Chapter Text
Hour 1
The clock above the nurses' station ticked loudly, each second dragging longer than the last. Dana scrubbed a hand down her face, trying to stay patient. The day shift was supposed to be done — charts signed, patients handed over, and her butt halfway out the door. But then Dr. Ellis rang in, voice barely a croak, saying she couldn't even stand without getting dizzy.
Now it was her, Jack, and Robby huddled over the charge desk, going down the list of available doctors... and getting nowhere. Especially because Robby refused to ask any of his day shift doctors to extend because of the shit day they just had.
"Parsons is on vacation," Dana muttered, scratching another name off.
"Nguyen’s already pulling a double,” Jack added, flipping through the schedule.
"And pretty sure Romero’s dead to the world. I called twice, went straight to voicemail," Robby said, dropping his phone on the counter in defeat. They all exchanged a look — the we’re screwed kind.
Dana sighed, already peeling her phone from her pocket. "Only one person left to try. She's supposed to be off, but..." She didn’t finish the thought, just started dialing.
Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, looking half-expectant, half-resigned. "Who?"
"Dr. Mohan."
Jack blinked. "Samira?" he echoed, just as Dana turned away, phone pressed to her ear.
"Hey, Samira, it’s Dana," Dana said quickly. "I know it’s your day off, but Dr. Ellis just dropped out and we’re desperate. Is there any chance—?"
Pause.
Jack couldn’t hear the reply, but Dana gave a short relieved laugh. "You’re a lifesaver. Seriously. See you soon."
She hung up and turned back to them, smiling. "She’s coming."
Robby let out a low whistle. "Did not expect that miracle."
Jack just nodded, feeling something tight in his chest unclench. Night shift wasn’t totally doomed, after all. About fifteen minutes later, just as Dana was pulling her bag over her shoulder to finally leave, the ER doors slid open with a hiss. In walked Samira Mohan.
The hallway lights hit her first — the soft shimmer of her navy cocktail dress, the elegant cut of it hugging her frame, the delicate heels clicking against the tile. Her dark hair was loosely pinned back, and her makeup, still perfect, made her look like she belonged in a restaurant downtown, not a chaotic emergency department. Conversation around the desk dropped instantly. Jack stared, heart thudding painfully against his ribs.
Dana let out a low, amused whistle. "Holy hell, Mohan," she said, grinning wide. "Tell me you were on a date."
Samira slipped off her dark coat, somehow making the whole thing look even more unfair. She gave a wry smile, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I was," she said. "And thank god you called me. It was awful."
Dana laughed. "Well, you're saving our asses tonight, so... silver linings."
Jack was still staring — not that he realized it until Robby leaned in and elbowed him, grinning like an idiot. "Pick your jaw up off the floor, lover boy."
Jack snapped his mouth shut, face heating. "Shut up," he muttered under his breath, glancing away — but not for long.
He couldn’t help it. Samira looked like a dream. And she was about to spend the entire night shift working beside him, smelling like perfume and the image of her looking like that burned on the back of his head.
He was so, so screwed. Jack stood there, useless, probably looking like a complete idiot. He opened his mouth, but nothing remotely intelligent came out.
"Uh—Dr. Mohan," he finally managed, clearing his throat. "If you want... I could grab you a coffee? Before we get started?"
Samira turned toward him, smile polite, eyes steady. "Thank you, Dr. Abbot, but I’m going to change first. I’ll grab some after."
Her voice was all professionalism, but there was a flicker of warmth there too — something that caught and tugged low in Jack’s chest. She moved past him with a nod, heels clicking down the hall toward the on-call rooms. Jack watched her go like a man witnessing a miracle.
Behind him, Robby snorted loudly. "Jesus, man. Try not to pass out."
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, heat prickling up his spine. "Shut up."
But Robby wasn’t done. He clapped Jack on the shoulder — hard. "Listen, you thirsty bastard," he said, half-laughing, half-dead serious. "If there's so much as a scratch on Mohan by the end of this shift... I'm killing you."
Jack let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. "I’m not gonna— She’s perfectly capable—"
"I know she is," Robby said, voice softening. "But she’s still new to this chaos. And she’s my smartest resident, alright? So... eyes sharp. Hands clean."
Jack held up both hands in surrender, even as his heart thudded painfully in his chest. "Got it."
But as he watched the corridor where Samira had disappeared, the truth gnawed quietly at the back of his mind: He was already a lost cause. Dana clipped her ID badge back onto her bag with a tired sigh. "Alright, this circus is yours now," she said, shooting Jack a teasing smile. "Try not to burn it down."
Robby grabbed his hoodie from the back of a chair, slinging it over one shoulder. "And remember what I said," he added as he passed Jack — pointing two fingers at his own eyes, then turning them dramatically toward Jack.
"Watching you, Abbot."
Dana snickered. "You’re so dramatic."
"Yeah, well," Robby said, jerking a thumb toward the hallway where Samira had disappeared, "I gotta keep our resident ER princess safe."
"She's more likely to save us," Dana said with a laugh, bumping Robby's shoulder as they headed for the doors.
Jack just shook his head, muttering, "I’ll survive," even though he wasn’t entirely convinced of it.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, leaving the emergency department quieter for a brief moment — the hum of monitors, the distant ring of a phone. Jack rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the hall. A few minutes later, the on-call door swung open again.
Jack looked up.
Samira stepped out, now dressed in dark scrubs and practical sneakers, her stethoscope thrown over her neck. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, wisps falling around her face, and she was wiping off the last traces of her makeup with a makeup wipe as she walked. And somehow — somehow — Jack thought she looked even more devastating like this. The polished edges of earlier were gone, replaced by the real Samira: sharp, quick, quietly steady in a storm. The shift in her posture was subtle — shoulders set, steps sure — like she was sliding right into her element.
Jack's heart gave a helpless little lurch.
She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
"Dr. Abbot," she said lightly, balling up the makeup wipe and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. "You still offering that coffee?"
Jack straightened, grateful for something — anything — to do. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."
He scrambled to grab a fresh cup from the break room, cursing himself under his breath the whole way.
Play it cool, Abbot. You’re getting too old for this. She's just another doctor. Just—
Samira leaned against the counter when he returned, watching him with mild amusement, arms crossed casually over her scrub top.
"Thanks," she said when he handed her the coffee, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Jack nodded stiffly, every nerve ending sparking to life. "No problem."
She took a sip, hummed appreciatively, then pushed off the counter. "Alright. Let’s go save some lives."
She flashed him a small, wry smile before heading toward the trauma bays, coffee in hand, navy scrubs disappearing into the organized chaos. Jack stood there for a beat longer, clutching his clipboard like an idiot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Robby's warning echoed again —
Eyes sharp. Hands clean.
Jack blew out a breath, shook himself, and jogged after her. If he was going to make it through this shift alive, he was going to need all the self-control he had left.
Hour 2
The trauma pagers went off: two-car collision, multiple incoming. Jack was already pulling on gloves by the time Samira joined him at the trauma bay, tying her hair tighter with a no-nonsense flick of her wrist. She tossed back the last of her coffee, pitched the empty cup into the trash, and was all business when she turned to him.
"You're leading Bay 2?" she asked, already grabbing supplies.
Jack nodded, a little surprised — not because she asked, but because of how steady, how sure she sounded. No second-guessing. No hesitation. Just a clean, professional pivot to the chaos about to come through the doors.
"I'll take Bay 3," Samira said.
She was already moving, snapping on gloves, rolling her shoulders like she was warming up before a fight.
Jack watched her for a second longer than he should have — not just because she looked good (although, God help him, she did), but because he realised something he hadn’t let himself think about until now: She wasn't the same green, cautious resident from six months ago.
The Pittfest mass casualty incident tested all of them. That night had been hell. But it brought the best out of her. Samira had stayed. Had fought. Had learned. She drilled a damn burr hole with an IO drill. Jack may not have witnessed it but she was the talk of the town for it.
Now? Now she moved with this quiet confidence that wasn’t cocky, but earned. The kind of steady you wanted at your side when everything else was going sideways. The trauma doors banged open, snapping Jack out of it.
"Alright, let’s work!" he barked, falling into the rhythm as paramedics flooded in, rattling off vitals.
He barely had time to glance toward Bay 3, but every time he caught a glimpse of Samira — directing the nurses, barking orders clean and calm, assessing patients with quick, practiced hands — something inside him twisted, warm and proud and dangerously fond.
At one point, he saw her lean over a patient, rapid-firing instructions with that same calm authority, her brow furrowed in concentration. Jack couldn’t help the stupid smile tugging at his mouth. Yeah, he thought, working the intubation on his side, Robby’s right to have a soft spot for her.
He had one too.
Maybe a little more than "soft."
Maybe a lot more than was safe.
It had calmed for maybe a minute — a single, blessed minute of controlled chaos — before the shouts broke out. Jack spun toward the sound just in time to see one of the collision patients — a younger man, wild-eyed, thrashing against the straps of the gurney — break free. It happened so fast.
One second Samira was reaching for her stethoscope to re-check vitals, and the next, the patient lunged, shoving her hard into a nearby gurney with a brutal crash of metal on metal. Samira cried out — a short, sharp sound of pain — as she crumpled to the floor. Jack was there in a heartbeat, shoving past two nurses, instincts razor-sharp.
"Security! Now!" he barked, even as he dropped to one knee beside Samira.
She was curled slightly, one hand braced on the ground, teeth gritted against the pain. Her scrubs were rumpled, the loose bun at the back of her head half-fallen. Jack’s heart pounded in his ears.
"Samira—" he said tightly, barely keeping the panic out of his voice, "don't move. Just— just stay there a second."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw security finally storm in, wrestling the patient back down onto the gurney. Dr. Shen, who had been overseeing the next bay, swooped in immediately, barking orders to sedate and restrain the patient properly. Jack blocked all of it out, focusing entirely on Samira.
"You with me?" he asked quietly, scanning her for obvious injuries.
Samira nodded once, breathless. "Yeah. Just... just hit my back weird."
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, relief and anger warring inside him. He wanted to rip that psychotic patient apart with his bare hands — but Samira was conscious, talking, and that was what mattered right now.
"Alright," Jack said, softer now. "Let’s get you sitting up slowly."
He helped her shift upright, careful to support her shoulders. His hands were steady even if inside, he felt like a live wire about to snap. Samira winced but managed to sit, both palms flat on the tile floor for balance. "God," she muttered under her breath. "That’s gonna bruise."
Jack couldn’t help the low, humorless laugh that escaped him. "You think?"
She shot him a tired glare — but there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes too, something raw and unspoken passing between them.
"Hey." Jack tipped his head, voice gentling. "You good? For real?"
Samira hesitated for a beat — the tiniest beat — before nodding. "Yeah. I’m good."
Jack wasn’t sure he believed her, not entirely. But he also knew better than to push her right now, not in front of everyone. Behind them, Dr. Shen’s voice rose over the chaos. "Patient sedated and stable," he announced, shooting Jack a look. "You good over there?"
Jack glanced at Samira — bruised, but stubborn as ever.
"We're good," he said grimly, still hovering close enough that his shoulder brushed hers when she shifted. Samira finally managed to stand, Jack’s hand steady under her elbow until she waved him off with a small shake of her head. Proud. Independent. Still rattled underneath it. Jack watched her, chest tight, as she adjusted her coat and turned back to work like nothing had happened.
But Jack had seen it.
Had felt the fear spike inside him like a knife the second she'd gone down. And no matter how calm he played it now, he knew — deep down — he wasn’t going to be able to forget that moment anytime soon. Samira brushed off the encounter like it was nothing. A quick nod to Jack, a sharp breath inward, and she turned toward the next bay like she hadn't just been thrown across the room.
But Jack saw it.
The way her posture stiffened with every step.
The tiny winces she thought she was hiding when she twisted or bent just slightly.
She was hurt. And being stubborn about it.
Jack wiped his hands on his scrub pants, already moving.
He caught up to her by the next curtain and touched her elbow gently, careful not to startle her.
"Dr. Mohan," he said low enough that no one else would hear. "Come with me."
She opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Jack just lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head down the hall in silent insistence. After a second, she sighed — a soft, reluctant surrender — and followed. Jack led her to one of the empty curtained-off beds, tugging the privacy curtain mostly shut behind them. He grabbed a clean ice pack from the portable freezer tucked into the wall and cracked it between his hands until it chilled.
"Hop up," he said, nodding toward the gurney.
Samira hesitated — pride flickering in her expression — but eventually climbed up with a soft, suppressed grunt of discomfort. Jack set the ice pack down on a tray, then glanced at her meaningfully.
"You’re gonna have to lift your top a bit," he said, trying for casual, clinical.
Samira gave a dry little laugh. "Buy a girl dinner first, Dr. Abbot."
He huffed out a short, surprised chuckle, but his heart was hammering behind his ribs. Still, he turned slightly away, giving her a tiny scrap of privacy as she peeled up the hem of her scrub top and undershirt in one go.
"Okay," she said after a moment, voice light but tight with pain.
Jack turned back—
—and immediately forgot how to breathe.
She was wearing a red lace bra — beautiful, bold against her warm brown skin. Not meant to be seen under scrubs. Not meant to be seen here. He dragged his gaze up, trying to stay professional, but God, she looked vulnerable sitting there, bruised and quiet and still with that stubborn set to her jaw.
"How bad is it?" Samira asked, her voice softer now, almost cautious.
Jack blinked, snapping himself back into focus.
He cleared his throat, grabbed a clean pair of gloves to busy his hands.
"It's pretty bad," he said honestly, gently ghosting his fingers above the angry, forming bruise along the small of her back. Purple and red already blooming under her skin. "But no swelling that suggests anything fractured. Just gonna hurt like hell for a few days."
He quickly grabbed the ice pack, careful not to let his hands linger too long against her skin.
"This'll help a little," he murmured, pressing the ice gently against the bruised area. Samira sucked in a sharp breath at the cold, knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the gurney.
"Sorry," Jack said quietly. "I know it sucks. Just a few minutes, okay? Then I'll grab some meds."
She nodded, her chin dropping to her chest, breathing through it.
Jack watched her, his hands steady, his chest tight.
There was a long, heavy silence between them, filled only by the distant beeping of monitors and the murmur of the ER beyond the curtain. Maybe it was the way she was sitting there, too proud to admit she needed this. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline still thrumming through him from seeing her hurt. But Jack found himself speaking before he thought better of it.
"So," he said, tone gentler, almost teasing. "What was so awful about the date you had to pray for a hospital emergency to get out of it?"
Samira gave a small, choked laugh — half amusement, half pain.
"You sure you want to know?" she asked without lifting her head.
"I’m already here," Jack said, smiling a little. "Might as well."
Samira let out a long sigh. “A regrettable Tinder date. I barely made it through appetizers."
“This is why I prefer old school dating,” Jack pointed out.
She shrugged carefully, flinching a little under the ice. “Nothing wrong with using apps but he was... boring. Like, bragging-about-his-crypto-portfolio-for-twenty-minutes boring. And then he told me he didn’t really believe in 'emergency medicine' as a specialty. Thought it was ‘glorified babysitting.’"
Jack barked out a laugh before he could help it.
Samira smiled, finally looking up at him through tired, amused eyes.
"And when I didn't laugh at his joke about 'nurses being glorified waitresses,' he said I was being ‘too sensitive’ and asked if I was one of those 'emotional girls who needed therapy.'"
Jack's hands tightened slightly around the ice pack.
"Charming," he muttered darkly.
"Yeah," Samira said dryly. "Real catch."
Jack shook his head, the protective anger curling hot in his gut.
"You deserve better than that," he said simply, quietly.
For a moment, Samira looked at him — really looked at him — and something shifted in the air between them.
Softer. Heavier. More dangerous. Jack forced himself to break eye contact first, clearing his throat.
"Alright," he said, pulling the ice pack away carefully. "That’s enough icing for now. Let’s get you some meds before you try to save the world again."
Samira smiled — small, genuine — and let her shirt fall back down over the bruise. But even as she did, Jack could still feel the heat of her skin on his fingertips, the way she'd looked at him like maybe she saw it too. Jack helped Samira down from the gurney with a hand at her elbow, fingers warm and solid through the thin fabric of her sleeve. She moved stiffly, but stubbornly waved him off when he hovered too close.
"I’m fine," she insisted, offering a small, lopsided smile.
Jack didn't believe her for a second. But he knew Samira well enough by now to know that pushing her in public would only make her dig her heels in deeper. So he settled for an exasperated grunt and made a mental note to keep her in his line of sight for the rest of the night as he handed her a couple of ibuprofen tablets.
Hour 3
LEVEL 1 TRAUMA — ETA 3 MINUTES.
Jack cursed under his breath.
They had just been working on some charts for a kid with a FOOSH injury and a mother who needed stitches on her forehead when their pagers went off.
"Stay behind me for this one," he said before he could think better of it, tone low and unmistakably commanding. Samira blinked, a little startled at the shift in him, but then her mouth twitched — that same stubborn tilt — and she nodded once. Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and pulled his gloves back on. They headed back to the trauma bay, side by side, the heavy tension still humming between them — thicker now, almost visible in the narrow space between their shoulders.
Samira moved slower than usual, and Jack noticed every damn wince she tried to hide.
Every one made something sharp twist inside his chest.
The ambulance doors slammed open a moment later, paramedics rushing in with a middle-aged man — semi-conscious, bleeding heavily from the side of his head. The trauma room burst into motion. Jack immediately stepped in front of Samira without thinking, intercepting the gurney and barking out orders.
He heard Samira shift behind him, setting up airway supplies like she always did, but she was quieter than usual, more careful with her movements.
Jack’s focus split — half on the patient, half on the woman behind him he couldn't stop worrying about.
The tension was a living thing now, curling around his spine, clawing at his throat.
At one point, Samira brushed close, handing him a syringe, and Jack's fingers accidentally brushed against hers.
It was the lightest touch — barely there — but it slammed into him harder than any hit he'd ever taken in a trauma room. He looked up — and for a split second, their eyes locked.
And Jack forgot where he was. Forgot everything except how close she was standing, how soft her mouth looked, how warm her skin had been under his hands earlier. Samira swallowed, her throat bobbing. Then she blinked hard and stepped back, forcing the professional wall back up between them.
Jack dragged in a rough breath, trying to do the same.
Focus.
Get through the trauma. Then figure out what the hell to do about the fact that you're two seconds away from doing something really, really stupid.
They worked the patient quickly — stabilizing the bleeding, prepping him for a CT scan. Jack moved on pure muscle memory, half-aware of Samira at his side, hyperaware of the way her breathing hitched slightly whenever she had to reach or bend. When the trauma was finally cleared and the patient was wheeled out to imaging, Jack turned immediately to Samira.
"You need to sit down," he said quietly, stepping in front of her before she could slip away.
"I'm fine," Samira protested — too quickly, too automatically.
Jack tipped his head down, lowering his voice to something just shy of a whisper, the kind of tone that was meant only for her and no one else.
"Samira," he said — her first name, not 'Dr. Mohan,' not tonight — "I'm not asking."
For a long second, she just looked at him — wary, stubborn, and something else too, something softer that lived just behind her eyes, tugging at him like gravity. Finally, she nodded. Jack exhaled, the tight knot in his chest easing just a fraction. He reached out — again, without thinking — and placed his hand lightly at the small of her back to guide her toward an empty chair.
She flinched at the touch — not from him, but from the bruise — and Jack immediately dropped his hand, guilt slamming into him. But Samira only gave him a tired, almost shy glance over her shoulder, like she didn't mind nearly as much as she should. Jack sat her down carefully, crouching in front of her so he could look her in the eyes.
"You’re not invincible, Samira," he said, voice rough. "You don't have to pretend to be. Especially not with me.”
For a second, she looked like she might argue — might put the armor back on and shut him out, “Okay fine, but at least let me help finish some charting and then I’ll sit down.”
Hour 4
The trauma bay finally settled into a rare moment of calm after the chaos of the first few hours of the night shift. Nurses were busy restocking, and orderlies were moving the patient to the CT scanner. Jack stepped back from the bustling activity, his eyes drifting to Samira.
She was still sitting, her back against the chair, eyes closed, but her posture still stiff with discomfort as she finished off some charts on the computer. Her fingers were loosely wrapped around the cup of water Jack had handed her earlier, but she wasn’t drinking it. She looked drained, like the weight of the night was finally catching up with her. Jack hesitated. The hospital was busy — the ER never stopped — but something told him Samira wasn’t going to be much help to anyone else tonight if she didn’t rest for a while. He took a slow breath, approaching her once more.
"Samira," he said, softer this time, dropping his usual clinical tone. "I’m going to cover your patients for the next little bit. You need to rest."
Samira opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, looking up at him with that ever-familiar skepticism.
"I’m fine, Dr. Abbot," she started, but Jack cut her off before she could finish.
"No," he said firmly. "You’re not. Your back’s killing you, and we both know it." His gaze softened, but his voice remained low and insistent. "Sit tight. I’ve got this. You need a break, Samira. You look like you’re in more pain than half the people admitted in this ER.”
“That’s because most of them are heavily sedated,” Samira argued but Jack was having none of it so he said, “Samira, please…and you and I both know if it gets any worse for you, we’re going to have to file a large amount of paperwork for an injury report.”
She blinked, clearly thrown by the sincerity in his voice. She opened her mouth, probably to argue again, but then sighed, closing her eyes again.
"Fine," she muttered, letting her shoulders slump a little. "But only for a few minutes."
Jack gave her a small smile. "Deal." He gave her shoulder a gentle pat before he turned toward the hallway, leaving her in peace for the first time all night. He checked the boards — saw a couple of consults and minor injuries coming in, nothing too urgent. He could handle it. Hell, if anything, he was secretly relieved to have an excuse to take care of things without constantly worrying about her.
But he found his thoughts drifting back to her again — that damn tension still hanging between them. The way she had looked at him in the trauma room, and how every word they’d exchanged since had felt like more than just routine. He shook it off, focusing instead on filling out the charts for a few patients. When the ER calmed again, he checked in with the nurses and grabbed a quick cup of coffee before heading back to the break area where Samira was still sitting.
She was on her phone, scrolling through something on her screen, but her posture hadn’t improved. She still looked exhausted. Jack leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before he spoke. "You sure you’re alright?"
Samira glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile. "Yeah. Just… tired, I guess."
"How’s your back?" Jack asked, his voice softer than before, but that edge of concern still there.
She shrugged, clearly trying to downplay it. "Better. The ice helped. Thanks."
"Good," Jack replied, moving to the counter and leaning on it as he looked down at her. "You’ve been pushing yourself all night. You’re lucky you're not hurting more than you are."
"I’ve had worse," Samira said with a small smirk, but it lacked its usual bite. "It’s not the first time I’ve been thrown around by a patient. Besides, it’s only been a few hours.”
Jack didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her — really studied her — his gaze lingering on the tiredness around her eyes, the way her shoulders were still tense despite the brief rest. He took a few steps closer, his voice quieter now.
"You know you could have turned down coming in right?.”
Samira met his gaze, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she softened, her lips pressing into a tight line.
“Sadly, this place is basically my home. I’ve got nothing to come home to but a bed,” she said, but there was something else there now. Something beneath the words. Jack didn’t hesitate this time. He pushed off the counter, closing the space between them. He could see the vulnerability in her eyes now, something she usually kept hidden behind a wall of professionalism.
What hurt most about what she said was that he was in the same boat. He just couldn’t imagine someone as vibrant as her was in the “the hospital is my home” void that he’s in.
“I’d argue that is an unhealthy relationship with the ER,” Jack said quietly, his voice unexpectedly tender. “But I’d be a hypocrite because I find myself in your shoes.”
For a long, pregnant pause, Samira just looked at him, something shifting in her gaze. She didn’t say anything right away, but the air between them was thick, charged with unspoken words. Finally, she let out a soft sigh, looking down at her hands. "Sometimes… it’s just easier to be preoccupied and forget everything else. And being here…it’s almost like I have something to do…something to prove, y’know?"
Jack's heart gave a small, sharp tug at the rawness in her voice. "You don't need to prove anything to me, Samira. I know exactly how hard you work. I see you."
Her gaze flicked up to him, catching his eyes — really catching them this time. And Jack felt it, too, that shift. The tension between them wasn’t just professional anymore. It was personal. It was real. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Samira swallowed, her throat working, but she didn’t look away. "Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” she said softly. "It’s just hard sometimes, you know? I don’t… I don’t want anyone to think I’m weak."
Jack’s hand instinctively reached for hers on the table, his fingers brushing the back of her hand lightly. The moment was so small, so gentle, but it felt like a leap.
“Please…just call me Jack and you’re not weak," Jack said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "You’re stronger than anyone I know. Do you have any idea how much of a superstar you are during the Pittfest MCI? If I was some stranger and you introduced yourself as an attending, I’d be none the wiser. Don’t even get me started on how much Robbie adores you.”
Samira laughed at that, “Dr. Robby? Really? I think he’s harder on me than most people. I think my pleasant personality bugs him.”
Jack shook his head and said as he placed a hand on hers, “It doesn’t, and if he rides your ass too hard…you tell me so I can smack him back into the 21st century.”
Samira’s breath hitched for just a second, her fingers flexing slightly under his touch. But she didn't pull away.
The quiet between them stretched, filled with everything unsaid. The world outside the breakroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in this tiny, stolen moment. Then, finally, Samira let out a soft, almost laugh-like sigh and gave him a small, genuine smile.
"Maybe you're right, maybe I do have some good qualities,” she said quietly. "But I’m still learning.”
Jack’s lips curled upward, a teasing glint in his eyes.
"Well, I’m glad you haven’t given up on this ER yet Samira, we need more doctors like you here,” he said, his tone warm, with just a hint of a challenge. Samira’s smile widened slightly, and for the first time that night, the weight seemed to lift a little from her shoulders. She tried to stand, but Jack could see the moment she shifted her weight — the brief wince that crossed her face before she masked it with a practiced smile. She was still trying to downplay it, still trying to push through the pain, but it was clear to him that she was hurting.
Jack took a step closer, his voice gentle but firm. "Samira, stop. You’re not fine." He reached out, his hand brushing her arm as if to steady her. “I’m not going to let you keep pushing yourself when you’re in pain."
She gave him a look, but there was no fire behind it. Just a quiet weariness that made Jack’s chest tighten. Samira didn’t protest this time — instead, she let out a small sigh and gave a slight nod.
"Fine," she muttered, the fight draining from her voice. "But just a few minutes, Jack. Seriously."
“Okay good, but why do you insist on trying so much when you’re pushing your limits?”, Jack asked.
For a long moment, she didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick with something Jack couldn’t quite name. When she did speak, her voice was quieter than before, raw in a way that made Jack feel like he’d been let in on something he wasn’t supposed to hear.
"It’s something McKay said after the Pittfest MCI,” she murmured, her voice distant now, as if remembering the conversation vividly. "She told me that this job can’t be my whole life. That we need to find balance outside of this place, because we can’t just live in trauma and chaos all the time."
Jack’s brow furrowed at the mention of McKay’s advice. He could understand the sentiment — hell, he’d tried to figure out how to make life outside of work work for years, but hearing it from Samira felt different. She was usually so in control, so focused — hearing that even she was struggling with it made something inside him twist.
"So what did you do?" Jack asked, his voice soft but full of curiosity.
Samira let out a humorless laugh, her hands trembling slightly as she folded them together. "I went on a date, which you already know was a disaster,” she said, her eyes flickering with the faintest trace of bitterness. "Thought maybe I could find something outside of work, maybe something normal. A distraction." She leaned back in the chair, her shoulders sagging as if just recalling the memory exhausted her. "But it was a disaster.”
Jack’s eyes softened, a small sigh escaping him. "Samira, It’s okay to have bad days. To not be perfect."
She glanced up at him, her gaze sharp for a moment, before the hardness faded again. "It’s not just a bad day, Jack," she said, her voice quieter now, like she was letting her guard down just a little. "It’s that... maybe I’m only good at this. At being here. At being needed."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Jack couldn’t ignore the pain that laced her voice. The vulnerability she was letting slip through, even if she wasn’t fully aware of it. He shook his head slowly, his voice earnest and soft. "That’s not true. You’re so much more than this job, Samira."
Her lips pressed together, her eyes flickering toward the ground. "I don’t know what else there is. Every time I try to do something else, it ends in disaster. So maybe it’s easier if I just stay here. I’m good at this. At being the person everyone calls when things go wrong."
Jack’s heart tugged painfully at her words. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, trying to make her see what he saw. "That’s not all you are. You are good at this. But you’re so much more than that, Samira. You have a life outside of these walls, even if it feels like it’s all falling apart right now. You deserve to have something beyond just being ‘needed.’"
Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the guarded walls around her just a little lower than they’d been moments before. There was a softness there, a weariness, and maybe a flicker of hope — or maybe just the desire to believe him.
Jack took a step back, giving her some space, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. "I’m not going to let you believe that your worth is tied to just this place. And I sure as hell won’t let you keep thinking you can’t have something more otherwise you’ll be a depressed old man like me.”
She blinked a couple of times, and Jack saw the faintest tremor in her lip. For a split second, it felt like she might say something — something big. But instead, she swallowed hard, pushing back the emotions, just a little too quickly.
“You are not a depressed old man Jack,” Samira said with a chuckle, “I think you give yourself too little credit.”
Jack held her gaze for a beat, watching the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. He could see the doubt still lingering there, but he wasn’t going to let it slide. She needed to hear this, needed to feel that there was more to her than just the doctor she was here.
He cleared his throat, trying to lighten the air between them just a little. "Samira," he said, his voice gentle but persistent. "What do you like to do when you’re not at work?"
Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and for a moment, he could tell she was surprised by the question. It was the kind of thing most people might ask to fill the silence, but with Samira, it felt different. It felt like she wasn’t used to anyone asking her about her outside of this place.
"I don’t know," she said, shrugging, but there was a softness to her voice now, as if she were contemplating the question more than she’d expected. "I guess... I used to paint a little, when I was younger. Mostly just sketches, nothing serious." She hesitated, clearly unsure about sharing that part of herself, like it was something long buried. "And I like reading. Fiction mostly. Historical stuff, I guess."
Jack’s eyes lit up at her answer, something inside him sparking. He hadn’t expected this, especially not the mention of painting. It was so different from the Samira he saw every day — the professional, the focused, the one who never showed cracks.
"That’s amazing," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "I didn’t know you painted."
She smiled faintly, almost shyly, a small, wistful look crossing her face. "Yeah. I guess I don’t really talk about it. It just... it doesn’t feel like something I can do right now, you know?" Her voice softened, almost like she was talking to herself more than him. "I don’t really have the time, or the energy. And honestly, I don’t even know if I’m good anymore. I stopped when my Baba died.”
Jack didn’t let her dismiss it. He then said firmly, meeting her eyes with an intensity that left no room for argument. "You should paint again. I’m serious. It’s part of you."
She blinked, surprised by his certainty. There was a slight shift in her posture, like she hadn’t expected him to really listen. And for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade again — just the two of them, talking about something that felt real. Personal. Samira hesitated, looking down at her hands before meeting his eyes again. "Maybe one day," she said softly, almost too softly. "But right now, I guess I’m still figuring it all out."
Jack didn’t push her on it — not yet. He could feel how close she was to letting herself be more than just the version of herself she’d allowed to exist here. But it was going to take time, and he wasn’t going to rush her. Not when he saw how tightly she held everything together.
Instead, he changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, I think we need to do something to make tonight a little easier. And no, I’m not talking about more ice packs or pain meds."
Samira raised an eyebrow, the familiar spark of curiosity back in her eyes. "Oh? And what did you have in mind, Dr. Abbot?"
Jack grinned. "Maybe some actual food. Like, real food. Not just the hospital’s vending machine junk. You up for it?"
Samira chuckled, though it was soft and tired. "You’re asking me out for a meal in the breakroom?" she teased.
"I’d take you to a nice place," Jack said, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly, "but we’re both on the clock. So, I’ll settle for the best we can get right now."
Samira shook her head, her lips curling into a reluctant smile. "You’re incorrigible, you know that?"
Jack shrugged, the teasing glint never leaving his eyes. "It’s part of my charm."
She gave him an exasperated but affectionate look, then sighed, leaning back a little more in her chair. "You know what? I’m so not in the mood for hospital food, but I’m too tired to argue. If you’re serious about it, I’ll bite."
Jack’s heart lifted at her willingness to go along with it (he might have to make a pit stop and tell Shen to cover for him and page him immediately if he is needed). It felt like another small step, a crack in the armour she wore so well.
"Deal," Jack said with a playful smirk, then took a step back. "I’ll grab us something, and you just sit here and rest for a bit. Seriously. Don’t move until I get back."
Samira made a face, but there was warmth in her gaze. "Fine, fine. But I swear to God, Jack, if you bring me a granola bar, you’re going to become a patient in this ER.”
Jack laughed, already heading for the door. "You got it. No granola bars. Just food."
As he left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet victory. It wasn’t just about the small win of getting her to take a break, or the fact that she had opened up a little about something beyond work. It was about the slow, steady realization that Samira wasn’t just a colleague to him anymore — she was someone he genuinely cared about. Someone he wanted to be there for, no matter how much she tried to hide it.
Jack returned a little while later, carrying a couple of takeaway bags that smelled like something other than hospital cafeteria food — something real. He set them down on the counter in the breakroom, feeling the quiet excitement of having pulled this off. For a second, he wasn’t Dr. Abbot, the attending. He was just Jack, trying to do something nice for someone who, for all her strength, deserved a moment of kindness.
"Ta-da!" he announced, his voice a little too enthusiastic for the late hour. "I come bearing actual food."
Samira looked up from where she’d been resting, her eyes a little softer than before. She had propped her legs up on the chair, clearly trying to stay as still as possible, though Jack could still see the occasional wince when she shifted. Her gaze flicked toward the bags with curiosity.
"You actually did get something decent," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. "You’re full of surprises Jack.”
Jack smiled as he set the bags down in front of her. "No granola bars, promise," he said with a mock serious expression, trying to lighten the mood. "Got us a couple of sandwiches and some soup. I thought it’d be more appropriate than trying to offer you a hospital salad."
Samira chuckled, the sound easy and warm, and it made Jack’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t quite understand. She pulled one of the bags closer, peering inside.
"Alright, alright," she said with a faint smile. "You get some points for this one. It smells decent."
"Decent?" Jack scoffed. "It’s gourmet compared to what you usually get around here."
She shot him a teasing look as she pulled out the sandwich. "I’m sure it’s a five-star meal. You could have offered to bring me a Michelin star, but I suppose this is the next best thing.”
"I’m working on it," Jack teased back, grinning as he sat across from her. He unwrapped his own sandwich and settled back into the chair, trying to keep his attention on the moment — on her — instead of the way his heart was beating a little faster than usual. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of plastic wrappers and clinking of spoons filling the air between them. Jack noticed the way Samira relaxed, her posture loosening as she ate, the tension in her face softening with each bite. It was a small victory for him, but it felt important.
"So," Jack said after a while, breaking the silence. "You mentioned painting earlier. Tell me more about that."
Samira blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. She hesitated, glancing at the sandwich in her hand as if it held the answers.
"I don’t know," she said quietly. "It’s been a long time. I used to paint a lot, actually. Landscapes mostly. Nothing fancy, just… I liked the way it made me feel. Kind of like I could get lost in it. And it helped me… disconnect, I guess."
Jack leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Why did you stop?"
Samira shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Life happened, Baba died. I guess it didn’t seem as important once I got into med school. Then residency hit, and I just... I stopped making time for it." She took a slow, deliberate bite of her sandwich. "And honestly, I’m not sure if I’d even be able to pick it up again, even if I wanted to. There’s just so much going on here. It feels selfish, I guess. Taking time for something that isn’t saving lives or fixing people."
Jack’s heart ached at the way she phrased it. The way she placed everything, every part of herself, second to the needs of others. He could see why it was hard for her to feel like she had permission to live outside of the hospital walls. But the more he heard, the more he wanted to change that. She was allowed to have something else. She deserved it.
"You’re not selfish for wanting something for yourself," Jack said, his voice gentle but firm. "Painting, reading, whatever makes you feel good. It’s not selfish to want to be whole. You can still be a great doctor and take care of yourself, too."
She met his eyes, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of something — maybe hope, maybe uncertainty, maybe both. Samira didn’t respond right away, but the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful. The kind of silence that only came when people were starting to understand something new about each other.
Then, as if to shift the mood, she gave him a small, half-smile. "Well, maybe after I get my back in shape, I’ll dust off my brushes. But you’re going to have to remind me that I’m allowed to have time for it."
"I’ll remind you," Jack said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. "I’ll even drag you out of here and make you take a real break. Paint something. Whatever you need. Just don’t forget to like yourself some times.”
Samira’s smile widened, a real one this time, and Jack felt a sense of quiet pride that he’d managed to get through to her — even if just a little. She gave a soft sigh and finally leaned back in her chair, her posture still guarded but a little more relaxed. "Thanks, Jack. Although if you keep talking, I might need a hard drink.”
Jack laughed at her response and commented, “I think Robby is rubbing off on you too much. I wouldn’t be surprised if he admitted that he birthed you.”
Samira snorted at that, “Oh please, Dr. Robby and I? Similar? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on your way back here?”
Jack shrugged, not backing down. "You’ll see it one day and I’ll say ‘I told you so”.”
For a long moment, they sat in comfortable silence, finishing their meals. But it wasn’t the same silence as before. It wasn’t one full of distance or guarded walls.
Hour 5
The emergency room was bustling with activity as usual, but the atmosphere had taken on a sharper edge after the arrival of a new patient. Samira stood at the bedside, her clipboard in hand, going through the initial assessment when she froze for a moment. The man in front of her was slurring his words, his eyes bloodshot from both alcohol and pain, and his disheveled appearance screamed trouble. As the nurses worked to stabilize him, Samira’s gaze flickered to his face, a familiar knot forming in her stomach. She’d seen him before. He was the man she’d gone on a date with just a few hours earlier.
At first, she hadn’t recognized him in his current state — drunk, injured, and looking like he had a few too many shots to drink — but now, the pieces clicked. The same guy who’d sat across from her in the dimly lit restaurant earlier that evening. The one who had made her dinner miserable. The one who had bragged about his job and demeaned hers in the most annoying way possible. The one who hadn’t even noticed when she’d checked her phone for the time, desperate to find an excuse to leave and thankfully she did.
And now, here he was, on a gurney in the ER, having gotten himself hit by a car after driving in his drunken state. Samira felt a small, bitter laugh bubble up in her chest. Of course. Of course this would happen. Her failed date would end up back here. She’d been hoping, at the very least, that it would just be a memory she could laugh about later, but no. The universe had a sense of humor, alright.
"Hey, Samira,” the man slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "You still look as good as I remember. Had a lot of fun tonight, didn’t we?"
Samira’s jaw tightened, but she forced a smile, doing her best to keep things professional. "I’m here to take care of you," she said, her voice calm. "Let’s focus on that, okay?"
The man seemed to ignore her response, his attention clearly elsewhere. "You’re still looking fine, though," he mumbled, his eyes a little unfocused as he tried to lean forward. "Maybe next time we can… you know… skip the dinner part and go straight to the fun."
Samira’s stomach churned, the polite smile never leaving her lips. She felt the tension coil tighter in her body, but she kept her voice steady. "Please stay still," she said, looking at the nurses who were busy working to set his leg. "We need to get you stabilised."
But he wasn’t listening. Instead, he continued to gaze at her, undeterred, his comments slipping into a more misogynistic tone. "You really should lighten up, Samira. Maybe I’ll take you out again, show you a good time. I bet you're the kind of girl who needs someone to… you know, handle you. Not so much with the doctor stuff, huh?"
Samira felt her frustration mount, and just as she was about to snap back at him, Jack appeared at her side. He stood there for a second, reading the situation in a single glance, then spoke, his tone sharp.
"Hey, asshole," Jack said, his voice low but unmistakably authoritative. "You need to shut your mouth and focus on getting treated."
The patient seemed too far gone to realize the severity of his situation, but the insulting comments didn’t stop.
"What, you got a thing for her too, doc?" he sneered at Jack. "She seems a little too uptight for you. Why don’t you show her how to loosen up?"
Jack’s hand clenched into a fist, but before he could react further, the patient suddenly shifted on the bed and reached out, grabbing Samira by the waist as she stood nearby. The move was aggressive, and Samira immediately pulled away, but the patient’s grip was too strong.
"Get your hands off her!" Jack barked, stepping forward, his voice a low growl. "You don’t touch her like that. Ever."
The man, still barely aware of his actions, laughed drunkenly. "What? She’s just a woman. I don’t see the problem."
“Are you kidding me?,” Jack snapped, his tone biting. "She’s a person, and you’re going to respect that."
Samira was already pulling away, but Jack was having none of it. He was standing between her and the patient now, his body tense, ready to escalate if necessary. The patient might have been hurt, but that didn’t give him the right to act like a disrespectful jerk.
"Let’s get security in here," Jack ordered, his eyes flashing with anger.
Before the situation could escalate further, Samira placed a hand on Jack’s arm, her voice steady and calm despite everything. "Jack, it’s fine," she said softly. “Everything’s under control. Just let them do their jobs."
Jack turned to her, his gaze dark with frustration, but Samira gave him a quiet nod, her professionalism slipping back into place. He took a deep breath, stepping back, but his eyes never left the man. His protective instinct for Samira was still there, but he knew when to take a step back, too.
As security arrived and the situation began to calm down, Samira turned to Jack, offering a small, tired smile.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "I appreciate it."
Jack’s lips curved into a small, almost reluctant smile, though his frustration still lingered. "Don’t thank me. That guy had it coming. No one gets to treat you like that."
Samira’s smile softened, the tension in her shoulders easing. "I’m fine, Jack. Honestly. Just another night in the ER."
Jack raised an eyebrow, giving her a pointed look. "I don’t think you should be dealing with this kind of crap at all Samira. Ever."
Her smile faltered just slightly, her gaze drifting to the floor as she gathered her thoughts. "I don’t need anyone to protect me, Jack. I’ve been doing this on my own long enough."
Jack’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice low. "Yeah, I can see that. But that doesn’t mean you have to. Not everything has to be a fight on your own, Samira.”
For a moment, Samira just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet sigh, she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Maybe not," she said. "But it’s hard to let go sometimes."
Jack watched her turn away, already reaching for the next chart, already moving forward like nothing had happened. Like that guy’s hands hadn’t been on her, like Jack hadn’t almost lost his temper right there in the middle of the ER.
Something twisted in his chest. It didn’t feel right — just letting her walk away like that, pretending everything was fine when it so obviously wasn’t. He took a step forward without even thinking about it.
"Samira," he called out, his voice a little rougher than he intended.
She paused, half-turning to look back at him, the overhead fluorescent lights catching the faint sheen of exhaustion in her eyes. She waited, patient but expectant.
Jack opened his mouth, but the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. What was he even trying to say? Be careful? Don’t pretend you’re okay? Let me be by your side? All of it felt too big, too much for a place like this — too heavy for a moment that was already weighed down by everything they weren’t saying. For a long beat, he just stood there, searching for something — anything — to say. But nothing came out.
Samira’s smile was soft, understanding, like she knew exactly what was happening inside him even though he hadn’t said a word. She shifted the chart to one hand and gave him a small nod.
"I’ll come find you later," she said gently. "When things calm down a little."
Jack still didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t trust himself to.
"And you," she added, her voice teasing but warm, "should take a break too. Before you explode at the next drunk idiot who looks at me the wrong way."
He huffed out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe just relief. The knot in his chest loosened a little. He watched as she turned and disappeared down the hall, her gait still a little stiff from the earlier injury, but her shoulders squared like she could carry the weight of the whole damn world if she had to.
Jack ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long breath.
Later. She’d come find him later.
And when she did, maybe, just maybe, he’d find the right words.
Hour 6
The trauma bay doors slammed open with a jarring crash, and the paramedics rushed in, pushing a gurney at full speed. Jack’s head snapped up from the chart he hadn’t really been reading, and he was moving before anyone even had to call his name.
"Male, twenties, MVC, unrestrained driver," one of the paramedics rattled off as they barreled toward Trauma 2. "Lost pulses twice en route, we got him back with compressions and epi. He's hypotensive, tachycardic, abdomen's rigid. No breath sounds on the left."
Jack caught sight of Samira out of the corner of his eye, already tossing on gloves and snapping into focus. She grabbed a gown as they both fell into step on either side of the gurney.
"On my count," Jack barked. "One, two, three—"
They lifted the patient onto the trauma bed with practiced ease, but it was clear immediately this wasn't going to be straightforward. The guy's skin was pale, almost gray, and his chest barely rose with each shallow, gasping breath.
"Samira, listen," Jack said sharply, already palpating the kid’s chest. "No breath sounds on the left, trachea’s shifted."
"Tension pneumo," Samira said instantly, nodding.
Jack grabbed for the decompression kit while Samira cut away the rest of the patient’s clothes with quick, efficient strokes of trauma shears. Blood pooled underneath the body, seeping from somewhere they hadn’t even found yet.
Samira grabbed a 14-gauge needle, finding the second intercostal space mid-clavicular line, and plunged it in — there was a rush of air, but the patient barely improved.
"BP’s tanking," the nurse called out. "Seventy systolic!"
"Still hypoxic," Samira muttered, scanning. "Jack, something else is going on."
Jack was already thinking the same thing. Pneumo wouldn’t explain all of this — not the rigid abdomen, not the ongoing crash.
"Start bilateral chest tubes," Jack ordered briskly, tossing a quick glance to Samira. "I’ll get ultrasound. Something’s bleeding, we’re missing it."
Samira nodded sharply and pivoted to the left chest, expertly prepping the area while Jack grabbed the portable ultrasound machine and ran the probe over the kid’s abdomen. There — free fluid. A lot of it.
"Positive FAST," Jack gritted out. "His belly’s full of blood."
"Could be liver, spleen, mesentery—" Samira rattled off, finishing the chest tube placement in record time. Blood poured out of the tube, confirming the pneumo, but it wasn’t the main problem.
"Get blood hanging now," Jack snapped at the nurse. "Two units O neg, massive transfusion protocol!"
Samira was already prepping the right side, her hands steady even though the patient was circling the drain right in front of them. Her jaw was tight, a little muscle flexing at the hinge, but her movements were precise. Focused.
They worked in a silent, desperate rhythm — Jack inserting the second chest tube while Samira got large-bore IVs into both arms, shouting for more hands, more fluids, more blood. Still, the kid's pressure stayed in the gutter. Jack caught Samira’s eyes across the chaos, and in that split second, they were perfectly in sync.
"Diagnostic peritoneal lavage?" she offered, almost breathless.
"Do it," Jack confirmed.
They ripped open the kit, working together to slip the catheter into the peritoneal cavity. Blood poured out immediately.
"Hemoperitoneum," Jack said grimly. "Call CT, but we’re going fast. He’s not gonna buy us much time."
Jack watched as Samira pressed a firm hand on the patient’s abdomen, trying to tamponade the worst of it while they wheeled the gurney toward radiology. Her scrubs were stained with blood to the elbows, her hair sticking to her forehead, but she didn’t falter once. And Christ, even now — even now when it was life or death, when every second counted — Jack couldn’t help but admire her.
The fire in her. The steadiness. The fierce intelligence in her eyes as she put the puzzle pieces together faster than most seasoned attendings he'd worked with. She was hurting — he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d winced earlier — but none of it touched the way she moved in the trauma bay. She was here. Solid. Fearless. Brilliant. Jack felt something tighten low in his gut — pride, admiration, and something a hell of a lot more dangerous all tangled up together.
As they shoved through the doors toward CT, Jack slowed just a beat to catch her eye again, grounding himself in the sheer force of her will. Samira caught him looking, one eyebrow lifting just slightly in silent question. Jack just shook his head once, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"You're incredible," he said lowly, just for her.
Samira’s lips curved in the faintest smirk — tired, blood-spattered, but still unmistakably her.
"Yeah," she breathed, her voice rough and a little hoarse, "I know."
And then they were running again.
They barely had time to stabilize the first patient for CT before another shout tore through the ER.
"Another incoming! Second victim from the same MVC — male, forties, critical!"
Jack and Samira exchanged a brief, sharp glance — no time to breathe, no time to rest. They pivoted as the next gurney barreled in, sirens still screaming faintly outside.The man on the stretcher was a mess of blood and torn clothes, his face barely recognisable beneath bruises and swelling. His chest rose shallowly, erratically, the monitor already screaming warnings — oxygen saturation plummeting, heart rate a frantic, thready spike. But it wasn't the man that made Samira falter for the barest second.
It was the girl running beside the gurney — maybe fourteen, brown skin smudged with dirt and tears, a shallow cut bleeding sluggishly down one temple. She clutched the side rail with white-knuckled hands, eyes huge and horrified.
She looked like her.
Like Samira — a memory she usually kept buried deep — standing helpless in another hospital, years ago, watching everything she knew crumble around her. Samira's body tensed, her breath catching for half a second. Jack noticed — of course he noticed — his hand brushing lightly against her back in a grounding touch. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t afford to.
Samira snapped herself back to the present with brutal force, surging forward with Jack as they caught the new patient.
"On three," Jack called out, voice sharp. "One, two, three—"
They moved the man onto the trauma bed. Blood immediately soaked through the sheets.
"Sir, can you hear me?" Samira called, leaning close, her voice firm but calm.
There was no response. Only a low, agonized groan.
"Massive trauma to chest and abdomen," Jack assessed quickly, already palpating. "Absent breath sounds right side. Deformity in pelvis. Hypotensive."
"Get a chest tube tray and a pelvic binder!" Samira ordered crisply, moving toward the airway kit. "He's crashing."
The daughter sobbed from the side of the room. "Please—please help him!"
Jack started to move toward the airway, but Samira was already there, hands working with fierce efficiency.
"I got airway," she said, barely sparing Jack a glance.
He hesitated a second longer — watching her, feeling the subtle tremor under the professional mask she wore — before snapping back into motion. While Jack handled circulation and damage control, Samira slipped the laryngoscope into the patient’s mouth, deftly maneuvering despite the blood pooling in the airway.
"He's got facial fractures," she muttered, angling the blade just right. "Suction."
The respiratory tech passed her the Yankauer suction catheter. Samira cleared the blood with steady hands, then visualized the cords.
"I see it," she said. "Tube."
Jack passed her the endotracheal tube without hesitation, and Samira slipped it home with a satisfying glide. The capnography monitor lit up a precious wave.
"Tube’s good," she confirmed, taping it down while Jack already had an ultrasound probe on the chest.
"Right lung's collapsed," Jack called. "Hemothorax. Massive."
"Chest tube now," Samira replied, pivoting smoothly to assist.
They worked together in a brutal, seamless rhythm, Jack inserting the chest tube, Samira managing the airway, hanging blood, calling out vitals. Even if he should be calling the shots, he let Samira lead…there was a tinge of desperation in her determination that made her tunnel vision to this case. The need to be in control emanated from her.
The girl's cries faded into the background, a white noise they could not afford to focus on. Still, Samira's heart ached with every desperate sob from the corner of the room. When they finally got the chest tube in, a gush of dark blood poured out — more than a liter immediately.
"Shit," Jack muttered, locking eyes with Samira. "We need the OR, stat."
Samira nodded tightly. She pressed a firm hand to the patient's chest, over the rib fractures, stabilizing him as they prepared for the mad sprint upstairs.
"Page trauma surgery," Jack ordered. "Tell them we’re coming up with an unstable thoracoabdominal injury."
Samira moved toward the daughter quickly before they rolled out.
"Hey," she said, crouching slightly, making herself small and steady. "Listen to me. Your dad’s hurt bad, but we’re doing everything we can. Stay with the nurse, okay? We'll take care of him."
The girl nodded, tears pouring down her face, clutching her own torn sweater like it was armour. For the first time in years, Samira felt the old, familiar fracture deep in her chest — the sharp split between who she was and who she had to be. Jack touched her elbow again, a silent call back to focus, and Samira straightened, hardening her expression. She caught Jack’s gaze briefly — a silent exchange that neither of them dared put into words right now.
Later, maybe. If there was a later.
They rolled the father toward the OR, running, barking orders, chasing life by the threadbare edge.
Hour 7
Samira sat on a rolling stool beside the stretcher, her gloved hands working methodically to close the gash along the girl's forehead. Her movements were steady, gentle, each suture placed with meticulous care, but her chest felt tight — like every heartbeat took a little more effort than the last.
The girl flinched when the needle passed through skin, unfamiliar with the pressure even when there was no pain, but Samira’s voice was soft and even.
"You’re doing so well," she murmured. "Almost done, sweetheart."
The girl gave a tight, shuddering nod, tears still sliding silently down her cheeks.
Samira was just snipping the last suture when Jack’s voice crackled over the radio clipped to his scrubs.
"Dr. Abbot, OR needs you. Urgent."
Samira’s head jerked up, and she caught Jack’s face across the room as he pulled the radio closer to his mouth.
"This is Abbot,” he answered quickly. "Go ahead."
The voice on the other end didn’t bother softening the blow.
"Patient coded again on induction. Massive hemorrhage. We couldn’t get control. Time of death—" A short pause. "2 37."
Silence slammed down so hard it felt like all the air was sucked from the trauma bay. Jack’s face didn’t move, didn’t flicker, but Samira saw it — the weight that settled into his shoulders, the subtle clenching of his jaw. She finished bandaging the girl’s wound with a calm she didn’t feel, then rose to her feet. Jack crossed the bay with slow, heavy steps, stopping a few feet away from her. His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
"Samira." He nodded slightly toward the hallway. "Can I talk to you?"
Samira gave the girl a quick, reassuring squeeze on the hand. "I'll be right back, okay? You're safe here."
The girl nodded, wide-eyed and trusting in a way that made Samira’s throat ache. Jack led her down the hall, around the corner, out of earshot. For a second, they just stood there, both of them breathing heavily like they'd run a marathon.
"He didn’t make it," Jack said finally, low and brutal.
Samira closed her eyes for the briefest second, the words slamming into her like a body blow. But when she opened them again, her face was carefully composed.
"Okay," she whispered.
Her voice didn’t shake — she wouldn't let it — but Jack saw the way her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"I’ll tell her," Samira said, steady and sure, even though she felt like her chest was caving in. "She deserves to hear it from someone who's been with her this whole time."
Jack hesitated, like he wanted to say something but he understood. He always understood. He just gave a tight nod. "I’ll be right here."
Samira turned back toward the trauma bay, feeling every step like she was walking into a fire she couldn’t put out.
The girl looked up the second she approached, hope flickering so desperately in her eyes it almost broke Samira right then and there. Samira knelt beside her again, eye-level, her bloody, battered scrubs forgotten.
"Sweetheart," she began gently, reaching out to take the girl's trembling hand in both of hers, "I’m so, so sorry."
The girl’s breath caught — a small, high whimper — before she even finished the sentence.
"No," the girl said, her voice cracking. "No, no, no—"
Samira felt her own throat burn as the girl dissolved into sobs, shaking so hard the stretcher rattled beneath her.
"This can’t be happening," she choked out. "We were just—we were just going out to get a late night snack, and we—we were laughing—"
Samira squeezed her hand tighter, swallowing the lump rising in her own throat.
"I know, sweetheart," she whispered. "I know. I’m so sorry."
The girl curled inward, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, repeating over and over, "Baba, Baba, Baba," like she could somehow call him back. Samira wrapped her arms gently around her, pulling her into a careful hug. The girl clung to her like a lifeline, fists tangling in the front of Samira’s bloody gown. And for a moment — for one raw, broken moment — Samira wasn’t in the ER anymore.
She was fourteen again, clutching her father’s jacket in a sterile waiting room, hearing those same impossible words.
I’m so sorry.
There was nothing more we could do.
Samira closed her eyes against the flood of memory, resting her cheek lightly against the girl’s hair. She forced herself to stay still, to stay steady, to be the safe place this girl needed — even if inside she was shattering all over again. Across the bay, Jack leaned silently against the wall, watching, something dark and pained flickering across his face. He didn’t move toward them. He didn’t interrupt. He just stayed — standing guard — while Samira bore the weight of another girl’s worst day.
And when Samira finally, finally managed to pull herself together enough to ease the girl into the care of a social worker, she turned back toward Jack — her eyes glassy, her shoulders trembling from the inside out —and quickly walked away, desperate to hide.
Samira pushed through the heavy door of the on-call room, letting it slam shut behind her, the sound echoing too loud in the cramped, dim space. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the narrow bed, the battered lockers, the battered her. She ripped off her gloves with shaking hands, tossed them somewhere blindly, and leaned back against the door, breathing hard, trying to wrestle the sobs clawing up her throat back into submission.
But she couldn't.
The moment the first shuddering breath escaped her, it was over.
Samira slid down the door until she was sitting on the cold tile floor, her arms wrapping tightly around her knees as the dam finally broke. Hot, wrenching sobs tore out of her — too loud, too raw, the kind of crying she hadn't done in years. The kind of crying she never let anyone see. She buried her face in her arms, wishing she could just disappear — wishing she could crawl right out of her skin and away from the pain ripping through her chest.
She barely heard the door creak open again, or the soft click of it shutting behind him.
But then Jack was there. Dropping to the floor beside her without a word. Not crowding her, not demanding anything — just there. For a long moment, Samira couldn't even look at him. But when Jack gently, cautiously, reached out and brushed his fingers along her arm — just a whisper of a touch — she broke all over again.
"I'm fine," she tried to say, tried to lie, but it came out broken and wet and so obviously false that it hurt to even hear herself.
"You don't have to be," Jack said softly.
Samira shook her head hard, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand, furious at herself for falling apart like this, for letting him see her like this.
"You don't—" She gasped around another sob. "You don't need to be here, Jack."
Jack shifted closer, the heat of his body anchoring her, steadying her even though she hadn't asked for it.
He shook his head once, slow and sure.
"I promised Robby," he said, his voice low and steady, like he was speaking a sacred vow. "I promised him I'd look after you."
Samira let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh through her tears, scrubbing her face again.
"What are you now?" she rasped out. "My babysitter?"
Jack gave a soft, wry huff of a laugh, but when he looked at her, his eyes were serious — so serious it made something ache deep inside her.
"No," he said firmly. "Just... someone who cares about you. A lot."
Samira pressed her forehead to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut, willing the trembling in her hands to stop.
But the words kept clawing their way up, demanding to be spoken, demanding to be freed after years of being buried.
"I'm not crying because I'm weak," she said, her voice muffled and cracked. "I'm crying because..."
She lifted her head, meeting Jack’s gaze — and the tenderness there almost undid her all over again.
"Because when I was fourteen," she whispered, "I lost my dad too."
Jack's face softened, his breath catching quietly. He didn't speak. He just waited, giving her the space she needed, the permission to keep going.
"It was a hit-and-run," Samira said, her voice hollow and faraway, like she was telling a story about someone else. "He was picking me up from school. It was raining, and he—" Her mouth twisted, the memory cutting sharper than any scalpel. "He pulled over across the street, and I ran out. I waved at him... I waved..." Her voice broke. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth for a moment, fighting for control.
"And this car just—" She sucked in a shuddering breath. "It came out of nowhere. Hit him right in front of me. Threw him thirty feet."
Jack closed his eyes briefly, as if he could absorb some of the pain for her.
"They said he was alive for a while," she whispered. "Said he was awake. Scared. In pain. But by the time the ambulance got there..." She shook her head. "There was nothing they could do."
The tears ran freely now, hot and merciless, but Samira didn’t try to stop them anymore.
"I sat in that ER," she said. "Covered in his blood. Listening to some tired doctor tell me how sorry they were." Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "And I swore — I swore I'd never let anyone else sit there alone like that. I swore I'd be the one on the other side of it someday. Trying to make a difference."
Jack reached out then, threading his fingers gently through hers, grounding her.
"You have made a difference," he said, fierce and quiet. "Every damn day. Especially tonight."
Samira let out a broken, exhausted laugh, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.
"It just... it never really goes away," she said, almost apologetically. "No matter how many years pass. No matter how many patients you save."
Jack shifted closer, until their knees were bumping, until there was no space left between them, only warmth.
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "Some losses just... carve themselves into you."
Samira turned her face toward him, tears still shining in her lashes.
"How do you live with it?" she whispered.
Jack gave a small, crooked smile — the kind of smile that said he knew exactly what she meant, even if he didn't have all the answers.
"You don't," he said. "You just... find people who make it hurt a little less."
Samira stared at him, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs. And for the first time in a long, long time, she let someone else shoulder a little bit of the weight. She leaned into him — not much, just enough to rest her head lightly against his shoulder. Jack let out a slow, careful breath, and then he wrapped an arm around her, tucking her in against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They sat there on the cold floor of the on-call room — broken and bloodstained and exhausted — holding onto each other in the quiet, shattered aftermath. For a long time, Samira just sat there against him, listening to the steady rhythm of Jack’s breathing, the way his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. The world outside the on-call room — the pain, the grief, the unbearable weight of it all — seemed to soften around the edges, blurring into something distant and almost bearable.
Eventually, she lifted her head — just a little — just enough to shift and glance up at him.
And that’s when she caught it.
Jack was already looking at her.
Had been the whole time.
His eyes were dark, shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper — something raw and unguarded that hit her right in the center of her chest. Up close, she noticed details she hadn't really let herself linger on before: the way the faint lines bracketed his eyes, deepened when he smiled — not that he was smiling now. How the streaks of silver threaded through his hair, right at the temples, gave him a kind of effortless, rugged charm that no amount of youth could replicate. How his mouth — firm and usually set into a no-nonsense line — had softened now, just slightly, like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know what to do with.
Samira’s heart gave a stupid, reckless little stutter in her chest.
Maybe it was the adrenaline still bleeding off, maybe it was the rawness of the night, but suddenly it felt like the space between them had changed — grown smaller, heavier, thick with something they weren’t saying.
She tilted her head a little, giving a tired, watery laugh, trying to cut through the tension before it swallowed her whole.
"You know," she murmured, voice low and a little rough from crying, "I wish I’d been on a date with you instead of that crypto douchebag."
Jack’s eyebrows flicked up, surprise flashing across his face before something warmer — something almost disbelievingly fond — melted into his features.
Samira gave a tiny, crooked smile, her throat still raw but her heart beating faster now for entirely different reasons.
"Seriously," she said, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. "Any woman would be lucky to have you."
Jack huffed out a soft laugh, but he didn’t look away from her. If anything, his gaze sharpened, pinned her there like he was seeing straight through her.
"You’re just saying that because you’re exhausted," he said, but his voice was quiet, almost hoarse.
Samira shook her head slowly, eyes still locked with his.
"No," she whispered. "I’m saying it because it’s true."
The words hung there between them — charged, dangerous, undeniable. Neither of them moved at first. The air between them felt electric, humming with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d been pushing down for months beneath professionalism and trauma and stubborn self-preservation. Jack’s hand, still resting lightly on her arm, tightened just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough that she could feel the deliberate choice in it.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, flickering there for a heartbeat that stretched out long and trembling.
And Samira — God help her — she tilted her chin up, just slightly, just enough to close that last, unbearable inch between them.
It would be so easy, she thought, dizzy with it.
So easy to lean in.
To forget everything outside this small, aching moment.
Jack's breath caught — she heard it — and his hand skimmed up her arm to her face, knuckles brushing her cheekbone so gently it made her shiver.
He was going to kiss her.
She was sure of it.
She wanted him to.
And then —
Their pagers went off.
BEEP-BEEP. BEEP-BEEP.
The shrill, intrusive sound shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete. Samira jerked back, gasping, blinking like she was waking from a dream. Jack swore under his breath, low and harsh, dragging a hand through his hair as if trying to shake off the gravity still pulling between them.
They both fumbled for their pagers, hands clumsy.
CODE BLUE.
Samira sucked in a shaky breath, forcing her heart to slow, to focus, to shove all the messy, electric emotions clawing at her into a locked box she could deal with later. Maybe. If she dared. Jack was already getting to his feet, reaching a hand down to her without hesitation. Samira hesitated only a second before taking it — feeling the solid, reassuring strength of his grip — letting him haul her up.
For a second, they just stood there, too close, hearts hammering too fast, breaths coming too shallow.
Jack's thumb brushed lightly, barely intentionally, over the back of her hand before he let go.
"Later," he said quietly, promising nothing but saying everything.
Samira nodded, her throat too tight to answer, and then they were moving — running — back toward the chaos.