her back pocket and hands it to you, unlocked.

You take it, typing your number in quickly and adding yourself as a contact to her phone before handing it back to her. On the screen, just above your number where your name should be, sits The Cute Paramedic. 

“Are you always this confident?” she asks, looking up from the phone to your face.

“Only when I know what I want,” you say, turning toward the sliding doors.

“See you around, flight crew,” Cassie says, testing out the sound. 

You spare her one last look over your shoulder. “I hope so.”

She watches you go with her phone still in her hand. She looks far more pleased than embarrassed now.

Behind her, Dana’s voice rings out. “Well that was quite a show.”

She turns and Dana is standing there with her arms crossed and a smug smile on her face.

Cassie puffs out her cheeks, turning back toward the doors where she can still see you as you climb back into your ambulance. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Dana replies defensively.

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

Cassie McKay is not going to text you. 

Not in general, just not that same day. She can’t. That’s desperate. And she will not look desperate, even if she is.

She gets home and immediately changes out of her scrubs before making dinner. She answers texts that actually matter, like the one she got from Harrison on her drive home. He’s just gotten his first phone and is already using way too many emojis in every single text. 

She’s tired. It’s been a long day, it was a long shift at work. She’s not thinking about anything in particular. Especially not you. 

She does other things instead. She takes a shower, turns on a documentary she doesn’t pay a lick of attention to, she absentmindedly scrolls through TikTok on her phone. 

But at some point she can’t hold herself back any longer and she opens her messages. There’s your contact, The Cute Paramedic, even though she knows your name. She types up a message, something neutral even though her thoughts are anything but, and then deletes it. She should play it cool, Cassie wants to be cool. 

so do you always flirt with doctors or am I special?

She sends it before she can overthink it. She immediately locks her phone like that’ll spare her from having to think about it. Which it doesn’t, of course. But it helps.

After that night, it stops being coincidence every time she sees you in the ER.

You texted her back right away, almost as if you were waiting next to your phone for her (which, let’s be honest, you were). You were just as flirty over text as you were in person, and Cassie is immensely grateful that you weren’t there in person to witness just how red she can turn. In her defense, she’s pathetically out of practice with flirting.

She learns that you’d requested less time with the CCT because flight hours were unpredictable, and even though you earned more money as a flight medic, your desire for a healthier work-life balance demanded the more favorable EMT schedules.

You appear more in the ER as weeks pass by. You’re at the hospital more often than coincidence would reasonably explain, though neither of you directly acknowledge it. Like saying MacBeth in a theatre, if you say it out loud, something will inevitably happen and you’ll be called away. 

When you’re there, Cassie seeks you out without doing it on purpose. She drifts towards the central ED, spending more time there than she usually does, just hoping you’ll walk through the doors. Sometimes during a trauma intake, she’ll hear you before she sees you; sometimes she catches sight of you near the nurse’s station, talking to Dana or gossiping with Princess. 

When you notice her, you never hesitate or pretend not to. You’re already beelining to her half the time she spots you. And when she sees you first, she does the same without even meaning to. 

It entertains everyone you both work with. The gossip train has left the station and Cassie is pretty sure there’s a secret betting board on the two of you underneath all the papers in Ahmed’s office. 

The day you finally make a move is the day a patient assaults you.

Cassie arrives late to the trauma.

She was caught up with a talkative elderly patient and missed Robby calling for her. It wasn’t until Dana popped her head into the patient bay and told her she was needed that she was able to make her getaway.

When Cassie enters the trauma room, it feels uncomfortably charged. It’s not loud in the way it usually is when a patient is combative, but it feels tense. That kind of post-incident silence where everyone is still ready for a fight.

On the bed, the patient is restrained and sedated, his chest rising and falling evenly underneath monitoring leads.

Dr. Robby is at the foot of the bed giving instructions to nursing staff. “His vitals are stable now, but keep him monitored at all time.”

Cassie grabs a pair of gloves from the wall, snapping them on her hands. She’s ready to ask if she’s even still needed here when she sees you.

You’re sitting flat on the floor behind the head of the patient’s bed with your back against the wall and one hand braced on your propped-up knee. Your left eyebrow is split open, blood leaking down onto your eyelid. But aside from the obvious injury, you don’t look like someone who’s hurt, but rather just annoyed.

Dr. Collins is crouched in front of you. “Hold still,” she says, holding gauze to the cut. “Unless you want me to make it worse.”

“I’d prefer you don’t,” you reply curtly. 

Cassie pauses just inside the room, realizing she’s missed more than just a patient intake.

Robby glances up and notices her. “You’re late,” he says simply.

Cassie takes a deep breath. “I was with a patient.”

“We’ve got it handled,” he cuts in, already dismissing her.

Dr. Collins nods toward you. “She decided to test a combative patient’s right hook.”

“I didn’t decide anything,” you argue. “It happened very fast.”

“That’s what they all say,” Collins replies with a roll of her eyes, but there’s no bite to it and you can tell she’s just giving you shit.

Robby sighs. “She needs a workup.”

“I do not need a workup.”

“Hospital policy,” he says, raising his hands in self-defense. “It’s a head injury, even if it’s minor. A split eyebrow counts.”

Heather looks up at Cassie. “Why don’t you take her?” There’s something to the tone of her voice and the look on her face as she says it, something that even gives Robby pause, and Cassie throws her a warning look.

Cassie nudges your foot with her shoe. “C’mon, I’ll get you a chart started.”

“The paperwork is gonna fucking suck,” you grumble as you stagger to your feet. You’re a little wobbly and Cassie immediately moves to steady you, her hands hovering at your arms. 

She leads you out of the trauma bay and to a chair in an open bay. “What happened?” she asks as you take a seat.

You look up at her from the chair. “He came in drunk and combative,” you say. “He got worse during the transfer and I got in the way of a swing. He grabbed for a nurse first.”

Cassie moves closer to you, professional instinct taking over as she wraps a blood pressure cuff around your upper arm. She does a quick visual, checking your pupils and taking your other vitals. 

“Are you always this reckless?” she asks, breaking the silence.

“I try not to make it a habit.”

She finishes her assessment quickly, and you’re relieved when you hear your eyebrow won’t need stitches. It’s as she’s bandaging the cut that you speak again.

“Would this be a bad time to ask you to go to dinner with me?”

You can feel her fingertips pause at your forehead. Her eyes trail slowly down the short distance from your eyebrow to your eyes. “…are you seriously hitting on me right now?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Cassie chuckles, shaking her head. “You just got punched in the face.”

“You seem like you like the rugged type.”

She stares at you with narrowed eyes, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with her. “This is not normal behavior,” she says slowly. “You know that, right?”

“Does that mean no?” you ask innocently. 

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

As it turns out, that does not mean no.

You and Cassie don’t go out to dinner that night. Or the next, or the one after that.

That first night is professional. Cassie insists on finishing your workup properly, and while your “injury” (if you could even call it that) is minor, she makes it very clear that it’s non-negotiable. Something something something “not rewarding reckless behavior with immediate gratification.”

You don’t argue. You could, but you don’t. Because she’s not rejecting you, she’s just postponing.

After that first day, it becomes about logistics. Your schedules don’t line up, her shifts run long, your calls run long. You pass each other in the Emergency Department, not bothering to hide the eyes you’re both now throwing at each other very publicly.

You talk when you can. You text even more.

It’s just enough that when a night finally opens up, a shared gap in your schedules that isn’t filled with personal lives, it happens.

And when it does happen a little more than a week later, you plan for it obsessively. 

This is the first time Cassie is going to see you outside of the contexts that she already knows: you’re not in a flight suit, not in an ambulance, not with blood on your clothes or your hands or your face. 

You take your time getting ready. You change your clothes no less than four times, trying on everything in the mirror in your tiny, one-bedroom apartment, doing multiple 360’s to make sure whatever you choose looks good from every possible angle.

You even make a reservation at the restaurant. She left it up to you, so you chose somewhere cozy that’s quiet enough to talk, but not quiet enough to leave room for awkward silence. A high-rise restaurant in an expensive part of town that leaves no question about whether or not you think she’s worth it.

When Cassie arrives, she says it almost immediately like she needs to get it out of the way before it’s said under pressure: “I don’t drink.”

Your face scrunches up with a small smile, like you don’t understand why she felt the need to say it. Or why she looks so anxious saying it. “Okay.”

“You can, though. I don’t mind if you do.”

There are lots of different reasons people don’t drink. Bad experiences, sobriety from other substances, medical conditions. And you know she has an ankle monitor, so you do your best not to make assumptions. It’s not exactly uncommon, and you suspect she’s had bad experiences, either with peer pressure or people thinking it’s weird.

You consider her offer for a moment and then shake your head. “I’m good,” you say.

She’s silent while she looks at you with narrowed eyes like she’s trying to figure out if your response was automatic or intentional.

It was intentional, but you don’t tell her that.

There’s only a brief glance at the reservation list when you give the hostess your name before she leads you to your designated table.

You let Cassie follow first, oblivious to the shiver that runs up her spine when your hand ghosts over her lower back as you let her pass in front of you. You follow close behind, weaving through the restaurant until you reach a booth that’s only available upon special request (and an even more special credit card).

Tucked away in the back to give the illusion of privacy, it sits in the corner next to the windows. The city is spread out 30 stories beneath you, looking down out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the skyline of soft golds and moving headlights in the dark.

“Here you are.”

You thank her, sliding into the booth across from Cassie.

As the hostess leaves you alone, you take a moment to really look at your date. This is the first time you’ve seen her in something other than scrubs, too, and you’re relieved as you realize that probably isn’t a one-sided worry. But Cassie seems to be looking anywhere but you; her eyes are traveling around the low-lighted restaurant, over the bar, over the other patrons, over the skyline. And she looks…almost worried?

“…this is nice,” she finally says quietly. 

Your face falls. “Is it too much?”

She shakes her head quickly like she’s worried she’s offended you. “No, not at all, it’s just -” She takes a deep breath and then leans in over the table. “I’ve never actually been somewhere like this,” she admits. “Like…ever.”

You can’t tell if it’s embarrassment in her tone or if it’s just awareness. Of a space like this, if she’s feeling some type of way about being in a high-end restaurant, if she feels like she doesn’t quite fit.

You don’t make it a thing, instead choosing to nod along. “Okay.” You’re careful about keeping surprise out of your voice.

“I feel a little underdressed,” she adds with an awkward little laugh.

You don’t hesitate. “You look beautiful,” you say.

She looks from the table back up to you, like she’s looking for any exaggeration or dishonesty, but there isn’t any to find. 

“You’re -” she starts, then she stops. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

You shrug, reaching for your glass of water. “I know what I want.”

Cassie’s lips press together in a vain attempt to conceal a smile.

The server approaches your table and it eases the moment.

You’ve barely had a second to look at the menu, but you don’t mind. “I’ll have a mocktail.” There’s a small pause before you add, “I’m driving.”

The server nods and turns to Cassie.

“I’ll do the same,” she says.

The server nods and disappears back toward the rest of the restaurant. 

Minutes pass while you both look at the menu in silence before you flip yours closed, mind made up. 

Drinks arrive and the conversation keeps moving. It starts light with work stories, the kind you only tell to people who can actually understand. Which, admittedly, has not been any of the dates you’ve been on in the last few years. It’s nice, being able to relate to someone for once. But it doesn’t stay light banter for long. Cassie talks about Harrison, and though it’s not the first time you’ve heard about her son, it is the first time she tells you anything of substance. She talks about med school, about how hard of a transition it was after getting clean (which she pauses after mentioning to see if and how you’ll react - you keep your face neutral, putting the puzzle pieces of her response to alcohol together). 

She’s not the only one who talks. You talk about your family, your lackluster dates prior to meeting her. You talk about how you got into the CCT, about how you’d been training for your Solo Pilots License before the process stalled out due to complications with your medical clearance.  

Cassie doesn’t push, just like you didn’t push with her addiction. 

Because this isn’t about learning every last bit about each other tonight. That would be a little too heavy for a first date. No, this is about how familiar the feeling is, sitting across from someone who understands what it feels like to be looked at through the lense of risk before being seen as anything else.

Dinner winds down and the conversation dwindles. When the check arrives, Cassie reaches for it but you’re quick to snatch the booklet, card in hand before she can argue. You’ve already angled the check and card back toward the passing server as subtly as you can manage, handing it off efficiently. 

When you escort her down the elevator and outside the restaurant, the air is cold and you linger as Cassie calls her uber. Her ride is close, only two minutes away.

You’re standing close together, partially for warmth but mostly because the vibes have been just right. She’s watching you almost expectantly, like she knows what you’re thinking but isn’t willing to make the first move. And just when you think you see her uber rounding the corner ahead, you cross your fingers that you haven’t read the situation wrong as you reach for her. 

Your hand comes up to her face, angling her toward you the way you’ve been thinking about all night as she sat across from you, guiding her lips to yours. She’s warm and soft and her arms wrap around your body, holding you close as her mouth moves against yours. There’s a second where you pull apart and scan her face for any sign of regret. When you don’t find any, you lean in to kiss her again. 

The second kiss is more desperate, her fingers gripping the back of your shirt like she doesn’t want to let you go. She tilts her head to fit better against you and your mouth opens for her tongue to slide inside.

When you break away from her a second time, you’re still lingering, wanting more. And it doesn’t take a genius to see that she does too.

“Cancel your ride.”

The words don’t sound like a demand when you say them. It instead sounds like you’re trying very hard not to plead them, and you’re not doing a very good job. 

“Let me take you home.”

The uber idles at the curb behind her, patient in a way that you are not. 

Cassie isn’t dumb, you’re not just offering to drive her home. She knows what you’re really asking. But you’re giving her both an exit and an invitation. She nods, pulling her phone out and hitting the black Cancel button, and you both watch as the car pulls away from the sidewalk and disappears into traffic. 

The decision is made to go to your apartment instead of hers. She doesn’t work tomorrow and neither do you; and privately, she isn’t ready to let someone new into the home she shares with her son every other weekend. The drive back to your apartment is both fast and quiet. She sits in the passenger’s seat of your car with the seat warmers on, her knees drawn up and her body angled toward you, and though you keep your eyes on the road, you can feel hers on you the entire way.

By the time you’ve parked and you reach your front door, your restraint is frayed. You’re fumbling with your keys because Cassie’s lips on the back of your neck feel too good and you feel like you’re melting. But when you get it open, you nearly fall through the doorway, pulling Cassie with you. 

She kicks the door shut hard behind her and is reaching for you again in an instant, pulling you against her and kissing you with almost bruising force. Your arms wrap around her shoulders and you sigh against her mouth, content to follow her lead for now. 

You do pull away from her long enough to mumble a quick “not here” against her mouth, pulling her toward your bedroom.

Cassie follows, her hand in yours as you guide her down the short hall, and only then does something dawn on her.

“Hey, um,” she falters a bit in her step and you stop to look at her. The lack of confidence that’s suddenly graced her voice gives you pause, and you wonder for a moment if she’s changed her mind. But instead she says, “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“A while?” you repeat. You’re unsure what this means for her, or for you, if she wants to continue or if you should stop. 

“I haven’t been with anyone since my ex-husband,” Cassie admits.

That has you worried. You knew Cassie had an ex-husband, she has a kid, this isn’t a surprise to you. But to be a first after someone she’s bound to for the rest of her life? Tough act to follow. 

“D-d’you want to stop?”

“Oh god, no,” Cassie laughs nervously, pressing a hand to her chest. “I just…don’t want you to be disappointed. In me.”

Disappointed in her? The thought is so ridiculous that you have to prevent yourself from laughing. Laughing right now would be disastrous, even if you don’t mean it that way. She’s shy, maybe even a little insecure. She doesn’t need humor, she needs you to lead.

So instead, you use your hand, which is still wrapped around hers, to pull her close until she’s flush against you. She stumbles and nearly falls against you, trapping you between her body and the wall next to your door.

“How could I be disappointed?” you mumble, hands finding her waist. Your fingers dig into her sides, her back, her ass, anything you can reach from this angle. “Have you seen yourself?”

Your lips find hers again and you blindly push open your bedroom door, pulling her inside with you.

You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed about your unmade bed, mostly not having planned for the evening to end up this way. You definitely didn’t think Cassie would be seeing your messy comforter haphazardly tossed sideways and a little rumpled like you’d jumped out of bed without worrying about it. Because you had.

But Cassie doesn’t seem to mind, if the groan that’s torn from her throat as you tug at her hair is any indication. Her head tilts back with the pull and your lips trail down her throat. You shove at the hem of the pretty blouse she’d worn to dinner until she takes pity on you and pulls it over her head, mussing her hair as it goes.

Your own shirt follows suit, and then your bra, as you chuck both haphazardly somewhere in the vicinity of your laundry basket. 

She seems just as eager, already kicking her pants down her legs, revealing to you her matching underwear. The full curve of her breasts straining against the fabric, waistband of her panties tight against soft skin. Black lace, the kind that’s not meant to be worn all day. Or be comfortable at all.

Oh. She was prepared for this too.

You waste no time reaching for Cassie, your hands begging to feel the lace on your skin; and you indulge, dragging her to you by the hips. You pull her in for another desperate kiss, wasting no time running your tongue along her lips, moaning when she opens up for you.

Backing up toward your bed, Cassie follows, desperate to not lose the feeling of your mouth against hers. Your hands run along her figure, dancing lazily over the lace cups of her bra.

When your fingers ghost over her nipples, hardened beneath the fabric, you let out a groan of your own. “Wore this just for me?” you mumble against her lips. 

“I didn’t want to assume,” she chuckles back. 

You turn the two of you around so that Cassie’s knees hit the bed and she stumbles for a moment, having to sit to avoid falling. She reaches for you, her knees parting to make space for you to stand, and her hands trail up your bare sides. She leans in, capturing your left nipple and tugging it into her mouth, tongue laving expertly over the bud and you arch into her, your hand wrapping around the back of her head. She kneads your other tit in the palm of her hand, and your imagination runs wild with the thought of her touching herself the same way.

Physically shaking your head of the thought, you gently push her away, down onto the mattress, and she comes off your breast with a soft pop. But she lets you guide her down. You climb over her, a knee between her thighs to steady yourself. 

She looks almost surprised as you lean down to kiss her again, and you’d imagine that someone like her - both a doctor and a parent - is used to always being in charge, either because she wants to or has to. 

You focus on the task at hand, unclasping her bra, before trying to gather words to address her shock. Thankfully it clasps in the front, and you’re quick to twist and unhook the clasp between her breasts, allowing her to shrug free of the straps.

“Wanna have you tonight,” you breathe against her skin as you start to trail kisses down her neck and over her collarbones. “Been thinkin’ about it forever, please let me just have you.”

You hear her gasp just as you latch onto a nipple, at the exact same moment her hips wiggle looking for some sort of friction, and her center finds your thigh. She’s soaked through those little black lace panties, immediately smearing her arousal onto your pants, so wet you can feel it spa through to your skin. She shudders against you and it’s exhilarating, having this woman you’ve pined after for so long practically begging for you. 

Her hands fumble at the waistband of your pants and you huff a laugh out through your nose, taking pity and helping her shove them down and off, along with your underwear. You break from her chest and kiss her once, swiftly, before kneeling on the floor in front of her and hooking your fingers into the sides of her panties.

Your eyes flick up to her face. Her eyes are half-lidded as she looks down at you, her breath just the tiniest bit labored, pupils dilated with lust. 

Everything about Cassie McKay is enticing. And it isn’t just the way she looks. Her drive and resilience, the compassion that seems to flow from her without end. This feeling bubbling inside you is more than just liking her, it’s more than just want. You want her wrapped around you, to sink your teeth into the softness of her flesh, to hear her screaming your name. You want to lead her.

She lifts her hips in permission and you slide the lace off of her. Her pussy is exposed and slick, evidence of what you felt earlier now staring you in the face. She’s dripping with want, want for you, and you can’t indulge fast enough. 

Your face buries between her thighs so fast it makes her head spin. You drag your tongue in a broad stripe from her soaked entrance up to her clit, sealing your lips around the swollen nub. Cassie cries out, her hands darting to your head, fisting your hair like she thinks you’ll disappear if she doesn’t. 

“Fuck, baby,” she whines, and you peer up to find her head tilted to the side, eyes screwed shut in concentration. “Just like that, don’t stop, please don’t stop -”

You won’t, you swear you won’t. Your arms wrap underneath her thighs and around to her hips, holding her tight against your face as your tongue moves between her clit and her hole, lapping up her essence like it’s nectar from the gods. Your own eyes are practically rolling to the back of your head, and if you were any louder, Cassie would be able to hear the quiet whimpers coming from your throat. 

She’s close. You can feel it as your tongue spears inside of her, the way she clenches and the way she’s writhing above you, the way her thighs are unconsciously tightening around your head. She’s letting out a slew of curses above you and her hips roll against your face, unsatisfied to just receive, trying to take. You’re desperate for it, you need her to cum against your face, to see what she looks like when she lets go completely. Your competent and beautiful doctor, composure lost to you, and only you.

You need to be inside her.

One arm releases her hips and she whines above you at the loss of the grounding feeling. But the whine ends in a choked sound when your fingers prod at her entrance, sliding inside her and immediately curling up into the spongey spot inside of her. 

“Ngh!” 

Oh, you need that sound again. It’s made of desperation, torn from her vocal cords in a way that’s uncontrolled. You devour her like your life depends on it, your tongue circling her clit fast while your fingers curl, barely moving in and out of her at all. 

“Fuck yes, just like that, don’t you dare stop.”

Then she’s cumming hard against your face, riding your fingers as her orgasm peaks. You fuck her through, drinking up her arousal like you’ll never get enough. Sweat is dripping down her forehead as she comes down from her high.

You pull away from her core, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You move to leave the bed, but her hand darts out, catching you by the wrist and pulling you back to her. She pulls your lips to her own harshly, still panting into your mouth as she tastes herself on your tongue.

You smirk against her mouth. “Greedy,” you chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ve got more for you.” Pulling away again, you don’t go far, reaching for the drawer of your nightstand. 

Cassie sits up on her elbows to watch as you pull out a sleek black box, popping the edges of the plastic wrapping on it. 

“Is that new?”

You pause the opening of the box, turning to look at her. “I don’t re-use sex toys,” you say simply, even though it feels like you’re breaking the moment. “Not with different partners.”

The medical professional in both of you appreciates it.

You slide the toy out of the box, purple silicone gleaming in your hand, and pull the harness out of your drawer next. It slides over your legs with familiarity, your confidence shooting through the roof when you look up to find Cassie watching your every move with wide eyes. The strap slides into place, hanging heavy between your legs. You pick up the bottle of lube, smirking more to yourself than her before holding it up for her to see.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing this, do you?”

Her eyes narrow and you swear you see the faintest blush on her cheeks, even in the dim light of the room. You toss the bottle back into the drawer and nudge it shut with your thigh.

Returning to the bed, you find Cassie with her arm thrown over her eyes, hair disheveled and frizzy from where it’s rubbed against your comforter. You pull her arm from her face, pinning it to the bed beside her head. 

“Don’t hide from me,” you hiss, leaning close to her ear. You settle between her legs, rubbing the strap between her folds until you’re satisfied with the schlick sound it makes. “You hear that?” 

Your name escapes her lips via whine in response as she lifts her hips to meet yours, nudging the tip of the dildo against her clit. Her hands latch onto the bulge of your arms where they hold you above her, blunt nails digging in hard enough to scratch. 

“Please.”

It’s quiet. So quiet you barely hear it, maybe you’ve imagined it. You would think you imagined it if it wasn’t for the tightening of her hands on your arms, a frustrated little pull at them to move you where she wants you. Cassie’s legs widen, demanding you to fill the space, to fill her.

“Please?” you echo, trying to contain the smirk that threatens your face. 

Her brow furrows and she huffs, unamused. 

Your hips fit between her thighs perfectly, the tip of the strap notching at her entrance. You pause and open your mouth to ask for permission, but before you can get a word out, her legs wrap around your waist and pull, trying to force you in.

“Okay, okay,” you soothe, appeasing her as you finally slide inside.

The resistance backs up her earlier claim: she hasn’t been with anyone since her ex-husband. She’s tight around your cock, her walls protesting the intrusion as you’re slow to push in, not wanting to hurt her. She gasps, mouth open and expression slack. She’s so full, she can feel every ridge and vein of the silicone as your hips meet hers, the tip nudging her cervix. 

You stop there, letting her acclimate to the fullness. She’s panting when you lean down to kiss her again, tilting your head to slot your mouths together. Her breath is hot against your skin, eyes still screwed shut in either concentration or satisfaction, you aren’t really sure which and aren’t willing to push it. You’ll wait as long as she needs.

When Cassie’s brow relaxes and she opens her eyes to look up at you, you don’t need her to say it. Move. You’re slow to pull out, and slow to push back in, silently watching for any signs of discomfort. She seems to be watching you in return, the intensity of her eyes on you almost too much to bear, like you’re on top but she’s still somehow in charge. You’d bend over backwards for this, for her. 

She sighs against your mouth, her hold on your arms relaxing. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

Cassie’s pleasure is quiet, it requires your focus and observation, searching her face and body for telltale signs: the stuttering sighs, the tightening of her abdominal muscles, the parting of her lips and occasional words when you nudge her g-spot just right. Yours, however, is not. You whine when you bottom out and the base of the dildo rubs against your clit, moan when you catch sight of the way her cunt grips you every time you pull out, and when you angle her hips upward and lean over her to bury your face against her neck -

“Holy shit, oh my god!” you whimper into her shoulder, grinding both the tip into her g-spot and your clit against the silicone simultaneously. The overwhelming fire building in your belly brings heat to your face and tears threaten to fall from your eyes.

A chuckle sounds out from underneath you, and you lift your head enough to look Cassie in the eyes. Cassie, who looks way too composed, like she’s not the one getting fucked right now. “You’re a mess, baby,” she murmurs, wiping sweat from your temples. 

You’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for the way you’re holding her body against yours, the plushness of her thighs around your hips as you thrust into her at a steady pace, your strap pressed so deep inside of her. “You feel so good,” you moan, rolling your hips faster. “Taking me so good.”

And Cassie isn’t unaffected, you can tell by the way her fingertips dig into your back, nails leaving little crescent marks, not long enough to break the skin but enough that you can feel them. And it feels good, the littlest bit of pain mixed with the pleasure as you focus on driving both of you to the edge. Your arms wrap underneath and around her shoulderblades, using the leverage to fuck her harder.

You need to cum, you need to cum, but you desperately need her to cum first. And your prayers are answered when she speaks next, the sound a choked-out groan.

“Don’t stop ~!”

“Never wanna stop,” you whine in response. You slide a hand between your bodies, lifting away from her just enough to get your fingers on her clit, drawing a low moan from her. “Wanted you for so long.”

Your lips press against her jaw and she tilts her head, eyes closing again. “Want-fuck!-wanted you too.”

You press harder on her clit, circling heavily around it. “Only since you saw my face,” you whisper against her cheek. Your hips piston into her harder and she cries out, clenching around your strap, your pace turning brutal. “Wanted you from the moment I first saw you.”

She doesn’t respond, or maybe she just can’t, not with the way you’re fucking into her with a desperation that she can taste. But you can’t seem to stop babbling, the words flowing from you shamelessly.

“You feel so fucking good.”

“So tight around my cock.”

“Wish you could see yourself, Cass, you’re so hot.”

But you’re gone when she starts talking back. She’s so close to the edge when she lifts her hips to meet your thrusts, forcing you into the perfect angle to ram that spongey spot inside of her, huffing words back at you. “Oh my god, baby, faster, please, faster.”

You can’t help but oblige, the slap of skin on skin sounding downright sinful, watching her breasts bounce in time with your thrusts, your hips fast and rough and your fingers on her clit making her brain go fuzzy with the pleasure.

You can feel it before she says anything: the way her body tightens under you and the hitch in her breath. Like she’s right there. And you slow. 

Cassie groans beneath you, rolling her hips to try and pull you back into that same rhythm. “Don’t - don’t stop, please -”

You lean in close again, steady as you whisper, “I’ve got you,” and then you’re giving it back to her all at once, pace picking back up.

Sweet moans fill the room, both yours and Cassie’s, as you push both of you towards the edge. Your breath is hot and heavy on her shoulder as you try to stave off your own orgasm, you won’t cum, not until she -

“Fuck, I’m cumming!”

Swear to god you can feel her tighten around your strap as she cums, her eyes shut and head thrown back against the pillows, you’ve never seen a prettier sight in your life. You fuck her through it, pace never relenting even as she grabs your wrist to stop your fingers at her clit. You continue to drive into her, overstimulating her as the strap shoves into her g-spot repeatedly, and her pitch jumps up an octave with the sensation.

“Just -” you pant heavily, grinding your own clit into the silicone, desperate for your own release, “just wait a second, baby, I’m - fuck, I’m almost there -”

Cassie’s voice is calm through the deep breaths as she responds, “Take what you need.”

“Fuck!” You’re practically humping the blunt end of the strap, you wish you’d had the sense of mind to add a bumpher or buy something double-ended, but maybe another time. You grind against the flat surface, digging your own nails into the fat of Cassie’s hips as you finally, finally, feel your own orgasm wash over you. You rut into her through the waves of pleasure, stilling as the aftershocks subside, before collapsing beside her on the bed. 

The bedroom is quiet in the aftermath. You drape yourself over Cassie, pressing your forehead into her arm just below her shoulder. There’s sweat cooling on your skin and the air smells like sex and skin. It’s not subtle, but neither of you care. 

“Are you…are you okay?” you manage to breathe out.

Cassie lets out a little hum. “I’m really good,” she says with a small smile.

You push up onto your elbows to press a lingering kiss to her mouth and she meets you easily, her hands taking place on either side of your jaw as she tilts her head to deepen it, her tongue sliding into your mouth. 

Groaning, you separate from her, standing up off the bed to shove the harness down off your hips. “I’ll be right back,” you mumble, heading for the master bath. 

You return a minute later with a washcloth, warm and damp, and climb back over her. Cassie parts her legs for you, and you’re gentle about cleaning her.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. 

You smile down at her as you chuck the washcloth over your head toward your laundry hamper. “It’s part of the deal.”

Settling back against her on the bed, Cassie turns toward you and hooks a leg between your own and an arm over your waist as you both settle deeper into the mattress.

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

The elevator doors burst open before the ding has even sounded.

“Clear, let’s go!”

You’re already in motion, heavy boots hitting tile hard as the stretcher rolls forward. Your partner is at the foot, Dr. Robby is on one side and Nurse Kim on the other, all of you moving as a single unit. The patient is strapped down tight, oxygen mask tight in place on her face, the iron smell of blood trailing behind you as you rush the central ED.

Now that you’re out of the sound of rotor wash, you begin filling the receiving team in.

“Single vehicle rollover down into a ravine,” you call, voice muffled behind your helmet. “Prolonged extraction, found unresponsive, intubated in the field -”

Heads turn in your direction. They always do.

The ER parts for the flight team like it knows better than to get in your way, because it does. Eyes track the movement of the team, non-urgent cases stopping to stare at the weight the flight team always carries. CCT means emergency in the way most things in the Emergency Room do not.

And across the floor, Cassie recognizes you. 

She knows it’s you instantly now, no question in her mind even beneath your visor and helmet. It’s not just your voice anymore, it’s you.

“BP’s holding for now, but she’s circling,” you continue. “Possible internal bleed, her abdomen’s rigid.”

The team rolls into Trauma 1, Robbie counting for the transfer. It’s smooth, you’ve all done it a thousand times. 

You step back as the room fills around the patient, no longer your patient as other hands take over. 

You don’t hang around, you rarely do when you’re in full gear. Your gloves come off, snapping free and nearly ripping as you strip them from your hands and toss them cleanly into the bin by the door.

“Good hands,” you call back as you exit the trauma room.

Cassie hasn’t moved from the workstation she was at, her eyes lingering on the doorway you’ve just come out of. They follow you as you and your partner step back into the elevator with the stretcher, and even though she can’t see your eyes beneath your visor, she can feel you looking back at her. She doesn’t need to see your face to be able to tell.

Langdon bumps her shoulder lightly as he saddles up next to her, grinning like he’s been waiting for this. “There’s your girl,” he says jokingly.

Cassie doesn’t look away right away, keeping her eyes on you until the elevator doors shut and she doesn’t have a choice anymore. But even as she watches the elevator doors long after you’re gone, she smiles.

“I know.”

◆ ───────── ◆ ───────── ◆

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There was something deeply unsettling about hearing people tell you that you looked happy when you knew you didn’t.

“You look beautiful.”

You smiled because that was what you were supposed to do.

“Oh my God. Look at you.”

Another smile.

“You’re glowing.”

That one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked at yourself in the mirror while your sister carefully adjusted the veil pinned into your hair and tried to work out when the woman staring back at you had started looking like a stranger. She looked like a bride. There was no arguing with that.

The dress was beautiful. Long sleeves, a fitted bodice, tiny satin buttons running all the way down your back before giving way to a skirt that pooled around the chair beneath you. Your mother had cried when you came out of the dressing room in it. Nathan’s mother had cried too.

Nathan had smiled and said it was perfect. So you had bought it. Your hair had taken almost two hours. Makeup had taken another hour. Champagne had appeared in your hand somewhere between photographs and someone fixing a loose curl near your temple, and you had barely touched it. Everything was perfect.

The flowers had arrived on time. The weather had somehow held despite rain being forecast all week. Every handwritten place card had been arranged downstairs, including the ones Nathan had initially thought were unnecessary until his mother decided the tables would look unfinished without them.

One hundred and forty-three guests were waiting somewhere beyond the bridal suite. Your parents had already cried twice. Your bridesmaids had taken approximately four hundred photographs. And you felt like you were going to throw up.

“You okay?”

You met your sister’s eyes through the mirror.

“Yeah.”

The answer came so automatically that neither of you seemed to hear it.

She gave you a small smile. “Cold feet?”

“No.”

At least that part was true. Cold feet sounded almost comforting.

Cold feet were supposed to be nerves about standing in front of everyone or tripping over your dress. Brides worried about rain. They worried about forgetting their vows or whether the photographer would get their good side or whether an uncle who had been warned three separate times would still make an inappropriate speech.

They weren’t supposed to wake before dawn with the terrifying certainty that something was wrong and then spend six hours trying to convince themselves otherwise. You put the champagne down.

“I just need a minute.”

Your sister’s hands stilled against your veil. “Want me to clear everyone out?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She studied you for another second before nodding. Of course it was fine. Everything was always fine. That had become something of a talent over the last year. Nathan wasn’t a bad man. That was almost the problem.

There was no dramatic betrayal you could point to. No screaming argument. No moment where the people who loved you could gather around and tell you there was only one obvious decision to make.

Nathan was the man who had driven forty minutes across Pittsburgh when your car battery died after a shift. He remembered your coffee order. When your father had surgery, Nathan had brought food to your parents’ house and stayed until your mother finally agreed to sleep. He knew you hated coriander, that you needed the room cold at night and that the fastest way to improve a bad morning was to bring you something sweet with your coffee.

He loved you. You loved him. But Nathan liked quiet evenings at home. You liked staying for breakfast after a night shift because Robby had somehow convinced everyone that pancakes at eight in the morning were essential to team morale. Nathan liked knowing what the week looked like before it began.

Your phone could ring at any hour and completely rearrange yours. Nathan talked about eventually leaving the city. You loved Pittsburgh in spite of how frequently you complained about it. He imagined Sundays with nowhere to be.

You had once voluntarily spent your only free Sunday helping Robby move a sofa that did not fit through his front door. None of those things should have mattered. At least, that was what you had kept telling yourself. Relationships required compromise.

Nathan had never told you that you couldn’t take the trauma lead rotation when it opened. He had only asked what it would mean for the already limited time you had together. You had said you didn’t need the extra responsibility anyway.

He hadn’t asked you to stop going for breakfast after overnight shifts. He had only admitted that he hated waking up alone when you had promised you would come straight home. You started going home.

Once, before dinner with his colleagues, Nathan had looked at your favourite green dress and said, “I thought we were going a little more understated tonight.”

You had changed before he could tell you it was fine. He had looked confused when you came back out. You had laughed it off. It wasn’t that Nathan had spent three years sanding pieces off you. It was that you had become very good at doing it yourself. A shift here. A compromise there.

One tiny adjustment after another because Nathan was easy to love when you were easy to be with. You had told yourself that was adulthood. That was partnership. That was what choosing someone looked like. You had been doing such a convincing job of it that you almost believed yourself. Until last night.

Until Jack found you outside your own rehearsal dinner and asked the one question you had spent months avoiding.

Do you want to marry him?

Not whether you loved Nathan. Not whether Nathan loved you. Not whether your parents adored him. Not whether the venue had been paid for or relatives had flown in or your mother had spent three weeks arguing with the florist over the exact shade of ivory. Jack had stripped all of it away.

Do you want to marry him? You closed your eyes. Immediately, you were back on the terrace. Warm light had spilled through the open doors behind you. Someone inside was laughing loudly enough that you were almost certain it was Robby. Music hummed beneath the conversation and glasses clinked as people toasted your future.

You had slipped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody asked whether you were excited. Jack found you anyway.

“You disappeared.”

You kept both hands around the stone railing. “I needed air.”

He came to stand beside you. Neither of you spoke for a while. That had always been easy with Jack. Silence had never been something the two of you needed to fill. Eventually, he glanced over.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“No, you’re not.”

You looked at him.

“You talk constantly.”

“Thank you.”

“You narrate procedures nobody asked you to narrate. You complain about the coffee every morning and then drink three cups of it. You send me pictures of every dog you see on the street.”

“They’re good dogs.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.”

You smiled despite yourself. Jack noticed. He always noticed. The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came. His expression changed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He waited.

You sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like you’re waiting for someone to tell you there’s been a fire.”

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to be happy for me.”

Jack looked through the open doors. Nathan stood beside your father with one hand around a glass, laughing at something your uncle was saying.

“I want you to be happy.”

Your stomach tightened. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

You turned fully toward him.

“What is going on with you?”

Jack’s jaw shifted.

“He embarrassed you at dinner.”

“What?”

“Nathan.”

“He didn’t embarrass me.”

“He told a room full of people you’d probably answer your pager during the vows.”

“He was joking.”

“I know.”

“Everyone laughed.”

“I know.”

Jack looked at you. You hated how little judgment there was in his face.

“He’s not wrong,” you said. “I work too much.”

“You love your job.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t work too much.”

“No.”

“See?”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Jack shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

“You used to argue about it.”

You frowned. “About what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“You once spent twenty minutes explaining to me why Robby was objectively wrong about the best pizza place in Pittsburgh.”

“He was objectively wrong.”

“You sent him a spreadsheet.”

“It had three columns.”

“My point exactly.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you. Jack didn’t smile.

“You used to have an opinion about everything.”

“I still do.”

“Do you?”

The question irritated you more than it should have.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Jack looked away for a moment.

“I know I’m biased.”

Your heartbeat changed.

“Why would you be biased?”

He didn’t answer. You knew. Or maybe you had always hoped you knew. There had been moments over the years when you were certain Jack looked at you differently. His hand lingering against your back after a difficult case.

His face too close to yours inside an elevator until the doors opened and whatever had almost happened vanished with the sound. The night he sat on your kitchen floor after your father’s surgery because you couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be alone. Nothing ever came of any of it.

Then Nathan came along and actually asked you out. Jack continued before you could say anything.

“For a long time, I assumed anything that bothered me about Nathan bothered me because I didn’t like the fact you were with him.”

Your throat tightened.

“And now?”

“Robby asked me if you were okay.”

You blinked. “Robby?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he noticed too.”

“Noticed what?”

Jack looked back at you.

“That you don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m planning a wedding. I’m exhausted.”

“I know.”

“You’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“Maybe.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

The agreement should have relieved you. Instead, your chest hurt. You folded your arms.

“You have had years to care what I do, Jack.”

His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.

“You don’t get to stand here the night before my wedding and suddenly decide you have opinions about my life.”

“I’ve always had opinions.”

“Then maybe you should have said something.”

“I didn’t think it was my place.”

“No. Apparently not.”

You turned away. His voice came quietly behind you.

“Do you want to marry him?”

Everything stopped. You looked back.

“What?”

Jack didn’t move.

“Do you want to marry Nathan?”

Your heart started pounding.

“That is a horrible question to ask me tonight.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I love him.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“My family loves him.”

“Still not what I asked.”

“We’ve been together for three years.”

Jack’s expression softened, which somehow made it worse.

“The wedding is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Everything is paid for.”

“I know.”

“People have flown in.”

“I know.”

“There are a hundred and forty people coming.”

“One hundred and forty-three.”

You stared at him. His mouth twitched. It nearly broke you.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Probably.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment.

“Because I need to know you’re choosing this.”

“You need to know?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get to need anything from me tonight.”

“You’re right.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded.

“I will.”

Some stupid, aching part of you wanted him not to. Maybe that was why you said it.

“You’re jealous.”

You expected denial.

Instead, Jack said, “Yes.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve been jealous since the first time you brought him into the Pitt.”

“Jack.”

“That’s why I kept my mouth shut. Every time I worried about you, I told myself I wasn’t seeing things clearly because I wanted you.”

You stared at him.

“And I do.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

“You cannot say that now.”

“I know.”

“You had years.”

“I know.”

“You can’t wait until the night before I marry somebody else to finally tell me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because this stopped being about me wanting you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re unhappy.”

“I’m stressed.”

“You’re unhappy.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Maybe.”

“You want me to leave him for you?”

Jack answered immediately.

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“No.”

It hurt more than it had any right to. Jack stepped closer.

“I want you not to marry somebody you don’t want to marry.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s convenient.”

“If you walk away tomorrow and tell me there will never be anything between us, I’ll live with it.”

“Jack.”

“If you never forgive me for asking you this tonight, I’ll live with that too.”

Your eyes filled.

“But don’t marry him because everyone has already taken their seats.”

You stared at him. Jack asked again, quieter this time.

“Do you want to marry him?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. That was the worst part. There was no answer hiding beneath wedding stress or panic. There was simply nothing. You hated Jack for hearing it. You hated yourself for letting him. So you walked away. You hadn’t seen him since. Until someone knocked on the bridal suite door.

Your sister glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

The door opened before she reached it. Robby appeared. His suit jacket was open and his tie sat slightly crooked, suggesting he had already attempted to fix it several times before accepting defeat. Your chest tightened.

“Hey.”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Hey.”

Your sister looked between you.

“Do you need a minute?”

Robby lifted both hands. “I’m not here to kidnap the bride.”

“Comforting.”

She squeezed your shoulder before returning to the other side of the room. Robby waited until everyone was distracted by another round of photographs before coming closer.

“You look beautiful.”

You grimaced.

“Please don’t.”

He nodded immediately. “Okay.”

That was Robby. No argument. No insistence that he meant it nicely. Just okay. He looked at you for another second.

“You doing all right?”

“You too?”

“I’m asking as your friend, not as a member of the bridal interrogation committee.”

You looked down at your hands. Robby softened.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“What did Jack tell you?”

“Very little.”

“That means he told you something.”

“He told me you talked.”

Your eyes went to the mirror.

“Did he tell you what he said?”

“No.”

Robby paused.

“But I know Jack.”

“So do I.”

“Unfortunately.”

That pulled a small smile from you. Then Robby reached inside his jacket.

“He asked me to give you something.”

Your pulse stumbled. A small cream envelope appeared between his fingers. Your initials were written across the front. Nothing else.

“Robby.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“Not exactly.”

“But?”

His expression turned more serious.

“I know where Jack is.”

Your heart started beating harder.

“Where?”

Robby held the envelope out.

“Read it.”

Your fingers shook as you opened it. There were only a few lines.

Side entrance. Until the ceremony starts.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive. No questions.

If you don’t come, I’ll never mention last night again.

J.

You read it once. Then again. By the third time, the words had started blurring.

“He’s outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Waiting for me?”

“If you need him.”

You folded the note slowly.

“What do you think I should do?”

Robby’s face softened.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Robby.”

“I mean it.”

“I need somebody to tell me.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your eyes stung. He stepped closer.

“You’ve spent months letting everybody tell you what you should want. I’m not adding my voice to the pile.”

“What if I disappoint everyone?”

“You probably will.”

A startled laugh escaped you. Robby smiled gently.

“People survive disappointment.”

“And Nathan?”

His smile faded.

“He’ll get hurt.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“Does that mean I should marry him?”

“No.”

You looked up sharply. Robby shrugged.

“You asked a different question.”

Despite everything, you laughed. He squeezed your hand.

“Whatever you decide, I’m still your friend when you walk out of this room. If you go downstairs and marry Nathan, I’m your friend. If you walk out the side door and make Jack commit grand theft bride, I’m still your friend.”

“Grand theft bride?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“I know.”

You looked down at the envelope. Robby squeezed your hand once more.

“Just make sure whatever happens next is because you chose it.”

Then he left. For several seconds, you simply stood there with the note in your hand. You tucked it into the small pocket hidden inside your dress and returned to the mirror. Twenty minutes later, your sister appeared behind you holding your bouquet.

“We’re almost there.”

Your stomach rolled.

“Okay.”

She handed you the flowers, then stepped back to look at you. Something in her expression changed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed. You’re my sister.”

You tried to smile. Her gaze travelled to your hair.

“Oh. Nathan sent a message.”

Every muscle in your body seemed to tighten.

“What message?”

“He asked his best man whether you decided to pin your hair up after all. Apparently he thought that was the plan.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Your hair fell over your shoulders in loose waves. You had wanted it down. Nathan preferred it up. It had been such a small conversation that you had forgotten about it. Two weeks ago, you had shown him the hairstyle. He had tilted his head.

“I thought you were going with the updo.”

“I like this better.”

“It looks nice.”

You had waited. Nathan smiled.

“If you love it, wear it. I just thought the other one looked a little more like what we pictured.”

What we pictured.

You hadn’t even noticed the words at the time. Now your hand automatically reached for one of the pins on the dressing table. Your sister watched.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll just put it up.”

“I thought you wanted it down.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Your hand stopped. It doesn’t matter. How many times had you said that? Breakfast doesn’t matter. The rotation doesn’t matter. The green dress doesn’t matter. One Sunday with your friends doesn’t matter. Your hair certainly doesn’t matter. None of those things mattered individually.

But somehow, when you gathered all of them together, they looked an awful lot like you. You stared at your reflection. Nathan had never asked you to disappear. That might have been harder to admit.

He had simply shown you the life he wanted, and because you loved him, you had kept trying to fit inside it.

He wanted evenings at home and weekends planned weeks in advance. He wanted fewer interrupted dinners, fewer overnight shifts, fewer mornings where you came through the door laughing about something Robby had done instead of coming straight to bed. There was nothing wrong with wanting those things. There was nothing wrong with Nathan.

But there was something deeply wrong with standing here in a wedding dress and realising you had spent three years treating the parts of yourself that didn't fit his life like inconveniences to be managed. You slowly set the pin back down.

“Leave it.”

Your sister looked at you through the mirror.

“You sure?”

For once, you didn’t answer immediately. Then you nodded.

“Yeah.”

A knock came from the door.

“Five minutes!”

The bridal suite erupted around you. Someone went to find your father. Your champagne disappeared. Your sister fixed the train of your dress while one of your bridesmaids checked your lipstick for the third time. Everything accelerated. You were ushered into the corridor. Your father was waiting at the end of it.

His eyes filled the second he saw you.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your throat closed.

“Dad.”

He kissed your forehead carefully so he wouldn’t disturb your makeup.

“You look beautiful.”

This time, the words hurt. You slipped your arm through his. Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, the music changed. The murmur of the guests softened. Your pulse started thudding in your ears. Someone adjusted your veil. Your bouquet suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

The flowers smelled too strong. Your shoes pinched at your toes. The neckline of your dress seemed tighter than it had upstairs. You could hear one hundred and forty-three people settling into silence. Waiting. Your father’s hand covered yours.

“You ready?”

The answer rose automatically. Yes. Of course you were ready. You had spent a year getting ready. The venue was booked. The cake was downstairs. Nathan was standing at the end of the aisle. Your mother was sitting in the front row beside people who had travelled hundreds of miles to watch this happen.

You were wearing a dress worth more than your first car. Everybody was waiting. You had to be ready. Your fingers brushed the side of your skirt. Jack’s note pressed against them from inside the pocket.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive.

You closed your eyes. The music swelled. You pictured Nathan waiting. Then you pictured tomorrow. A week from now. A year. Not some terrible future. That was what finally frightened you. You could see it too easily. A nice house somewhere quieter. Nathan making coffee on Sunday morning. Dinner with your parents.

A job you still liked but had slowly learned to give less of yourself to because there was always another reason home needed to come first. You could see yourself happy sometimes. Maybe even often. And still not quite yourself. The wedding coordinator reached for the door. Your father squeezed your hand.

You realised suddenly that you weren’t terrified because you thought marrying Nathan would destroy your life. You were terrified because it probably wouldn’t. You could build a perfectly good life with him. It just wouldn’t be yours. The coordinator smiled.

“Ready?”

Your mouth opened.

“No.”

She blinked. Your father went completely still beside you.

“What?”

Your voice shook.

“No.”

The word barely came out. Then you said it again.

“I’m not ready.”

The coordinator stared. Your father turned toward you. You couldn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I can’t.”

Your eyes filled.

“I thought I could. I thought I was just nervous, but I can’t do this.”

The music continued faintly on the other side of the doors. Your father’s face changed. Shock first, then worry, then something softer.

“Do you want to go in there?”

You looked at the doors. At the life waiting on the other side.

“No.”

That answer came immediately. Your father nodded once.

“Then you don’t go.”

Your breath broke.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not to me.”

You finally looked at him. His hand tightened around yours.

“You don’t owe me a wedding.”

“Dad.”

“We’ll figure out the rest.”

Behind you, somebody called your name. Your sister appeared around the corner and stopped.

“What happened?”

“I can’t do it.”

The wedding coordinator was already whispering urgently into a headset. The music faltered. Your mother appeared at the far end of the corridor. Suddenly there were too many voices. Your name from three different directions. Someone saying Nathan needed to know. Your mother asking what was wrong. Someone else asking whether you needed water.

Your chest tightened.

“I need to get out.”

Your sister caught your arm.

“Where?”

“Just out.”

You looked at your father. He seemed to understand before you said anything else.

“Go.”

Your throat closed.

“We’ve got this.”

You nodded once. Then you gathered your dress in both hands and ran.

Jack checked the time. Three o’clock. The side entrance hadn’t opened. He stared at it for a few more seconds before leaning back against the headrest. That was it. He had promised himself he would wait until the ceremony began. No longer. If you chose Nathan, Jack would respect it.

He wouldn’t sit through the wedding. He had already accepted that he wasn’t capable of that particular form of self-inflicted torture. He would go home. On Monday, if you came into the Pitt wearing a wedding ring, he would congratulate you. He would never mention the terrace again. Jack started the engine.

Inside, the music would be playing. Guests would be standing. You would be taking your father’s arm. He put the car into drive. The side door flew open. Jack slammed his foot onto the brake. For one ridiculous second, all he saw was white. An enormous amount of white. Then you appeared.

One hand held your dress off the ground. The other gripped your bouquet so tightly the stems looked ready to snap. Jack stared. You stared back. Someone shouted your name from inside. You ran. Jack barely had time to throw his jacket into the back seat before you yanked open the passenger door.

Your dress did not fit. Not even remotely. You shoved layers of satin into the footwell, sat on another portion of the skirt and attempted to pull the door closed. Jack continued staring.

“Drive.”

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

Another voice called from the doorway. You looked at him.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Drive the fucking car.”

He drove. Your phone started ringing before you were halfway down the road. Nathan. You stared at his name. Declined. It rang again immediately. Your mother. Then your sister. Then Nathan again. You turned the phone face down on your lap. Jack kept both hands on the steering wheel. He didn’t ask what had happened.

He didn’t ask whether you had spoken to Nathan. He didn’t say he had known you would come. You appreciated his silence for approximately thirty seconds. Then the adrenaline hit.

“Oh my God.”

Jack glanced over.

“Oh my God.”

“You all right?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I just stopped my wedding.”

“Yes.”

“I ran out.”

“I noticed.”

“In the dress.”

“That was harder to miss.”

You looked down. There was enough white fabric inside Jack’s car to upholster a sofa. A strange sound escaped you, half laugh and half sob. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

You hit his arm with your bouquet. Jack laughed. Actually laughed. That was enough. Your own laughter came harder until you were bent forward as much as the dress allowed, tears running down your cheeks. Then, without warning, it broke. One second you were laughing. The next you were sobbing. Jack’s expression changed instantly.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I left him there.”

Jack pulled into an empty car park. Your head snapped toward him.

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping.”

“No.”

“We’re away from the venue.”

“Not enough.”

He looked at you. Really looked. Then nodded.

“Okay.”

No argument. He put the car back into drive. Your phone rang again. You switched it off. Jack’s buzzed in the cup holder almost immediately. Robby. Then Dana. Then Robby again. You stared at it.

“Don’t answer.”

“I won’t.”

“What if something’s wrong?”

“If Robby keeps calling, I’ll check.”

His phone buzzed a third time. Jack sighed.

“Of course.”

He answered through the car.

“Robby.”

“Is she with you?”

You heard Robby clearly.

Jack glanced over. “Yes.”

“Is she safe?”

“Yes.”

You covered your mouth as fresh tears threatened. Robby exhaled.

“Okay. Her parents know she’s safe. I’m staying here with them. That’s all she needs to know.”

You swallowed.

“Robby?”

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nope.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“Not today.”

“What about Nathan?”

There was a brief pause.

“He’s with his family.”

Your chest hurt.

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to sort everything out right now. Go somewhere quiet.”

You closed your eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Then, after a beat, “Make Abbott feed you.”

Jack frowned at the dashboard.

“I can hear you.”

“I know.”

The call ended. Silence filled the car again.

Jack drove another few blocks before asking, “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“My place?”

You hesitated.

He immediately added, “Guest room. Closed door. I’ll disappear if you want.”

Something inside you loosened.

“Your place.”

“Okay.”

The first thing you did inside Jack’s apartment was kick off your shoes. They landed several feet apart in his hallway. Jack looked down at them.

“Feel better?”

“Immensely.”

He closed the door behind you. For the first time since you had run from the venue, there was no noise. No phone ringing. No one calling your name. No questions being thrown at you faster than you could answer them.

You stood in the middle of Jack’s apartment wearing a wedding dress you were no longer getting married in. The absurdity nearly made you laugh again. Then you shifted and winced. Jack noticed.

“What?”

“The dress.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t breathe.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That seems like a design flaw.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I’ve been told.”

You reached behind yourself and immediately gave up.

“There are buttons.”

Jack looked at your back.

“A lot of buttons.”

“Forty-seven.”

“Why do you know that?”

“My sister counted them while helping me into it.”

Jack stared at the row running down your spine.

“This feels hostile.”

Despite everything, you smiled.

“Will you help me?”

His gaze lifted to yours. The humour disappeared.

“Yeah.”

You walked into the bedroom and stopped in front of the mirror. Jack came up behind you. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he asked quietly, “Okay?”

You nodded. His fingers found the first button. Then another. And another. The room was so quiet you could hear your own breathing. Jack worked carefully, touching only what he needed to. Each tiny button slipped free beneath his fingers. You watched him in the mirror. There was something strange about seeing him there.

Jack, still wearing the suit he had intended to wear to your wedding. You, standing in a dress Nathan had loved. You swallowed.

“You should’ve seen the first one.”

Jack’s hands stilled for half a second. Then continued.

“I did.”

You frowned at him through the mirror.

“What?”

“You showed me a picture.”

“When?”

“Break room. Three in the morning.”

The memory came back slowly. You shoving your phone toward Jack after a long shift because you had been too excited to keep it to yourself. Soft ivory. Thin straps. Low back. You had known the second you saw yourself in it. That one.

You remembered Jack looking at the photograph for a few seconds longer than expected, then handing your phone back. You had assumed he simply had no opinion on wedding dresses.

“What did you think?”

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

“I thought you looked happy.”

Your throat tightened. Jack released another button.

“I loved it.”

He said nothing.

“Nathan didn’t.”

Jack’s hands paused.

“He hated it?”

“No.”

You stared at yourself.

“That would almost make more sense.”

Jack waited.

“He said it was beautiful. He just said it wasn’t what he pictured.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

“He told me if I loved it, I should get it.”

Jack’s gaze met yours.

“I returned it three days later.”

“Did he ask you to?”

“No.”

That word sat between you. You looked away from your reflection.

“He didn’t.”

Jack continued with the buttons. You swallowed.

“I kept doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Making the decision for him.”

Jack didn’t answer. You were grateful.

“I knew what Nathan liked. I knew what kind of life he wanted. And every time something about me didn’t fit, I changed it before he ever had to ask.”

Another button came loose.

“He probably thought I wanted half of it.”

Your voice shook.

“I kept telling him I did.”

Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror.

“Nathan wanted a quieter life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No.”

“He wanted someone who wanted to come home after work instead of staying because Robby had convinced everyone to go for pancakes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was not one time.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. Then it faded.

“I think I kept believing that if I loved him enough, eventually his life would feel like mine.”

Jack freed another button.

“And it didn’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes burned.

“Maybe that’s not his fault.”

“No.”

You turned your head slightly. Jack’s expression was gentle.

“That doesn’t make it yours either.”

The words landed quietly. You looked back at the mirror. His fingers continued down your back. The dress loosened around you. For the first time all day, someone was touching you without trying to arrange you. Nobody was pinning your hair. Adjusting your veil. Moving your bouquet.

Telling you where to stand or which direction to turn your shoulders for a photograph. Jack was simply helping you out of something you no longer wanted to wear. Nothing more. By the time he reached the final button, your vision had blurred. He saw your face in the mirror.

“You okay?”

You laughed quietly.

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

The last button came undone. Jack stepped back immediately. The dress loosened around your shoulders.

“I’ll get you something to wear.”

“Jack.”

He stopped at the doorway.

“Thank you.”

His face softened.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.”

That answer caught him. You swallowed.

“I still want to.”

Jack nodded once. Then left. You stepped out of the dress. It collapsed around your feet in a pool of white satin. For a moment, you stood there looking down at it. You had expected taking it off to destroy you. Instead, you could breathe.

You changed into one of Jack’s old T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that needed to be rolled twice at the waist. The dress ended up draped across the chair, beautiful and expensive and perfect for a wedding that was never going to happen.

When you walked into the living room, Jack was putting his phone down.

“Robby?”

“Dana.”

“Oh God.”

“She has several opinions.”

“I’m shocked.”

“She also says your parents are calmer now that Robby’s there.”

Your throat tightened.

“He stayed?”

“Apparently he’s been making tea for everyone.”

“Of course he has.”

Jack nodded toward the couch.

“Sit.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Bossy.”

“You stopped your wedding. I think I’m allowed to insist on toast.”

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

You sat. Jack made toast. You ate half a slice. He didn’t comment on the other half. For almost an hour, neither of you said anything important. You wondered where your veil had gone. Jack suggested it was probably in his car. You asked whether your cousin had filmed you running.

Jack said with complete certainty that someone had filmed you running. You told him you were changing your name and leaving the country. He pointed out that Canada was surprisingly close. You called him useless. Eventually, the light outside shifted. The panic eased enough for guilt to take its place.

You curled your legs beneath yourself on the couch.

“My dad must be devastated.”

“Probably.”

“My mother definitely is.”

“Probably.”

“I humiliated Nathan.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. You looked at him. He was sitting in the chair opposite you, tie gone now, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Yes.”

Your eyes filled.

“You could lie occasionally.”

“I could.”

“Jack.”

“You want me to tell you Nathan isn’t hurt?”

You looked down.

“No.”

“He is.”

Your throat tightened.

“You hurt him today.”

“I know.”

“Your parents are upset. People travelled. Money was spent. A lot of people had a very bad afternoon.”

You gave him a watery glare.

“You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“I’m not finished.”

You waited.

“None of that means you should have married him.”

Your face crumpled.

“I should’ve ended it sooner.”

“Yes.”

“Jack.”

“You should have.”

“I know.”

He softened.

“But doing something too late doesn’t mean you have to do the wrong thing because it would be more convenient for everyone else.”

You rubbed your palms over your eyes.

“I feel awful.”

“That makes sense.”

“I didn’t even tell Nathan myself.”

“You were panicking.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.”

You looked at Jack. He wasn’t going to make Nathan into a villain for you. Somehow, you needed that. Nathan hadn’t deserved to stand in front of a room full of people and realise you weren’t coming. You could admit that. You could apologise for that.

It didn’t mean you had to wish you had walked through those doors.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

You glanced toward the bedroom. The dress was visible through the open door.

“I thought I’d be devastated.”

Jack said nothing.

“I’m not.”

His eyes stayed on you.

“I feel guilty. I feel sick when I think about turning my phone back on. I’m terrified my mother is going to ask me what happened and I won’t know how to explain it.”

“She’ll ask.”

“Helpful.”

“She’ll still love you.”

You looked at him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve met your mother.”

A small laugh escaped you. Then you looked back at the dress.

“But mostly I feel relieved.”

Jack nodded. That was all. No satisfaction. No triumph. No quiet little expression that said he had known better all along. Just a nod. It made your chest ache. Silence settled between you. This one felt different. You could feel last night sitting there too. The terrace. The question.

Jack admitting something you had spent years wondering about. You opened your mouth.

“Was it true?”

Jack went still.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked away briefly. Then back.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“Before Nathan.”

Your heartbeat picked up.

“You wanted me before Nathan?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jack rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Because I was an idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an accurate summary.”

“Jack.”

“You were my friend. We worked together. I kept thinking that if I got it wrong, I’d ruin something I didn’t want to lose.”

Your chest tightened.

“So you did nothing.”

“Yes.”

“For years.”

“Yes.”

“That was stupid.”

“I believe I covered that.”

You almost smiled.

“Then Nathan came along.”

Jack’s expression shifted.

“You looked happy.”

“At first, I was.”

“I know.”

“You thought you missed your chance.”

“Yes.”

Simple. No dramatic excuse. No grand tragedy. Just two people who had spent years almost saying something until someone else arrived first.

“And when I stopped being happy?”

Jack leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees.

“That was harder.”

“Because you didn’t trust yourself.”

“Yes.”

He looked at you.

“I wanted you. I didn’t like him. Every concern I had felt compromised by that.”

“So you waited.”

“Too long.”

“Until last night.”

“You looked terrified.”

“I thought I was hiding it.”

“You were.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You hid it from people who weren’t looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“And you were?”

Jack answered before he seemed to think about it.

“I’m always looking at you.”

The words came so simply that they took a second to land. Jack seemed to realise what he had said at exactly the same moment. His eyes shifted away. Your heart gave one painful thud. You swallowed.

“The note.”

He looked back.

“What about it?”

“You really would have left if I didn’t come out?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t have gone inside?”

“No.”

“And Monday?”

Jack understood.

“I would have congratulated you.”

Your eyes filled.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jack.”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

You stared at him.

“You weren’t sitting out there thinking that if I left Nathan, I’d finally be yours.”

His expression changed immediately.

“No.”

The answer was firm.

“If you had come out, gotten into my car and told me there would never be anything romantic between us, I still would have driven.”

Your throat tightened.

“Why?”

Jack stood. He crossed part of the room but stopped before reaching you.

“Because you needed to know there was another door.”

You looked at him.

“That’s all.”

Something in your chest cracked. You stood and closed the remaining distance. Jack barely had time to react before you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest. He froze for half a heartbeat. Then his arms came around you.

One hand settled against the back of your head. The other rested between your shoulder blades. You cried again. Apparently that was simply your personality now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“I’m ruining your shirt.”

“I own others.”

“I ruined an entire wedding.”

“That was considerably more expensive.”

You laughed against him. Jack’s arms tightened. You stayed there until your breathing slowed. Until the apartment became dark around you. Until you realised that for the first time in months, you weren’t trying to work out what the person holding you wanted from you.

Eventually, Jack murmured, “You should sleep.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“What about you?”

“Couch.”

“This is your apartment.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can sleep in your own bed.”

“I think boundaries are probably useful tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From me.”

“Among others.”

You looked toward the bedroom. Then back at him.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you were there.”

His face softened.

“So am I.”

You woke to the smell of coffee. For several seconds, you had no idea where you were. Then you saw the dress. White satin draped across Jack’s chair like evidence from a particularly expensive crime scene.

“Oh.”

Everything returned. The corridor. Your father asking if you wanted to go through the doors. Saying no. Running. Jack’s car. Nathan calling. You waited for panic. It didn’t come. There was guilt. Plenty of it. There was dread too, because there were conversations waiting for you that you wanted absolutely no part of.

Underneath all of it, though, was the same feeling you had been afraid to name yesterday. Relief. You climbed out of bed. Jack stood in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and coffee in the other. His hair was messier than usual, and he had changed into a grey T-shirt and sweatpants.

He looked up.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I stopped my own wedding.”

Jack considered that.

“Accurate.”

You glared. He handed you coffee.

“Your sister texted.”

Your stomach tightened.

“How?”

“Robby gave her my number.”

“Traitor.”

“Apparently your parents are okay.”

You exhaled.

“Nathan?”

Jack’s expression softened.

“With his family.”

You looked down into the coffee.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Today.”

“Probably.”

“Not yet.”

“That’s okay.”

“Robby?”

“Six messages.”

“Only six?”

“He may have been sedated.”

You laughed.

“And Dana?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Much healthier.”

Jack smiled. Morning light spilled across his kitchen. Everything felt strangely ordinary. Yesterday, you had been supposed to become Nathan’s wife. Today, you were barefoot in Jack’s kitchen wearing his clothes and drinking coffee from the mug you always used when you came over. You looked at him. He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was something.”

You put the mug down. Jack watched as you walked toward him. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

That made him straighten. You stopped directly in front of him. All those almost moments returned at once. The elevator. The break room. His hand against your back. Years of wondering whether you had imagined something that had been there all along. You lifted your hand and touched his jaw. Jack went completely still.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“You don’t owe me anything because I drove you yesterday.”

“I know.”

“You ended a three-year relationship less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. You stepped closer.

“I’m not kissing you because you picked me up.”

Jack didn’t move.

“I’m not kissing you because I’m hurt or because I need leaving Nathan to mean I chose someone else.”

His expression softened.

“I didn’t leave him for you.”

“I know.”

“I left because I couldn’t marry him.”

“I know.”

You smiled faintly.

“But I wanted to kiss you before I ever met him.”

Jack’s breath caught.

“And I’m still going to have a horrible conversation with Nathan today. I’m going to apologise for how I ended things. I’m probably going to spend the next few weeks figuring out which parts of my life I actually want and which ones I agreed to because I thought I should.”

“You don’t have to figure us out too.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

“But this part?”

Your fingers curled gently against his jaw.

“I figured this part out years ago.”

Then you kissed him. Softly. Nothing frantic. Nothing desperate. Just your mouth against his after years of nearly. Jack didn’t move for one heartbeat. Then his hand settled carefully at your waist and he kissed you back. Warm. Slow. Certain. You pulled away first. His forehead nearly touched yours.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your side.

“You’re still allowed to change your mind.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to keep saying that until I stop talking, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched. You smiled.

“Can I kiss you again now?”

Jack exhaled a quiet laugh.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I’m attempting to be responsible.”

“I hate it.”

“I gathered.”

You kissed him again. This time, Jack was ready. His arm slipped around your waist and drew you closer while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. There was no urgency. There didn’t need to be. When the kiss ended, you stayed close. Your eyes drifted past him toward the bedroom.

“My wedding dress is still in there.”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Jack considered that.

“Burning it inside the apartment seems inadvisable.”

You laughed.

“Very romantic.”

“Fire codes.”

“Of course.”

Jack smiled. You leaned into him. Soon, you would turn your phone back on. You would call Nathan. You would tell him you were sorry for leaving him waiting in front of everyone. You would not tell him you were sorry for leaving.

There would be deposits to lose, gifts to return and a honeymoon to cancel. You would have to explain something you were only beginning to understand yourself. Nathan had not been the wrong man because he was cruel. You hadn’t been the wrong woman because you couldn’t become what he imagined.

You had simply spent too long believing love meant making the differences disappear. Yesterday, the tables had been set. The guests had been seated. The music had started. You had thought that meant the decision had already been made. It hadn’t. Someone had asked if you were ready. For once, you had told the truth.

No. Jack had simply been waiting outside when you did. You looked up at him. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.

“What?”

You smiled.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That’s twice.”

You reached for your coffee.

“Get used to it.”

A tiny, shiny, ridiculously detailed thing hanging from your badge reel, half-hidden against the pocket of your scrubs. It swung every time you moved, catching the fluorescent light of the ED in little flashes of colour. Most people would not have looked twice at it. Most people would have seen it as just another piece of plastic merch, something cute and bright attached to a tired med student trying very hard not to look like they had no idea where they were supposed to be.

Parker noticed it immediately.

You were standing at the nurses’ station with Lena beside you, nodding along while she pointed out where things were kept, where you were allowed to stand without getting trampled, and which attendings were likely to teach versus which ones would make you regret choosing medicine. Abbott was behind the desk, already looking halfway done with the night even though it had barely started. Cruz was restocking a drawer with the concentrated frustration of someone who had done it three times already and knew nobody would keep it organized. Shen passed by with a chart tucked under one arm, offering you a polite smile that made you feel only slightly less like you were being dropped into deep water without floaties.

And Parker, who had been listening to precisely none of this, looked at your badge reel and said, “Is that the limited drop from the anniversary set?”

Lena stopped talking.

Abbott looked up.

Cruz’s hand froze inside the drawer.

You blinked, sure for one second that you had hallucinated the question out of stress, sleep deprivation, and the vending machine coffee you had chugged in the parking lot.

Then you looked down at the keychain.

Then back at Parker.

Your whole face lit up.

“Oh my God,” you said, with the kind of startled joy that made it impossible to pretend you were calm. “You know what this is?”

Parker’s expression barely changed, but something in her eyes sharpened with quiet amusement. “I know what it is.”

“That is not the same as answering the question.”

“I answered the question.”

“No, you dodged the question.” You held the keychain up between two fingers, the nerves of your first shift suddenly pushed aside by sheer disbelief. “This was online for nine minutes before it sold out. Nine. I had three tabs open and my phone in my hand. I nearly cried when the order confirmation came through.”

Parker tilted her head slightly. “That seems like an intense response to a keychain.”

“It is not just a keychain.”

“Clearly.”

“It is from the anniversary set.”

“I know.”

“And it’s the version with the alternate costume.”

“I can see that.”

“And the tiny symbol on the back is actually from episode seven, not episode eight, which means whoever designed this knew what they were doing, because most people confuse those two episodes even though the emotional context is completely different.”

For the first time since you had walked into the ED, Parker smiled.

It was not a big smile. It was barely even a smile, honestly. More like the corner of her mouth gave up resisting gravity in the opposite direction for half a second. But it was enough.

Enough for Abbott to stare. Enough for Lena to glance between the two of you with interest. Enough for Cruz to mouth, What the hell? to Shen across the desk.

You did not notice any of it. You were too busy looking at Parker like she had just revealed herself to be the only other person in the hospital with taste.

“You’ve seen the show?” you asked.

“No.”

Your excitement stumbled. “You haven’t?”

“No.”

“But you recognized the keychain.”

“Yes.”

“So you know the merch, but you haven’t seen the show?”

“Yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is suspicious.”

“It’s not suspicious.”

“It’s extremely suspicious.”

“I collect limited releases.”

You stared at her. Parker stared back, perfectly composed.

“Limited releases,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“Of anything?”

“Mostly.”

“That is somehow nerdier than if you just watched the show.”

From behind the desk, Abbott made a soft choking sound that might have been a laugh trying to escape and getting strangled halfway up. Parker glanced over once, flatly, and Abbott immediately became very interested in the chart in front of him.

You realized, belatedly, that you had just called an attending nerdy on your first night in the emergency department. Your stomach dropped.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “That was not professional. I didn’t mean—well, I did mean it, but not in a disrespectful way. More in a very impressed and slightly confused way. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Parker looked at you for a beat too long.

Then she said, “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… stop talking?”

“You were explaining episode seven.”

“Oh.” Your fingers tightened around the badge reel. “Right. Okay. So episode seven is actually where the whole thing shifts because up until then you think the main conflict is external, but it’s not. It’s about identity and memory and whether you can still be yourself if everyone around you only recognizes the version of you they need you to be—”

Lena slowly lowered her hand from where she had been pointing toward the medication room. Cruz had abandoned the drawer completely. Shen, who had only meant to pause for a second, remained paused and Abbott leaned back in his chair, watching Parker Ellis—Parker, who treated casual conversation like an unnecessary invasive procedure—stand in the middle of the nurses’ station and listen to a brand-new med student explain fictional lore with total, unwavering attention.

Parker did not interrupt you. She did not check her watch. She did not look around for an escape route. She simply stood there, arms loosely crossed, eyes on you, occasionally asking a short question that somehow proved she had actually been following every word.

“And the symbol?” she asked.

You lit up again. “Exactly! The symbol is the whole point.”

Abbott looked at Lena. Lena looked at Abbott.

Cruz whispered, “Are we all seeing this?” Shen whispered back, “I think so.”

Santos, who had picked up a double and was already regretting every choice that had led her there, rounded the corner with a stack of discharge papers and stopped dead. “Why is Parker talking to the med student?” she asked.

Nobody answered. Mostly because nobody knew.

By the end of the shift, you had survived two laceration repairs, one patient who called you “sweetheart” until Parker appeared beside you and corrected him without raising her voice, three cups of terrible coffee, and one near-death experience involving a supply closet door you opened directly into your own forehead.

You had also somehow ended up in Parker’s orbit. Not intentionally. At least, not at first. She was just there.

When Lena sent you to observe a patient evaluation, Parker was the one doing it. When Abbott asked someone to grab you before a trauma came in, Parker was already pointing you toward gloves and telling you where to stand. When you forgot where the clean blankets were, Parker walked past and said, “Second left, bottom shelf,” without even slowing down.

It was not warm, exactly. Parker was not warm in any obvious way. She did not fuss or soften her voice or make things easy just because you were new. She still expected you to keep up, still corrected you when you missed something, still gave you that unreadable look when you answered a question too quickly and not carefully enough.

But she also noticed.

She noticed when you were overwhelmed and sent you to get water before you could embarrass yourself by swaying in front of a patient. She noticed when your hands were shaking after your first code and quietly gave you a task simple enough to anchor yourself to. She noticed when your badge reel got caught on a drawer handle and untangled it before you accidentally yanked the whole thing off your scrub top.

And every now and then, in between blood work and imaging orders and the constant restless motion of the ED, she would ask something that made your brain short-circuit.

“So episode seven,” she said two weeks later, while washing her hands at the sink beside you. “That’s the one with the memory reveal?”

You almost dropped the paper towel dispenser key Lena had trusted you with. “You remember that?”

Parker looked mildly offended. “You talked for twelve minutes.”

“You timed me?”

“No.”

“You absolutely timed me.”

“I estimated.”

“That’s worse.”

She shrugged, drying her hands. “Was I wrong?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling too obviously. “No.”

“Then keep going.”

So you did.

You told her about the memory reveal, then the cast interview, then the theory that had been floating around fan spaces for years. Parker listened while checking a medication order. She listened while walking with you to the vending machines. She listened while you both stood in the break room at three in the morning, the hospital humming around you, your untouched coffee going lukewarm in your hands because you were too busy explaining why one line of dialogue had changed the entire interpretation of a character arc.

Somewhere between those conversations, between exhausted midnight coffees and stolen moments beside supply carts, Parker stopped being the intimidating attending who had recognized your keychain and became Parker. Just Parker.

The person who remembered your favourite character even though she still refused to watch the show.

The person who sent you a link to a merch restock at two in the afternoon with no message except, This yours?

The person who once showed up to shift with a tiny enamel pin in her palm and said, “Found it,” like she had not spent actual time tracking down something you had mentioned once while half-asleep.

The person who kissed you for the first time outside the hospital after a shift that had left you both quiet and wrung out, her thumb resting gently against your jaw, her expression calm but her eyes careful, as if even then she was watching for the smallest sign that you wanted her to stop.

You did not want her to stop.

After that, it became both easier and more complicated. At work, nothing changed. Or at least, nothing obvious changed.

Parker was still Parker. She still had the social patience of a locked door. She still gave Abbott a deadpan stare whenever he tried to joke his way out of paperwork. She still told Santos, “No,” before she even finished asking for favours. She still made Cruz roll his eyes at least four times a night and could reduce an overconfident intern to humble silence with one raised eyebrow.

But with you, she softened in increments so small nobody should have noticed them. Nobody should have noticed the way she always left the last decent coffee pod for you. Nobody should have noticed how she angled her body toward you when you spoke. Nobody should have noticed that when the ED got too loud, Parker somehow always found a reason to send you somewhere quieter for thirty seconds.

Nobody should have noticed.

Unfortunately, the night crew noticed everything.

“I think she adopted you,” Shen said one night, as you both restocked gloves.

You frowned. “Who?”

“Parker.”

You shoved a stack of mediums into place and tried very hard to keep your face neutral. “She did not adopt me.”

“She definitely adopted you.”

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

“It’s a weird thing to watch.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that mean?”

Shen shrugged, too casual. “She doesn’t glare at you.”

“She glares at me all the time.”

“No. She looks at you. Different thing.”

You were saved from answering by Cruz calling for help from trauma two, and you spent the next thirty minutes convincing yourself that Shen was just observant in the annoying way all good doctors were.

Then, an hour later, Abbott caught Parker handing you a granola bar. He stared. Parker stared back. You took the granola bar and pretended this was very normal.

Abbott pointed at it. “Where did that come from?”

“My pocket,” Parker said.

“You carry snacks now?”

“No.”

“You just had that?”

“Yes.”

“For who?”

Parker’s face went blank in the way it did when she had decided she was finished with a conversation. “For people with low blood sugar.”

Abbott looked at you. You looked at the granola bar. Parker walked away. Cruz appeared at Abbott’s shoulder, eyes narrowed. “That was weird, right?”

Abbott nodded slowly. “Very.”

“It’s like watching a wolf feed a baby deer.”

“Don’t say that where HR can hear you.”

By the time the trailer dropped, you and Parker had been dating for three months. Nobody knew. At least, you were pretty sure nobody knew.

The thing about dating Parker was that she did not become a different person. She did not suddenly turn sweet in a way that felt false, did not start using pet names in public, did not drape herself over you or make a show of affection in places where people could see.

Parker’s love was quieter than that. It lived in the details. In the spare hoodie that appeared in her car because you always forgot one. In the way she learned your takeout order without asking twice. In the fact that she never once made you feel silly for caring too much about fictional worlds and limited-edition merchandise and characters that felt real enough to hurt.

So when the trailer dropped during the slowest stretch of a Tuesday night shift, you forgot where you were.

Completely.

You had been standing near the nurses’ station, trying to update a patient note while your phone buzzed in your pocket once, then twice, then so many times in a row that you knew something had happened. Your fandom group chat only became that unhinged in very specific circumstances: a casting announcement, a cancellation scare, a surprise merch drop, or a trailer.

You checked your phone. Your heart stopped. Then restarted somewhere in your throat.

“Oh my God.”

Lena glanced over. “Everything okay?”

You did not answer. Your thumbs moved faster than your thoughts. The trailer thumbnail stared back at you, dramatic and glossy and real after months of rumours. You pressed play for exactly three seconds before realising you could not process this alone.

You looked up.

Across the station, Parker was charting beside Abbott, her face set in its usual expression of quiet irritation as Santos explained something with too many hand gestures.

“So I’m just saying,” Santos continued, “technically, if the patient said he swallowed one battery, but the girlfriend says she saw him with three—”

“Order imaging,” Parker said without looking at her.

“I did.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

Santos blinked. “Because I was providing context.”

“You provided it.”

Abbott snorted. Parker’s jaw tightened.

You moved before you could overthink it, crossing the station with your phone clutched in one hand. “Parker.”

Her head lifted immediately. Not slowly. Not with annoyance. Immediately.

“What happened?”

“The trailer dropped.”

Parker stared at you for half a second. Then, with complete seriousness, she said, “The trailer?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “The trailer,” you repeated.

Something shifted in her expression. Recognition, not of the trailer itself, but of your excitement. Of the scale of it. Of what it meant that you had come to her first. She turned away from her computer. Abbott’s typing slowed. Santos looked between you. “Trailer for what?”

Neither of you answered.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice like the two of you were discussing test results instead of television. “I haven’t watched it properly yet. I saw three seconds and paused because I think the opening shot is the archive room.”

Parker frowned slightly. “The archive room was destroyed.”

Your mouth fell open.

Abbott stopped typing completely. Cruz, who had just arrived at the desk with a stack of labs, froze. Lena looked up from a chart. Shen, passing behind them, slowed to a halt.

You stared at Parker with open adoration. “You remember that?”

“You complained about it for two weeks.”

“Because it mattered.”

“I know.”

“You said that like you actually know.”

“You explained the structural importance of the archive room.”

“I did.”

“Twice.”

“Because the first time you were half-asleep.”

“I was awake.”

“You had your eyes closed.”

“I was listening.”

You pressed a hand over your chest. “This is why I like you.”

The sentence came out too naturally. Too softly. Too honestly. For half a second, the air around the desk changed. Parker did not react in any dramatic way. She did not look startled. She did not look panicked. She simply held your gaze, mouth relaxing at one corner in that almost-smile you had learned to recognize as something private.

“I know,” she said.

Cruz’s eyebrows shot up. Abbott leaned back in his chair. Santos looked personally betrayed by the fact that she was clearly missing several chapters of context.

You, blissfully unaware of the way the entire night crew had started watching, leaned your hip against the edge of the desk and held your phone between you and Parker. “Okay, so look. This is the opening frame. That is absolutely the archive room, right?”

Parker leaned in. Actually leaned in. Her shoulder nearly brushed yours as she studied the screen with the kind of concentration most people reserved for scans and abnormal labs.

“Could be a reconstruction,” she said.

You gasped. “That’s what I thought!”

“Or a memory sequence.”

You pointed at her with your phone. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Casually drop a good theory like you haven’t been pretending not to care for months.”

“I don’t care.”

“You care a little.”

“I care that you care.”

That should have been nothing. It was not nothing. It landed softly between you, almost hidden beneath the noise of the ED, beneath the beeping monitors and distant voices and the squeak of Santos shifting her weight because she was apparently incapable of standing still. But you heard it, and Parker knew you heard it, and for one small moment the hospital seemed to narrow down to the two of you and the glow of your phone screen.

Then Cruz whispered, “What did she just say?”

Abbott whispered back, “I don’t know, but I’m uncomfortable.”

Lena, who looked far more delighted than uncomfortable, whispered, “I think it’s sweet.”

Santos leaned toward Shen. “Has Parker always been able to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Listen.”

Shen shook his head slowly. “Not to us.”

You started the trailer again, keeping the volume low enough that you had to lean closer to Parker for both of you to hear. The first few seconds played, dramatic music swelling from your phone speaker. You paused every few frames to explain something, rewinding when Parker asked a question, zooming in on background details that would have meant absolutely nothing to anyone else.

Parker followed all of it.

Not with the glazed patience of someone waiting for their turn to speak, but with real attention. She asked why one character’s jacket being a different colour mattered. She asked whether the symbol on the wall was the same one from your keychain. She asked if the actor in the final shot was the one you had sworn could not come back unless the writers were undoing an entire season of development.

You answered every question with increasing enthusiasm. The more you talked, the softer Parker became. Not obviously. Never obviously. But it was there in the way her shoulders loosened, in the way she stopped pretending to chart, in the way her eyes stayed on your face more than the phone because she seemed less interested in the trailer than in the way you looked while explaining it.

Around you, the department continued moving, but the nurses’ station had become a small island of stunned witnesses. Abbott stared like he was watching a rare medical anomaly. Lena rested her chin in her hand. Cruz looked between you and Parker with the intensity of someone solving a mystery. Shen seemed quietly vindicated. Santos looked offended.

“I asked her about my patient,” Santos muttered, “and she told me to stop talking.”

“She did not tell you to stop talking,” Lena said.

“She said, ‘Why are you still talking?’ That is worse.”

Abbott nodded. “It is more efficient.”

Santos pointed toward Parker. “But look at her. She’s letting the med student explain costume symbolism.”

“Character symbolism,” you corrected automatically, without looking away from your phone.

Everyone went silent. Slowly, you looked up. Five faces stared back at you.

Parker looked up too, and whatever softness had been there a second ago vanished behind a flat, dangerous calm.

“Do none of you have patients?” she asked.

The spell broke instantly.

Abbott turned back to his computer with suspicious speed. Cruz lifted the labs and pretended he had been reading them the entire time. Lena smiled into her chart. Shen coughed. Santos raised both hands.

“I’m going,” she said. “I am going. I just want it noted that this is strange.”

“It’s noted,” Abbott said.

“By who?”

“Everyone.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Was I being too loud?”

“No,” Parker said immediately.

Cruz made a tiny sound. Parker’s eyes flicked toward him. Cruz stopped.

You lowered your phone, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. I know I kind of ramble when I get excited.”

Parker looked back at you. Her face was calm, but her voice, when she spoke, was quieter than before.

“I know.”

You let out a nervous little laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“It wasn’t criticism.”

“No?”

“No.”

Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Does it bother you?”

Parker held your gaze like the answer was the easiest thing in the world.

“No.”

You searched her face, waiting for the joke, the teasing edge, the dry follow-up that would let you both move on without making it too tender. It did not come. Instead, Parker said, “You get excited. I like listening.”

The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. So Parker that they almost sounded clinical. And still, they made your heart ache.

You looked at Parker and forgot, again, that you were standing in the middle of the ED.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Parker nodded once, as if that settled it.

Then a call came in over the radio, pulling everyone back into motion. The incoming trauma scattered the station with practiced urgency, and the moment folded itself away into the rhythm of the hospital. Parker straightened, all focus again, already reaching for gloves. You moved with her automatically, shoving your phone into your pocket, the trailer forgotten for now beneath the rush of work.

But as Parker stepped past you, you noticed the collar of her scrub top had folded awkwardly beneath her jacket.

Without thinking, you reached out.

“Wait,” you said, catching the edge of the fabric.

Parker stopped.

You smoothed the collar down with quick, familiar fingers, then patted it once. “There.”

Parker glanced at you.

“Thanks,” she said.

Then, so briefly you almost missed it, her fingers brushed your wrist.

Not enough to be dramatic. Not enough to be a declaration. Just enough to be intimate. Just enough to be known.

Then she was gone, heading toward the trauma, already asking for vitals, already back to being Dr. Parker Ellis, unreadable and sharp and impossible to distract.

You turned back toward the desk, still half-smiling.

The remaining night crew was staring at you.

This time, you noticed.

“What?” you asked.

Lena pressed her lips together.

Shen looked at the ceiling.

Santos stared at you like you had just calmly performed a magic trick in front of her and refused to explain it.

“You and Parker,” Abbott said slowly, from several feet away.

Your stomach dropped.

“What about me and Parker?”

Cruz pointed vaguely between you and the trauma bay. “That.”

“That what?”

“The collar,” Santos said.

You blinked. “Her collar was folded.”

“So naturally you fixed it.”

“Yes?”

“And naturally she let you.”

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t she?”

Nobody answered right away. That was when it hit you. The trailer. The questions. The leaning in. The I like listening. The wrist touch.

The fact that none of those things looked normal to people who did not know that Parker had kissed you in parking lots and cooked you breakfast after night shifts and kept a limited-edition keychain you had given her tucked safely beside her keys.

Your face went hot.

“Oh,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Yeah.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then looked toward the trauma bay like Parker might somehow rescue you from a situation she had absolutely helped create.

Santos crossed her arms. “Since when?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That was terrible,” Cruz said.

“Awful,” Abbott agreed.

Shen nodded. “No one believed that.”

You lifted your chin, attempting dignity despite the fact that your entire face was probably glowing. “I am going to check on my patient.”

“You do that,” Lena said, still smiling.

You walked away as calmly as possible. Which was to say, not very calmly at all.

Behind you, Santos whispered, “Since when?”

Abbott sighed. “Apparently long enough for Parker to know lore.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers several questions.”

Across the ED, Parker glanced back just once, catching your eye from the trauma bay doors.

Her expression did not change. But yours did. You smiled despite yourself. Parker’s almost-smile appeared for half a second before she turned away again.

And the night crew, watching from the station, finally understood the one thing you and Parker had somehow failed to hide.

Parker had not adopted the med student.