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Regina

The hospital held its shape more easily before the day began in earnest. Before residents arrived rumpled and late, clutching tablets they hadn't checked and theories they hadn't tested. Before nurses clustered at stations to whisper about supply orders and divorces. Before consults labeled STAT lit up the board from departments that treated every workflow hiccup like an emergency.

At 5:42, Boston Mercy moved the way it was supposed to: disciplined, quiet, unbroken by friction.

Regina walked the central corridor of the CVICU without pause, clipboard braced against one elbow, coffee warming her other hand. The hallway stretched clean of noise. Monitors along the glass bay walls displayed orderly patterns, and the overnight crew maintained its rhythm with the kind of precision she expected from anyone still employed after their first month under her oversight.

The board outside the nurses' station showed no overnight changes. No new admissions, no codes, no stat pages pending. She absorbed the data mid-step and shifted her focus to Room 12.

She opened the door without knocking.

Post-op day one. Mitral valve replacement. The procedure had gone two hours over block time due to dense subvalvular scarring from an old rheumatic lesion, severe annular dilation, and a resident who had recited the templated pre-op note without ever placing a stethoscope on the patient's chest.

Jameson.

Her fingers flexed once against the clipboard. A mistake borne from laziness, not inexperience. One she would remember, not because it had been disastrous, but because it revealed the kind of thinking that became one.

Inside, the lighting remained low. The ventilator cycled at a controlled rate with no signs of dyssynchrony, and the chest tube output had slowed to something manageable. The drainage chamber sat quiet and clear.

Mulan stood at the bedside terminal, already charting, her posture squared with quiet intent.

"Vitals are stable," she said without turning. "Sinus since four. No ectopy. Unless you count the consult that ordered a BNP at 2 a.m."

Regina crossed to the opposite side of the bed. Her mouth tightened.

"The wean?"

"Dex down to 0.3 at five. Still tolerating. No agitation. No cough. Not even a twitch."

Regina confirmed the pump settings for herself. She had trusted Mulan for years, but verification here was life or death. Trust in medicine was not given. It was observed, earned, maintained through repetition.

She scanned the ventilator. Pressure support mode. Tidal volumes consistent. The numbers aligned with what she saw on the monitor, and the waveforms held steady. Every interval landed where it belonged.

"Planning to extubate this afternoon?" Mulan asked, her tone neutral.

"If his neuro exam clears and the gas stays clean." Regina did not look up. "No need to rush if he's still riding pressure support."

"Copy that. I'll hold the parade," Mulan said, tapping a final note into the chart.

Regina paused for a final check. The sternal dressing was sealed, the chest tube silent, the skin warm beneath her fingertips. Output steady. Everything in place. No discrepancies, no lapses to report. The ventilator maintained its rhythm, its hum a constant she had come to rely on more than most voices in the hospital.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her coat. The vibration pressed against her ribs. Her stomach tightened.

She set the chart down and flattened her palm against it. She would finish what she was doing first. Then she would look.

Back outside the room, the transition to day shift had begun. Overhead lighting brightened on schedule, engineered to mimic dawn. Pressure cuffs cycled. A med cart issued its alert. Farther down the hall, someone laughed too loud, too early, too careless for the hour.

Her jaw tightened.

At the surgical board outside the main workstation, she scanned the entries again as she passed. The two elective procedures, a mitral valve replacement and a CABG, were on schedule. No trauma alerts. No inbound transfers. No variables left unaccounted for.

Up ahead, two cardiology residents lingered near the coffee machine. Neither belonged to her service.

"Dr. Mills—"

"Rounds begin in thirteen minutes," she said without slowing. "If your attending tells me you showed up with a guess instead of a plan, you'll spend the week on nights in step-down."

She caught the flash of panic as she passed. Good. They would be sharper for it.

Regina approached the nurses' station. The overnight team had begun their final checks, voices low, eyes shifting between notes and monitors. A nurse handed off a med list at the edge of the station. IV pumps beeped in the background. A telemetry strip slid out in a soft whir and landed in silence.

She leaned one hip against the counter and sipped her coffee, reviewing the census. Labs were populating. Imaging had returned clean. Fluids adjusted, pressors titrated. The rhythm of a unit in alignment, at least for now.

Near the meds cabinet, a young nurse hesitated, vial in hand, eyes moving between the label and the MAR.

Regina didn't raise her voice. "If you're still unsure, verify it again before it leaves your hand."

The nurse startled slightly, nodded once, and returned to the terminal.

Regina noticed a smudge on the sign-out sheet. She erased it, slow and exact.

Only then did she take out her phone.

Cora Mills: I'll be in Boston on Thursday. Clear your schedule.

She drew a breath and held it. Let it out slowly. The pressure behind her ribs diminished but did not leave. She locked the screen without replying.

Her team gathered behind her. When the last of them arrived, she took a final sip of her coffee, set the cup aside, and turned to face them.

She allowed herself a measured breath before speaking. "Good morning. Assignments."

She turned to Chen. "Post-ops with me. You're assisting first case."

"Mendez, floor coverage. Patel, follow-ups and discharges. Jameson, ED consults. Float if the board fills."

She gave them a moment to absorb the distribution. No longer.

"First case begins at eight. We round efficiently."

She moved toward the first room. The rest followed without hesitation.

"Room twelve. Mitral valve, post-op day one. Dense subvalvular resection."

She preferred beginning with a case where the outcome was already evident. It allowed her to identify the gaps that required attention before they became complications.

The hallway narrowed as they moved together, footsteps muted against polished tile. Conversation from the overnight team receded behind them. Ahead, the glass bay waited: lights low, machines steady, everything arranged as it should be.

Inside, Mulan stood at the terminal. Prepared, as always.

Regina stopped at the foot of the bed and steadied her focus.

"Chen," she said without turning.

The cardiothoracic fellow stepped forward. "Seventy-four-year-old male, post-op day one from mitral valve replacement…"

And rounds began.

+++++

Emma

Emma came in through the ambulance bay. Front entrances were for hospital donors and surgical attendings who gave a shit about first impressions, and she wasn't about to wait behind someone arguing with security about their therapy ferret.

The place smelled like floor wax and whatever passed for eggs in the cafeteria. Her phone read 5:43 a.m. First day at Boston Mercy.

This wasn't her first hospital. Wasn't her first trauma service, either. She'd bounced around enough over the years to know how things worked: new badge, new system, same chaos underneath. The same rush that made her chest open up and her hands steady.

Glassdoor, plus a very honest scrub tech during orientation, said the place was chronically understaffed, over-capacity, and fueled by caffeine and the calculated rage of nurses who hadn't had a lunch break since May.

It was also one of five Level 1 Trauma Centers in Greater Boston. A clear step up from her last job at a Level 2 in Portland.

She passed CT and followed the main corridor linking the trauma bays to the rest of the Emergency Department. A transport tech and a respiratory therapist pushed a vented patient toward imaging, the ventilator hissing in rhythm with the squeak of gurney wheels.

One of them nodded as she passed. The other kept both hands on the gurney, eyes forward.

The trauma workroom sat just off the resus bays, close enough that she'd hear when an alert came through overhead. A bin of isolation gowns stood outside the door. Someone had left a suction canister on the floor, sealed and clean, ready for the next scramble. Light spilled from underneath.

Emma pushed the door open with her shoulder, let it swing shut behind her.

One overhead light. Two residents. An intern furiously clicking through labs like the white count might change if he stared hard enough.

"Who covered overnight?"

The taller one straightened and stepped forward. "Dr. Singh. Senior resident." He offered a hand.

She took it after half a beat. "Dr. Swan. I'm the new attending on trauma."

A pause. Then: "Welcome. It was a steady night. Six on service, no new activations after three."

Emma nodded. "Let's hear it."

Singh handed over the list. Fresh off the printer, still warm. She liked that. Meant he wasn't bluffing from memory.

"Six on service," he said. "One post-embolization for a splenic lac, one fall from a scaffold with bilateral rib fractures and a small pneumo, one MVC with pelvic fractures and ortho involvement. Two holdovers from earlier this week, both stable and walking. MICU consult came in at four: distended abdomen, intubated, no imaging."

Emma skimmed the layout. Clean formatting, no padding. Singh knew how to structure a signout.

"Grade on the spleen?"

"Three. Active blush. IR coiled the hilum, no drain placed. Tolerating clears as of five. Hemodynamically stable all night."

"Serial crits?"

"Flat since midnight."

Emma nodded. "We'll push diet slow, check the ten o'clock labs. If her belly softens and she stays afebrile, she's a step-down candidate by tomorrow."

She moved down the list. "Rib fractures?"

"Left-sided. Tube placed in the ED yesterday. No air leak this morning. Pain's managed. Incentive spirometer at seven-fifty."

Emma gave a short nod. "Keep pushing volume. If she tanks her tidal volumes, we're tubing her and starting from scratch."

Singh didn't blink. She liked that too.

"Pelvic fractures?"

"Open-book. Ortho stabilized her with a binder. CT angio was clean. They're planning for external fixation today."

"Pain?"

"Bad. She's asking for meds every two hours."

Emma glanced at the intern. "You rounding on her?"

He straightened. "Y-yes."

"She febrile?"

"No."

"Urine output?"

"Good. Foley overnight, now on a voiding trial."

Emma waited half a second. He didn't offer more. "Push fluids. Keep her pressure up before anesthesia touches her. And if ortho tries to sneak her to the OR without looping me in, you text me. Direct."

"Got it," he said, trying not to look terrified.

She turned to the bottom of the list. "The MICU belly?"

"Thirty-six, septic from pneumonia. Intubated. Abdomen started to distend early morning. Firm, no rebound. They're ruling out abdominal compartment syndrome. No CT yet."

"Pressure trend?"

"MAPs low seventies. Pressors climbing. Lactate's two-point-eight. WBC thirty-one."

Emma folded the list and slid it into her coat pocket. "If they want clearance, they scan him. I don't make calls in the dark."

She looked around the room. The intern was trying to keep up. Singh, to his credit, hadn't missed a beat.

"Alright. I've got it."

She turned to the intern. "We start in the unit. You stay close. If you don't know something, say so. Then find the answer. Fast."

He straightened. "Yes, Dr. Swan."

Her attention shifted back to Singh. "Clean signout. Go home."

He offered a nod. "Good luck."

The corridor opened around her. Lights flickered to full brightness, voices layering over the steady beep of monitors. A bed shot past, wheels screeching against tile. Someone yelled for radiology clearance down the east wing.

She stepped into it without breaking stride. The calculus ran itself: who might crash first, who was stable enough to discharge, who'd need an OR before lunch. Automatic. Familiar.

The hospital hummed around her, and she moved through it like she'd always been part of it.

+++++

Regina

The water ran hot against her hands.

Regina scrubbed in steady rhythm, the brush angled to clear beneath each nail bed. Fingers to wrists in practiced lines. Steam rose in faint spirals, trailing up her forearms as she rinsed.

The case had run long, but not poorly. The valve had seated cleanly. Hemostasis held. By every measure, the operation followed its expected course.

Until closure.

The final stretch of sternum offered little cooperation. Thinned tissue, old scarring, tension where alignment should have been. One of the wires slipped under pressure. Chen adjusted without hesitation. Changed his grip, shifted his angle, corrected before she needed to intervene.

She had not remarked on it in the moment. Their focus belonged to the task at hand.

Outside the OR, she reached for a towel and glanced toward him.

"Good work back there, Dr. Chen."

He straightened. "Thank you, Dr. Mills."

She took her coat from the hook and shrugged into it, adjusting the lapel with one measured pull. The familiar scent of prep solution lingered faintly on her skin. Another case this afternoon. Rounds before that. A dozen orders waiting for review before she could sign off on anything.

The walk back to the CVICU ran on instinct. A tech wheeled a portable vent past her. A nurse balanced a med tray with one hand and silenced an alarm with the other.

The workroom door stood ajar. She pushed it open.

Mendez and Patel worked at the terminal. The conversation thinned as she entered. A paper rustled, then went still.

Mendez looked up from the screen, his posture straightening.

"We had a rapid response on the floor. The patient is stabilized. I spoke with the primary and reviewed their orders."

Regina gave a single nod, then turned to Patel, who was already watching.

"AVR in room nine is discharged," Patel said.

Her phone vibrated. She drew it from her coat pocket and glanced at the screen.

Cora Mills: I trust you've had time to clear your schedule.

The expectation pressed through every word.

She locked the screen and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Guilt stirred beneath her sternum. She acknowledged it, then set it aside. Neither the time nor the place for that particular reckoning.

A chart sat on the counter. She reached for it, fingers resting briefly at its edge before drawing it toward her.

She opened the folder and laid it flat.

Orders to review.

Everything else could wait.

+++++

Emma

The pager buzzed against her hip.

She pulled it from her pocket. Trauma activation. ETA six minutes. GSW chest.

"Let's go."

She dropped the ICU note back in the rack. The first year resident—Jenkins, maybe—hustled to keep up.

Stairs. Fast but not frantic. Frantic got you nowhere in trauma.

Shoes slapped tile behind her. A lesson no one had bothered teaching Jenkins. Or was it Jordan?

She hit the ground floor and cut left, through the back hall, around a transport cart, past an open supply closet. The trauma bay door beeped when she swiped her badge. She pushed through without breaking stride.

The room wasn't ready, but it was moving.

At the head of the bed, a nurse spiked blood into pressure bags and threaded them into the rapid infuser. Calm hands, practiced rhythm. Another nurse worked the monitor, logging vitals and scrolling for prearrival values. No wasted motion. The RT moved through ventilator tubing, checking connections with gloved fingers and a quick flick of the wrist.

A first-year resident stood at the far end with a chest tube kit. His grip kept shifting on the packaging—awkward, uncertain. He hadn't moved since she'd walked in.

Emma glanced at the overhead board. No senior assigned. The float slot sat empty.

She pulled on gloves. "This everyone?"

The nurse at the blood bank setup kept her hands moving. "Senior's scrubbed upstairs. No one else coming."

Then her gaze lifted—brief, direct. "But we got this."

The confidence registered first. The steadiness in her hands second. The bay was coming together without hesitation, without gaps.

The resident with the chest tube still hadn't moved.

"You. What's your name?"

"Garcia."

"Right side. Eyes open. Don't touch anything unless I say. If you lose your landmarks, speak up fast and I'll point. You hesitate, I step in. Clear?"

Garcia nodded.

"Jenkins. You're on meds and lines. Stay where I can see you, and ask before you move. Capiche?"

"Yes ma'am." He paused. "But it's Jordan."

"You call me ma'am again and it's Jenkins forever."

She let a grin slip—brief, sideways—before turning to the rest of the room. "I'm Doctor Swan, the new attending on the block. I'm assuming everyone, aside from the baby doctors, knows what they're doing, so let's keep it tight and communicate."

The nurse at the infuser glanced up briefly. "Ruby. Trauma RN."

Dark hair, sleeves cuffed, hands still moving.

The second nurse didn't look away from the monitor. "Keisha. Recorder."

The RT straightened just enough to be heard. "Marc. Airway."

Emma gave a short nod. She wouldn't remember all their names, but their roles were clear, and no one was standing around.

She turned back to Ruby. "Vitals in the field?"

"Seventy-five systolic. Pulse one-fifty, thready. GCS was six, dropped to three en route. No breath sounds on the left."

Emma grabbed the chest tube tray and repositioned it to the left side of the bed. The sterile pack was already open. Good.

"Entry wound?"

"Reported high chest, just under the clavicle. No exit."

Subclavian territory. Could've caught lung, maybe skimmed the pericardium. With that angle, it might've taken all of it.

She stepped to the head of the bed. "Intubation tray ready?"

"Prepped."

She lifted the suction tubing, felt the pull, then yanked the thoracotomy cart closer to the bedside. "Crossmatch for six. Have a liter of uncrossed O-neg at the ready. We're not waiting on labs."

Keisha handed her a clipboard. "Cardiology just put a hold for an echo before transfer."

Her brows were pulled tight.

Emma stared at her. "An echo? Cardio hasn't even shown up."

"Dr. Jameson flagged possible cardiac involvement. It's in the chart."

Emma exhaled slowly through her nose. "He's crashing. We drain the chest, we cut if we need to. If it's tamponade, we'll see it when we open."

"I hear you. But the OR won't take him until cardiology clears it."

Emma kept her mouth shut. Yelling wouldn't change anything. No one in this room had made that asinine rule.

The trauma doors slammed open.

"Coming in!" one of the medics called.

Emma moved.

The patient was young. Pale as paper. A jagged wound sat just under the left clavicle, slick with fresh blood, the edges blackened from close range. Too high. Too close to the vessels.

"Intubated en route," the medic said. "Etomidate and sux. GCS dropped to three before we rolled. No breath sounds on the left. Pressure's been low, eighties at best."

"On my count. One, two. Lift."

The transfer was clean. RT was already at the head, confirming tube placement. Ruby moved to the left arm, pushing in a second large-bore IV. Keisha read off from the monitor. MAP in the sixties. Dropping.

Emma dropped to the right. She traced two fingers down the midclavicular line and found second intercostal space. No chest rise. No breath sounds. Percussion was dull and flat.

"Needle." Palm up.

Jenkins placed it in her hand without comment. She inserted just above the third rib. A sharp hiss followed. Then immediate blood return.

"Massive hemothorax. Get the chest tube."

She looked to Garcia. "Off my shoulder. Stay clear unless I say."

He gave a tight nod, eyes locked on her hands.

She made the incision at the fifth intercostal space, mid-axillary line. The scalpel tracked clean through skin and subcutaneous fat, down to the rib. She pushed her fingers into the wound, blunt dissection through muscle until the pleura stretched and released beneath her touch.

She advanced the tube smoothly, angling up toward the apex.

Blood followed fast. Thick, dark, urgent. Nearly a liter in the first few seconds.

"Still draining," Ruby said. "No air leak. Blood pressure's creeping up, low nineties."

Emma backed off, eyes on the monitor. Sats were climbing. Slow but steady. The left side of the chest stayed flat. No expansion.

Not ideal, but the output was high and the pressure was holding.

"He's ready. Page the OR. We're taking him up."

Keisha didn't look away from the monitor. "Cardiology hasn't cleared."

The kid on the table wasn't breathing on his own. Chest tube draining fast. GCS three. Pressure hanging just above ninety. And upstairs wanted an echo.

Emma didn't bother masking the disbelief. "You paged again?"

"Three times. No response."

Her jaw set. "Get the gurney."

Keisha hesitated. "If OR pushes back—"

"They won't."

Ruby didn't wait for clarification. She was already moving, dragging the gurney into place with a quick glance at Emma. Half challenge, half solidarity.

Emma pointed to Jenkins. "You ride with him. Stay eyes-on. If anything changes or anyone gives you trouble, call me. Directly."

He nodded. Pale, but solid.

Emma peeled off her gloves and tossed them into the bin. "I'll deal with cardiology."

She was already halfway to the door.

If Jameson wouldn't answer a page, he could answer to her face.

+++++

The elevator doors opened on two cardiology residents standing outside the workroom. One held a tablet like it might detonate. The other was mid-chew on a protein bar.

Emma didn't slow.

"Who's in charge?"

Both stared. Protein Bar kept chewing, gestured toward the workroom door with his elbow.

She pushed straight through.

The room went still. Three white coats. One froze at the terminal, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Another glanced up from a textbook, eyes wide. The third stood at the far desk, back half-turned.

Emma scanned the badges clipped to their coats. "Which one of you is Jameson? You've got a crashing trauma patient waiting on your signature."

The first two were too young, too startled. Residents, maybe second-years at most.

The third one turned.

Their eyes locked.

The air went out of her lungs.

Regina.

The name hit like a fist to the sternum. Emma's brain scrambled to catch up, half a second behind the rest of her body, like someone had yanked the floor out and left her suspended mid-fall.

Regina's mouth snapped shut. Her eyes went wide.

Great. Perfect.

Emma dragged her gaze off Regina, swept the room like Jameson might be hiding in a cabinet. "I need Jameson."

The words came out clipped. Hard.

Silence.

Then: "He's not here."

The sound stopped her cold.

Not just a voice. Her voice.

Fifteen years collapsed in a breath. Smooth, exact, steady on the surface, but Emma heard what lived underneath. She always had.

Her pulse kicked. Her breath caught high in her chest.

She turned back.

Regina stood right there. White coat over green scrubs. The same face Emma used to wake up beside. Her expression hovered somewhere past blank, like she hadn't decided yet whether any of this was real.

"Whatever you needed him for, I can take care of it," Regina said, the edges of her voice pulled tight, drawn inward, like she'd hauled herself back under control one piece at a time.

Emma's eyes dropped to the badge clipped to her coat.

Regina Mills, MD, FACC

Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery

The title sat there. Stark. Final.

Emma blinked once, slow, and the weight of it settled in all the places she'd spent years learning to ignore.

A life they were supposed to build together.

Right. Sure. Exactly what she needed right now.

She forced it down: the history, the ache, every fucking part of it. When she lifted her gaze again, it locked on a point just past Regina's shoulder. Steady now.

"I have a GSW. High chest. Entry just under the clavicle, no exit. Chest tube's in; liter out on decompression. He's still bleeding."

Even. Clinical. No emotion, just facts.

Regina listened. Watched her with those same stupid, too-big brown eyes.

The residents didn't speak. They hovered, shifting like they'd walked into something they weren't supposed to see.

"GCS is three. Sats are climbing but shallow. Pressure's in the nineties with product. OR won't move without clearance."

Regina crossed to the desktop terminal, tapped in her credentials, pulled up the trauma consult.

Emma stayed where she was. Watched her bypass Jameson's note-in-progress, scroll to the flags, override the clearance hold.

Three keystrokes.

Regina printed the override. Signed it. Tore the page from the tray and held it out.

Emma took it without pause. Without a word. Her body already knew what to do—get out, move, don't stop.

"Emma."

Her name. Soft at the edges. The m lingered, careful and familiar. No one else said it like that.

The sound stopped her at the door, hand already on the handle.

"I'll see that this doesn't happen again."

Regina's tone stayed level. Even.

Emma nodded once. Opened the door. Walked to the elevator like the floor behind her was burning.

The doors closed and the elevator swallowed her whole, and somewhere between the third floor and the second, her lungs remembered how to work again.

+++++

The field was a mess of blood.

It welled faster than they could clear it. The suction whined at full volume, but the cavity kept flooding, pooling in the spaces between retractors and clamps, obscuring everything that mattered.

Emma leaned in, wrist locked. "Retract higher. No—up and lateral."

Jenkins adjusted. Too slow.

A nurse moved in with suction, hands sure, and the field cleared for half a second before flooding again.

The bleeder wasn't obvious. The color told her arterial, the pulse confirmed it, and the clamps kept coming back wet no matter where she placed them. Great.

"Subclavian's nicked," she said. "Get a Satinsky."

"Seventy over forty. Falling." The anesthesiologist's voice came from the head of the table, flat and factual in a way that made Emma's jaw tighten.

She didn't look up. "Push two units. Hang another bag. Now."

"Packed red cells going in," another nurse confirmed.

Emma was deeper in the chest now, fingers tracking the vessel's path through slick tissue. The retractor slipped.

"Keep your hand steady." Her gaze stayed on the field, not Jenkins. "If you can't, step aside and give Garcia a turn."

Jenkins steadied.

Suction passed again. Visibility cleared for a breath, just long enough to catch arterial red.

"There." Emma clamped. The bleeding slowed. Stopped.

"Heart's still compensating. Holding sinus."

Emma nodded. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

She adjusted her grip. Her glove slipped on blood-slick steel. She repositioned.

"Get vascular on standby. If I can't control it, we'll need to graft."

"You won't need vascular."

That voice had lived in her head for too long to mistake it now. Emma's hands stayed where they were, fingers still tracking the vessel, but her breath caught for half a second before she forced it steady again.

Movement registered in her peripheral. Regina crossing the OR, already scrubbed in, moving like she owned the floor. Knowing her family, she probably did.

"You've got proximal control," Regina said. "Well done."

Emma kept her eyes on the site. "I haven't visualized the full tear. It's too tight in here."

Regina came up beside her. Close enough that Emma could feel the shift in the air, the presence settling into the space at her shoulder.

"We need better exposure. Retract the clavicle."

Emma didn't wait for a handoff. She reached for the malleable herself, slid it under the clavicle, angled it up. The field widened. Just enough.

Another pulse of blood surged past the clamp.

"Proximal control's slipping," Regina said.

Emma shifted. Gave her access. "Your move."

Regina re-clamped, tighter, closer to the arch. The bleeding slowed.

Emma leaned back in. The tear was wider than she'd thought. Partially avulsed, no clean edge, no way to repair it directly.

"We'll need to graft," Regina said. "We're going synthetic?"

Emma didn't look up. "Aren't you the specialist here?"

The edge in it was sharp enough to draw blood.

Regina said nothing. Just stood there, too quiet, the kind of stillness that refused to pass for neutral.

Emma kept her focus on the torn subclavian. She wasn't going to look over and see whatever Regina had on her face. She didn't need it. Didn't want it. Not here. Not now.

"I've got the proximal," Regina said.

The calm in it scraped under Emma's ribs. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept working.

Regina stepped back just enough to take the graft tray from the scrub nurse.

"Six-millimeter Dacron," the nurse said. "Pre-clotted. Flushed and ready."

Regina laid it on the field. "We'll tunnel under the clavicle. Proximal first."

Emma adjusted the clamp without speaking.

"I'll pass it under," Regina said.

Emma watched her hands. Precise. Steady. Maddeningly familiar. The sight landed low in her gut; memory in the wrong body, the wrong room. Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

Regina didn't look up. Just kept going, tunneling cleanly through the space beneath the clavicle. Calm. Exact. No hesitation.

The graft emerged. Emma took hold and positioned it.

"Hold that tension," Regina said.

Regina placed the first suture.

Emma steadied it. Watched the needle pass. Tie, cut, repeat. The nurse kept pace beside her.

Each motion landed with practiced control. Emma tracked all of it, jaw tight, every muscle coiled.

"Distal next," Regina said.

They shifted. Regina angled the graft; Emma set the clamps, held position. No words passed between them.

Regina ran the distal sutures, then paused. "Flush."

Emma responded automatically. "Vitals?"

"Stable," anesthesia called. "Sinus rhythm, MAP ninety-two."

Regina opened the side port. Saline pushed through, clean, no turbulence. Back-bleed was strong.

Regina nodded to herself. "Tie."

She secured the knot. The bleeding stopped.

Emma scanned the field once, then again, eyes alert for anything that might flare back.

"Sealed," she said.

"Sinus rhythm holding. BP stable at 102," the anesthesiologist confirmed.

Emma's gaze lifted.

Regina's eyes met hers through the shield.

Mistake. Regina's posture stayed measured, every line of her body deliberate. But her eyes held, too long, like she was bracing for something Emma couldn't see.

Something sharp brushed the edge of Emma's chest. A reflex she didn't mean to have.

She resented the hell out of that.

"I can close from here, Dr. Mills," she said.

Regina didn't answer right away.

Her gaze lingered. Then she drew back.

"Of course, Dr. Swan." Cool. Clipped. Not a note out of place.

She peeled off her gloves, dropped them into the bin, and walked out without looking back.

Emma didn't watch her go.

+++++

Regina

The door to her office closed with a quiet click. Regina turned the lock, her hand lingering against the smooth curve of metal. The stillness settled around her, but it brought no relief. She remained there anyway, her pulse refusing to steady beneath her skin.

She crossed to the sink and turned the tap. The water ran warm, never as hot as she preferred, but warm enough to steam faintly against the cooler porcelain.

She did not push up her sleeves. Did not reach for soap.

Instead, she held her hands above the basin, fingers splayed. Not close enough to touch the water. Deliberately spaced. Suspended. The warmth rose toward her palms without contact.

She had walked out of that OR and moved through the rest of the day without missing a step. Another case. Then rounds. Her tone had remained composed, her decisions exact, her bearing a study in discipline.

No one had looked at her twice. That had always been the point.

She had taught them to take her at face value: sharp, efficient, untouchable. She'd given them no reason to question what they saw.

The only reprieve had come from reprimanding Jameson. His failure had been avoidable. If he'd shown the slightest sense of urgency or clinical judgment, the delay wouldn't have happened. He'd offered excuses. She'd accepted none of them. The exchange had been brief, precise, entirely justified.

It had also been the only moment since Emma walked into that room where she'd felt anything resembling control.

Now, in the quiet of her office, door locked and the faucet still running, she allowed herself this narrow margin. This small, private suspension.

Her arms had begun to ache. Her jaw, too. The kind that came from holding tension too long, too tightly, without relief.

Time had passed. Minutes, perhaps longer. She had not moved. Had not permitted herself to feel anything for far longer than that.

Her hands remained suspended above the basin. Her spine stayed upright, exact. Her gaze fixed on the steam rising, the faint distortion of chrome beneath it. The reflection offered nothing useful back.

She exhaled. Turned off the tap.

The quiet pressed in.

She crossed to the desk and sat.

Her badge remained clipped to her lapel. She removed it without looking, set it facedown, and let her fingers rest beside it.

She had done everything right.

Her hands had not trembled when Emma spoke. Her voice had not faltered when she answered. She had kept her tone professional, her shoulders level, her focus exactly where it needed to be.

She had held the shape of herself intact, even as something beneath it split quietly, irreparably, along a seam no one else could see.

It bloomed beneath her breastbone. Sharp at first, then low and constant, like pressure returning to tissue long deprived.

Fifteen years.

That was how long it had been since she had seen Emma in person.

Regina had left. Walked away from the one person who made her feel known without effort. Safe without trying. And despite all of that, she had closed the door with both hands and kept it shut. Not because she wanted to. Because she had to.

She told herself that, even now. That it would not have worked. That it was not built to last. That too much had been at stake. She had said it enough times, with enough conviction, that it had begun to sound like memory instead of excuse.

But the truth sat heavier: she had chosen to let Emma go. And it had gutted her. Hollowed something out that never quite grew back.

Over time, she learned to work around it. Kept her days full, her focus sharp, her margins clean.

Success gave the silence somewhere to live. Structure gave it boundaries. Kept it from bleeding into everything.

She had built a life with clean lines, clear expectations, outcomes that did not waver. Nothing loose. Nothing left open.

And now Emma was here.

Not a voice Regina conjured at two in the morning when sleep refused to come. Not a ghost she kept tucked in the quietest corner of her memory, sealed tight and intact.

She was here. In the OR, at Regina's shoulder, in a place they had once imagined standing together.

But everything about it had been wrong.

There had been no softness in Emma's voice. No curve at the edges. Every word had landed with precision: clean, professional, impersonal.

Regina deserved it. She had burned their world to the ground and walked away from the ashes.

Emma had rebuilt. Of course she had. She had always been stronger than anyone gave her credit for. Stronger than she gave herself credit for.

The life she built was solid, accomplished. She was respected.

And she was still the most devastating kind of beautiful. The kind Regina had never learned to look away from. The ache of it lodged behind her ribs with nowhere to go.

Emma never looked at her for too long. She kept her shoulders square, her attention fixed, her voice pared down to nothing but fact.

It was not distance. It was defense. And Regina hated herself for knowing the difference.

Because she remembered the girl who had let her in. The one who had learned to guard everything and still handed it over, piece by piece, until there was nothing she had not given.

Regina had held that trust in both hands.

And she had shattered it.

She set her palms against her thighs. Curled her fingers in tight.

Heat surged behind her eyes. Her vision blurred. The heat spilled over, silent and sharp.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through it.

But the part of her that remembered, the part that still ached, waited just beneath the surface. It always did.

The phone buzzed. She reached for it.

Cora Mills: Dear, are you okay? You hardly go this long without responding to your mother.

Regina's gaze settled on the screen.

The words sat there, soft in their construction, almost gentle. But they landed with the precision of a scalpel's edge. Her mother had always known how to wield language that way.

She turned the phone over. Set it face down against her thigh. Pressed her palms flat and focused on the floor beneath her shoes, the chair beneath her weight, the rise and fall of her chest.

Something to hold against the tightening in her ribs.

Why now?

Had someone said something? Had word traveled through the wrong channels, reached the wrong ears? Had a name been spoken in the wrong room?

Her mother did not text without purpose.

And she certainly did not announce surprise visits without reason.

Emma was here.

It did not feel like coincidence.

She closed her eyes. Drew a slow breath through her nose and released it through parted lips.

Then she picked up the phone.

I'm sorry, Mother. Of course I can free my schedule. What time do you arrive on Thursday?

She hit send. Set the phone down as though it might burn her if she held it any longer.

Emma

The apartment was too big. High ceilings, exposed beams, polished concrete stretching in every direction. The kind of place that photographed well.

Emma had leased it sight unseen from Portland. No time to fly out, no real interest in shopping around. It had windows, a fridge, and a short commute to the hospital. Good enough.

She hated it already.

She didn't turn on the lights. City glow bled through the bay windows, cold and glassy, just enough to sketch out the edges. The long counter. The sagging couch. Boxes still stacked against the wall.

Everything about it was open. Too open.

Her boots hit hard against the floor, the sound carrying off concrete and glass. No rugs. No curtains. Nothing to soften the impact. Just emptiness and too much room for everything she didn't want to think about.

The fridge kicked on with a rattling hum.

She crossed to it, yanked the door open, and grabbed a beer.

The cap clattered onto the counter. She drank half of it standing there, coat still on, shoulders tight.

Cold. Sharp enough to feel.

She surveyed the space again. The couch sat like an afterthought. One lamp in the corner. Nothing on the walls. No photos. No color.

She hadn't even bothered with a bed frame. Just a mattress on the floor in the back, in a space that barely passed for a bedroom. No doors. Just corners pretending to be rooms.

Great. Real homey, Swan.

Condensation slicked her fingers. She wiped them on her pants, moved to the couch, and sank into it. Her head fell back against the cushions.

Something dug into her spine.

She shifted, reached behind, and pulled it free.

A pen. Slim barrel. Purple casing. A shallow dent near the clip.

Her breath stopped.

Regina's pen.

It must've fallen into her bag during the move. She hadn't seen it in years, not consciously, anyway, though it had followed her through every city, every year of med school and residency, every job she'd taken since.

She turned it over in her hand. Her thumb found the groove she used to trace without thinking.

Her stomach dropped. The dorm room settled in around her before she could stop it.

They were crammed on the floor of Emma's dorm room, surrounded by flashcards and half-empty coffee cups. The heater clanked in the corner. Someone two doors down was blasting Queen.

Emma lay flat on her back, arm thrown over her face.

"I'm gonna fail this exam."

"You're not," Regina said.

"I don't even remember what the corpus callosum does."

"It connects the left and right hemispheres of the brain."

Emma peeked out from under her arm. Regina sat cross-legged, eyes on her flashcard, unruffled as ever.

"Okay, show-off."

"You asked."

Emma grinned. "Yeah. I like when you talk anatomy at me."

Regina looked up, head tilted slightly. "That's not anatomy."

Emma propped herself on one elbow. "True. It's physiology." She waggled her eyebrows.

Regina exhaled through her nose. "You are completely derailing this review session."

"Am I?" Emma reached for a flashcard and held it up. "Describe the function of the hypothalamus."

Regina narrowed her eyes. "Regulation of hunger, thirst, temperature, and sexual behavior."

Emma pointed at her. "There it is. Say 'sexual behavior' again."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on. It's for science."

Regina shook her head, but her mouth was already betraying her, corners lifting, just barely. "You are the most unserious person I've ever met."

Emma sat up and, before Regina could react, plucked the pen right out of her hand.

"Hey!"

She held it up like a trophy. "This one's fancy. Where'd you get it?"

Regina made a grab for it. "Give it back."

Emma twisted away, laughing. "Nope. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"I swear to God, Emma—"

Emma tucked it behind her ear. "New rule: anything cute you bring into my room is mine. Especially if it's purple. Especially if it's yours."

Regina lunged. Emma fell backward and took Regina with her. They landed in a tangle of limbs, half on the rug, half on Emma's notes.

Regina braced herself with both hands on either side of Emma's shoulders, hair falling loose around her face.

Emma grinned up at her. "You gonna wrestle me for it?"

"I could."

"Wouldn't work."

"No?"

Emma reached up, fingers curling around the back of Regina's neck. "You get too distracted when I'm under you."

Regina didn't deny it.

She leaned down, close enough for their noses to brush. "You are absolutely insufferable."

"And yet," Emma murmured.

Regina kissed her. Slow and unhurried, like she had nowhere else to be. One hand slipped into Emma's hair, the other braced beside her.

The pen rolled to the side, forgotten.

Emma shifted beneath her, pulling Regina closer, hands sliding over her waist, under her shirt, over bare skin. They moved until there was no space left.

Flashcards crumpled beneath them. Coffee sloshed somewhere behind. Neither of them moved to stop it.

Regina's breath caught when Emma's fingers traced the line of her spine. She pressed down, deepened the kiss, and rocked against her. Slow, steady, wanting.

The study guide lay open beside them, a perfect diagram of neural pathways waiting to be memorized.

Emma didn't care.

The beer had gone warm in her hand.

Emma was slumped against the couch, the bottle loose in her grip, gaze caught somewhere past the window. A siren wailed blocks away, fading into the city hum.

The day landed on her all at once: the weight of memory, the pressure behind her ribs she'd kept at bay until now. It pressed down hard enough to steal air.

Too much. Too close.

She pushed herself up. Crossed to the sink and dumped the rest of the beer down the drain. It splashed against the steel, loud in the quiet apartment.

Her hand was still holding the pen.

Emma stared at it. Slim. Familiar. The shape of something she'd wanted too much once.

She let it drop into the trash. It landed soft, half-buried in paper towels and takeout foil.

+++++

Regina

The invitation had been a mistake.

The timing was poor. She had agreed to avoid another committee assignment, to satisfy administration, and because Dr. Hopper had asked in front of witnesses. He believed the data might persuade others. She remained unconvinced.

The work had existed alongside her clinical practice for years, occupying its own contained space separate from the operating room. The audience was unfamiliar, but the material was not.

Her calendar that morning had gone unchecked. The afternoon held a meeting with Parks, almost certainly regarding Jameson's failure the previous day, and two others she hadn't yet examined. This presentation needed to proceed efficiently. Cleanly.

It was nearly eleven, and the auditorium was approaching capacity.

Departments filled the rows in quiet succession. Too many variables she couldn't control. Too many opportunities for something to fracture.

She stood at the lectern, spine straight, one hand resting beside her notes. She didn't require them. The presentation had been memorized, rehearsed until it emerged without conscious effort. Still, the gesture steadied her. A small anchor against the weight gathering beneath her ribs.

Adrenaline sharpened at the edges of her composure. It always did before moments like this. The attention of the room, the scrutiny it carried—it permitted no margin for error.

White coats shifted in their seats. Screens flickered to life. Low conversations diminished as the hour approached. Cardiology occupied the front rows. Pulmonology and anesthesia flanked the sides. Neurology, obstetrics, and orthopedics had scattered without discernible pattern. Pediatrics had gathered toward the back, quiet and watchful.

Behind them, trauma.

Her gaze caught on the third row from the rear.

Blonde hair pulled into a low knot. A black Henley beneath a white coat. Emma sat with her arms crossed, jaw set, every line of her posture suggesting obligation rather than interest. Park leaned toward her, performing engagement with just enough energy to imply this had been her suggestion.

The auditorium blurred at the edges.

Late spring. Sophomore year. A packed lecture hall, the hallway outside thick with heat and noise. Regina's final project. Her heart had pounded at the base of her throat, fast and unrelenting, each beat pressing hard against the edge of panic. Her palms had been damp. Her knees unsteady. The slides had lived in her, but her body had stopped listening.

Emma had seen it. She always did.

She had stepped in without hesitation, closing the space between them until their arms pressed together. Her voice had come low, steady, threaded with calm.

Then her hand had found Regina's wrist. Just a thumb, light against the skin, settling over the flutter beneath. Steady. Certain.

Breathe with me.

Regina looked up.

Across the auditorium now, Emma was watching her.

The look was not soft. But for a second, it felt as though she could still see her.

Regina held it for a moment. Long enough to wonder if Emma remembered that hallway. That spring.

She turned back to the screen. The hour had turned over. Time to begin.

Her voice came when she reached for it.

"The average length of stay after aortic valve replacement is seven days. Discharge criteria include cardiovascular and respiratory stability, pain control, independent ambulation, and the ability to perform activities of daily living. These benchmarks are standard."

She let the list land without embellishment.

"What we do not evaluate, what we do not name, is the functional state of the autonomic nervous system at discharge."

The next slide appeared. A sequence of heart rate variability curves, diurnal cortisol trends, and baroreflex sensitivity indices. Data compiled over three years, validated over six.

"In cardiac surgery, we disrupt internal regulation. We override thermoregulation, bypass intrinsic rhythm, interrupt circadian input, suppress baroreflexes. Then we restore anatomy, approximate function, and declare the patient stable."

Another slide. A fifty-two-year-old male. No complications post-op. Discharged day six. Readmitted day eight. Cardiac arrest. No prodrome. No clear etiology.

"Stability is not synonymous with safety. The nervous system recovers on a different timeline than the systems it governs. That delay is quantifiable, and clinically relevant. Across specialties, we have seen it. In trauma, in sepsis, in neurocritical care. The pattern holds."

She stepped away from the lectern. The screen changed.

"Some patients startle when touched. Others say they are sleeping, but telemetry shows persistent sympathetic activation. They meet every functional milestone, yet physiologically, they remain in a state of threat readiness."

She paused. Let the clinical language carry weight.

"We do not monitor autonomic recovery because it does not bill, does not integrate easily into EHRs, and does not resolve on a fixed timeline."

The next slide. Pilot studies from Mayo, UCSF, the VA. Citation text small, dense, credible.

"But the tools exist. Continuous HRV telemetry. Salivary cortisol mapping. Pupillometry. Skin temperature variance. Metrics that can be gathered passively, longitudinally, and without interrupting care."

The final slide appeared. Concentric rings labeled Hemodynamic, Somatic, Autonomic. At the center: Safe to Heal.

"I am proposing a supplemental protocol. Voluntary, structured, scalable. Daily autonomic tracking. Wearable metrics. Post-discharge follow-up with defined endpoints."

She returned to the lectern.

"This will require effort. But we are already absorbing the consequences in readmissions, in unexplained deterioration, in patients who do everything right and still fail to recover."

Her voice held. Deliberate.

"This is not theoretical. It is measurable. And it is time we treated it that way."

Silence settled as the last word faded.

Then came a single clap. Sharp, intentional. Park, of course. Loud enough to register, paced just slow enough to suggest initiative. The rest followed in polite sequence. Measured, professional, the kind of applause that acknowledged substance without endorsing disruption.

Regina inclined her head. Not to the room, but to the conclusion. The closing of one obligation, at least.

The moderator thanked her. Questions came. Predictable, pointed, easily dispatched. Pulmonology wanted threshold values. OB asked about external validity. Someone in the back tried to fold in reimbursement language. She answered each in turn. Clear. Unhurried. Never defensive. The boundaries of this material were memorized long before she shared it.

The final question wrapped, and the moderator offered a closing nod. The kind that signaled release.

Chairs scraped gently back. Voices lifted. Some paused to pack laptops. Others moved toward the aisle, already checking schedules, forming clusters.

Regina gathered her notes, slid them into the folder she had brought.

Somewhere in the movement, her gaze was drawn to the third row from the back. Park was reaching for her bag. Emma was already standing, coat half-buttoned, her focus fixed on the exit like she had been waiting for the signal. She didn't look back. Just walked out, as if her part had ended the moment the slides began.

It was what Regina deserved.

The thought cut clean. She let it settle for a moment, then smoothed the edges of it the way she always did.

A few people hovered at the edge of her vision, questions in hand but not yet voiced.

She turned with a practiced smile.

+++++

Emma

The page came through at 12:48 p.m.

Dr. Park. Conference Room 5C. 1:00 p.m. sharp.

Cryptic enough to spike her blood pressure. Official enough that ignoring it wasn't an option.

Exactly the kind of message she hated.

Park hadn't mentioned it while hauling her to Regina's lecture.

Emma locked her phone and shoved it into her coat pocket. She headed for the stairs. The elevator would've been faster, but standing still made her skin itch.

She'd been at Boston Mercy for less than two days. Already there were at least three things her new Chief might want to yell about. One: barging upstairs to confront the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery in the middle of a trauma alert. Two: dragging a patient up without proper clearance. Three: bypassing the sepsis protocol because the numbers didn't fit, even though the patient clearly did.

Yeah. She was absolutely crushing it.

Conference Room 5C came into view.

She stopped outside the closed door. Rolled her neck once, then twice.

Her coat pressed too warm against her shoulders. She shrugged it off, draped it over one arm.

1:00 p.m. sharp.

She turned the handle and stepped through.

Park stood near the door, already smiling. The kind of smile that could sell a multi-million dollar initiative with ease.

"Dr. Swan," she said, warm and mid-keynote. "Right on time. I wanted your voice in this one."

Emma's gaze moved past her.

Regina stood just beyond Park. Perfect posture, perfect polish.

Emma's heart kicked once, hard.

Regina hadn't been on the meeting invite. If you could call it that.

Great. Daily sightings. Apparently that was her life now.

Park didn't miss a beat. "I know you two met under pressure, but I'd rather this start with intention." She gestured between them. "Dr. Regina Mills, Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery. And Dr. Emma Swan, our new trauma rockstar."

She let that sit for a second, then added, "You'll be seeing a lot of each other. Consider this your formal introduction."

Perfect. Just perfect.

The absurdity of it sat heavy in Emma's chest. This little theater of introductions, like they hadn't once known each other in ways that would make Park rethink the entire meeting if she knew even half of it. Emma swallowed it down, squared her shoulders.

Get it together.

She just had to survive this. Whatever the hell this was.

Regina was already extending her hand. Polite. Polished. Like they were strangers.

"Dr. Swan," she said, smooth as ever. "Nice to meet you. Officially, this time."

Emma's gaze dropped to the offered hand. The same one that had once touched her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Taking it was like digging through scar tissue with bare hands.

"Dr. Mills," she said. Her voice came out tight, but it held.

Something flickered across Regina's face. Subtle, but there. Emma had seen it a hundred times. What followed was just as familiar: that softness in her eyes, the smallest smile, steady and infuriating. I got you.

Regina released her grip and turned to Park. "Well," she said, like the moment hadn't happened at all. "Let's proceed."

Park nodded, already reaching for her stylus. She tapped her tablet, the motion brisk and practiced.

"Alright. Let's close the loop on yesterday." She gestured to the chairs. "Have a seat. This won't take long. We're here to align and move forward."

Emma pulled out the nearest chair. The legs scraped softly against the floor. Park took the seat beside her. Regina settled farther down. Not far, but far enough.

Park launched into the details of yesterday's case, her voice clinical and structured. Emma found the rhythm in it. Her pulse began to settle, the noise in her head quieting just enough to think.

"The only delay," Park said, "was clearance. My team was prepped, holding for cardiology."

Regina gave a single nod. "We reviewed the consult chain yesterday. The escalation didn't happen as it should have. That's on me. I've clarified expectations with the team and adjusted the workflow."

She could have named the resident. Everyone in the room knew who had fucked up. But she didn't. She absorbed the hit, reset the system, and moved on.

Classic Regina.

Older now, but still the woman who once rewrote her entire thesis outline because a single footnote didn't hold up. The one who rebuilt an entire group project alone because she didn't trust anyone else to get it right, and let everyone present like the work had been shared.

She still carried that instinct for control. The need to impose order. And always, always the refusal to let the room see her bleed.

Emma sat a little straighter. God help her, she always did.

Park's fingers tapped once against the table. "That's why they put you in that seat, Dr. Mills."

She glanced between them. "Next time this kind of delay hits, who do we call, and how fast does that call get answered?"

"Attending to attending." Regina's voice stayed steady, matter-of-fact. "If Cardiology doesn't respond within five minutes, escalate directly to me."

"Perfect." Park leaned back slightly. "No one here's afraid to step on toes."

"Agreed," Regina said. "The patient always comes first."

The patient always comes first.

Emma's stomach clenched. She'd heard those words before. Murmured against her skin while Regina had her pinned and gasping. Voice low, amused, completely in control.

Familiar. Unwanted. She kept her eyes on the table.

Focus.

Park's attention shifted. "Swan, you've been quiet. Is that a good sign or a problem I haven't heard yet?"

Emma shook her head. "No problem."

She leaned back slightly, meeting Park's gaze. "The plan's solid. Clear lanes, clean escalation. That's more than I can say for most meetings I've sat through."

Then she faced Regina. "You moved fast yesterday. After I all but barked at you, you signed off without hesitation and still scrubbed in. That made a difference."

Regina held her gaze. "I don't hesitate when the right call gets made."

Her tone stayed even, composed. But her eyes locked in, like she meant every word and wanted Emma to feel it. The same eyes that once dared her to believe Regina would stay.

And she had believed. More than she should have.

Emma shifted her focus to the table.

Park rose without comment, smoothing the front of her coat with one hand while reaching for her tablet with the other. If she'd registered the shift, she gave no sign.

"Sounds like we're aligned," she said. "I have Risk in five. Swan, stop by my office after rounds. We'll talk about your residents."

She offered them both a brief smile. The kind that signaled the box had been checked. Then she left, already on to the next thing.

Un-fucking-believable.

"Emma."

The name came soft. Too soft. Like it still belonged to her.

Emma didn't turn. "Don't."

Regina didn't stop. She never had.

"You don't have to—"

"I said don't."

Sharper than she meant. She didn't take it back.

Silence stretched between them. Regina didn't answer right away. Emma could feel her waiting, measuring something Emma couldn't see.

"I didn't ask for this either."

Emma let out a short, bitter laugh. "No? And yet here we are."

"You have every right to be angry."

It was soft. So soft Emma could barely stand to hear it.

Her breath caught.

"Jesus, Regina."

She stood. Her hands braced against the table, pulse hammering in her throat. She didn't want to do this. She'd spent years making sure she wouldn't. But the words were already there, clawing their way out.

"You think this is about being angry?"

She didn't wait for a response. She couldn't.

"You told me we wouldn't last. That it didn't mean the same to you anymore. And maybe I could've swallowed that. Maybe I could've convinced myself you meant it, even though—"

Her throat tightened. She forced it down.

"But then you left. You transferred without a word. No goodbye. No explanation. You didn't give me a chance to say anything. You just... left."

She met Regina's eyes then. Really met them.

"And the worst part, the part I still can't get past, is that I kept waiting. I kept checking my phone. Telling myself something must have happened. That you'd call. That it wasn't really over."

She pulled in a breath, shallow and sharp.

"But you never did. You just erased me. Like we never happened. Like I imagined the whole thing."

Regina's face didn't move. But her eyes. God, those eyes. Big and brown and full of guilt Emma couldn't stand.

"Don't look at me like that."

The words scraped their way out, too fast, too raw. Her hands were still braced on the table, knuckles white.

Regina didn't blink. Her gaze held. She just sat there, quiet and rigid, like the rest of her had gone somewhere Emma couldn't reach.

Emma hated how familiar it was. That stillness. The way Regina disappeared without ever leaving the room.

It twisted in her chest.

"You didn't imagine it."

No defense. No plea. Just something that might be truth, sent along a thread between them, frayed and shaking.

Emma stared at her. She wanted to say something cruel, to rip it apart, to drag them both down with it.

Her pager went off. Sharp, jarring. Emma snatched it off her belt, eyes scanning.

TRAUMA BAY 1 – ETA 2 MIN – MVA ROLLOVER, PREGNANT, HYPOTENSIVE.

She clipped the pager back and grabbed her coat off the chair.

"I need to go."

Regina stood. Like she might follow.

Emma locked eyes with her. "Don't." Her voice dropped. "Please."

Then she was moving—through the door, down the hall, coat half-on, breath tight, pulse already ahead of her.

+++++

The trauma bay alarms were still ringing in her ears when she pushed into the locker room.

The light hit too hard. White tile, stainless fixtures. Everything cold and overexposed. Someone needed to fix that bulb.

She didn't pause. Stripped off her bloody scrubs and dropped them straight into the bin. Her shoes landed beside them. The chill barely registered.

She stepped into the shower and cranked the water as far as it would go. As hot as the hospital allowed, which was generous, but not enough.

It hit her like a wall.

Her breath caught. She braced one hand against the tile. Steam climbed the corners of the stall, fogging the edges. Her skin flushed, but the cold underneath held.

She stayed like that. Let the water run until the noise in her head started to dull.

Her pulse hadn't come down. Muscles tight. Like her whole body was still bracing for something that had already happened.

They'd delivered the baby.

Tiny. Cyanotic. Cord wrapped once, maybe twice. OB cut fast, didn't even blink. NICU was scrubbed and ready. Last Emma saw, they were bagging her, wheeling hard toward the elevators.

The mother had coded on the table.

Too much blood. Too fast.

They cracked her. Emma had her hand on the heart. Compressions. Epi. Another round. Nothing.

Flatline.

She pressed her palm harder to the tile. The water kept coming. Steam thickened. Her skin burned.

She'd called it. Time of death, 17:26.

The nurse had nodded. OB said something about family. The room emptied like they always do. Techs first, then anesthesia, then everyone else. The smell stayed behind.

She closed her eyes. Let the heat open her up, inch by inch.

Eventually, she turned off the water.

At her locker, she dressed in the same clothes she'd walked in with. Henley, jeans, boots. Each layer felt heavier than it should've.

She slammed the door shut. The sound cracked through the empty room.

Then she left.

Ruby was waiting just outside. She'd changed too. Black jeans, boots, red hoodie half-zipped over a band tee. Coffee in one hand. Ponytail high. Already smirking like they hadn't just lost.

"I was gonna give you two more minutes," Ruby said. "Then I was coming in to pretend I needed gauze."

Emma didn't slow. "Weak cover."

Ruby fell into step beside her. "You're new. We're allowed to hover."

Emma let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. More like pressure release.

They walked a few strides in silence.

Then Ruby said, casual as anything, "Couple of us are hitting Granny's. Cheap beer, bad music. Maybe a shot if someone cries about a patient. You in?"

Emma gave her a sideways look. "That's a stupid name for a bar."

Ruby grinned. "Yeah, but the fries are good. First round's on me."

Emma hesitated. Everything in her ached. Her head was a mess. But her apartment didn't sound any better.

"Yeah," she said. "Sure."

Ruby nodded, already peeling off toward the stairs. "Knew you were the fun kind of damaged. See you there."

Emma shook her head and kept moving.

She'd show up. Smile. Drink something cold. Let the noise drag her someplace quieter.

Then get up before the sun and do it all over again.

+++++

Granny's smelled like fryer grease and bottom-shelf whiskey.

Emma stopped just inside the door. The noise hit first, louder than she'd expected for a Tuesday. Half the hospital must've spilled in after shift. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Laughter rose and crashed somewhere near the back. Someone fed Fleetwood Mac into the jukebox and didn't get booed, which said something.

She scanned the room. Ruby sat wedged into a corner booth with torn red vinyl, five people crammed around the table. First round already scattered across the surface. Emma recognized no one but Ruby.

Ruby clocked her and lifted her beer in a lazy sort of salute, like this was routine and Emma had just been late.

Emma could turn around. Blame fatigue. Fake a page. Say she'd forgotten something at the hospital and vanish into the night.

Instead, she crossed the bar. The floor stuck under her boots. Someone elbowed her arm without looking up.

Ruby shifted to make room. Emma slid into the end of the booth without a word. The fake leather was warm beneath her.

Ruby passed her a beer—cold, already sweating—and tapped her bottle against Emma's.

"Look who showed." Ruby's grin came quick and bright. "Thought maybe you'd bail."

"Still might."

"Yeah, you won't." Ruby turned to the table. "Okay—Emma Swan, trauma, started this week, already made Cardiology cry, so clearly she's got excellent instincts. Emma, this is everyone."

A few nods. One raised glass. A dry half-smile from the woman across from her.

Emma lifted her hand in a brief wave. Great. Introductions. Her favorite.

Ruby gestured with her bottle. "Belle Dubois—ICU pharmacy. She's why your post-ops don't seize on the table."

Belle raised her glass. "Only on weekdays."

"Aurora Hale—cardiologist. Try not to hold it against her."

Aurora grinned. "I read echoes and remind people T-waves exist. Also my documentation's better than anyone here. Fight me."

"In your dreams." Ruby tipped her chin toward the woman across from Emma. "Mulan. CVICU nurse. Runs a balloon pump one-handed and will end you with a look."

Mulan's mouth didn't move, but her eyes held. "Welcome to the storm."

Ruby leaned back, bottle loose in her hand. "And Elsa—anesthesiologist. Best on staff, don't let her tell you otherwise."

Elsa's voice came low, easy. "We haven't worked together yet, but I'm looking forward to it."

Emma nodded. "Yeah. Same."

The table settled. Drinks moved. Fries showed up. Someone stole the ketchup and never gave it back.

Ruby nudged her shoulder. "Alright, real question—what made you pick Boston Mercy?"

Emma took a sip. "I go where it's busy. This place seemed loud enough."

Aurora tilted her head. "That's…not the worst metric."

Ruby laughed, short and warm. "Spoken like a trauma doc."

"You'll fit right in," Belle said.

Emma shrugged. "We'll see."

Ruby lifted her bottle. "To the loud ones."

The others followed. Glasses clinked soft against the music.

Conversation spun back up around her. Aurora mentioned a post-op who swore she could feel her valve ticking. Belle followed with something dry about beta blockers and poor life choices. Elsa asked a single question and the whole thing shifted into sedation protocols.

Shop talk, but it didn't land that way. Just noise passed hand to hand. No one trying to win.

Emma drank and let the voices fill the space between her thoughts.

No one pushed. No one hovered. No one asked about the baby who lost her mom before taking her first breath.

The second round landed without her asking. Ruby passed it over like it had always been hers.

They moved like a unit—door open if she wanted in, but no one dragging her through it.

Emma didn't lean back. Didn't let the day drop off her shoulders.

But she stayed.

+++++

Her apartment wasn't soft quiet. It was hollow quiet.

Emma shut the door behind her. The bolt clicked into place—too loud against the open space. She dropped her keys on the counter, shrugged off her coat and threw it toward the couch. Her boots came off with a dull thunk, one then the other. She crossed to the kitchen on socked feet, tension still locked between her shoulder blades.

The buzz from the second beer had worn off. All that remained was a hum behind her ribs, low and restless. She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck and stopped at the sink.

Her eyes caught on it.

Half-buried under a stack of mail.

That damn pen.

She stared.

Flashcards everywhere. One stuck to her ass. She'd been lying on her stomach, cheek pressed to the inside of Regina's thigh. Her hair a mess. The rest of her too. Wrecked and smug about it.

Regina on her back, one knee bent, the other leg stretched long across the mess they'd made. Somewhere along the way, she'd grabbed her pen again.

"You're staring," Regina had said.

"Yeah." Emma had kissed the hollow of her thigh, lazy. "You're gorgeous."

Regina had huffed a laugh. Wrecked too, but in a softer way. Like the edge had been sanded off.

She'd brought the pen to her lips, tapped it lightly once, then held it out without looking. "Fine. Keep it. You've earned it."

Emma had lifted her head. "I did do a good job, didn't I?" She'd grinned up at her, wicked and unrepentant.

"Don't make me change my mind."

Emma had taken the pen. Turned it between her fingers.

"I'll cherish it forever," she'd said.

The eye roll had happened. Emma hadn't needed to see it.

She'd laid the pen on the floor beside them and reached up, hand finding Regina's hip, thumb brushing slow along her skin. Regina had caught her wrist, held it there.

Neither of them had said anything for a while.

The heat of Regina's skin, the weight of her hand—Emma could still feel it, like the imprint had settled into bone.

She exhaled. Slow, controlled.

The kitchen light was too bright.

She looked down.

The pen was still there, smug in its half-burial, like it had waited patiently for her to crack.

You didn't imagine it.

Emma reached down. Plucked it from the counter, against her better judgment and with full awareness of what it meant.

She turned it over once, then set it back down and walked away.

Regina

The consult arrived just after nine.

Twenty-four-year-old male, cyclist. Blunt-force impact into a fixed barrier. Hypotensive in the field, intermittently responsive to volume, intubated prior to arrival and now en route to CT. The trauma team had flagged a suspected aortic transection. Mechanism and clinical progression were both consistent.

Regina reviewed the note in full, then again with narrowed focus. The pattern was familiar: high-speed deceleration, thoracic compression, trajectory that strained the junction of fixed and mobile vessels. The isthmus was the most likely site. She had seen that rupture before. Sudden in onset, often concealed, fatal when missed. Frequently overlooked in the absence of imaging or overt clinical signs.

On another morning, the case might have been assigned to a different attending. In theory, it still could be. But the signs were already accumulating, and the decision curve left no room for delay. Regina had no interest in being briefed after the fact. She intended to be there from the start.

Her own OR had been scheduled for an atrial septal defect closure. Elective. Familiar, anatomically favorable. The rhythm was well-rehearsed, the outcome expected. The sort of operation that settled a morning and kept the day on track.

It could be postponed.

She was moving to reschedule when the name at the bottom of the note caught her attention.

Emma Swan, M.D.

It had no bearing on the decision.

Her gaze lingered anyway.

Don't.

She should not reach. She should not want to.

She had convinced Emma once that she would be the one to stay. Then she'd left.

It had been the only choice available to her. The right one. She still believed that. But the cost had never lessened. It had settled beneath everything she had built since the day she walked away.

The case required her. That was the reason she gave herself.

She cleared her morning and sent word that she would be down.

The imaging suite was quiet when she arrived. The CTA was up and paused mid-sequence. The trauma resident, most likely.

The dissection tracked just distal to the left subclavian artery. A narrow tear, well-contained, with contrast pooling along the outer curvature of the wall. No active extravasation, but the mediastinum had begun to widen.

Grade III. High risk. Technically stable.

She moved into the sagittal view and followed the rise of the arch. The angle was steep, the landing zone irregular, but within range. She had managed worse. The seal would be tight. The margin, narrow. But with the correct sheath and careful pacing, it could hold.

Endovascular would be faster and cleaner, with lower physiologic stress. The graft could spare the chest wall and reduce complications associated with open exposure. If the anatomy could be controlled, it remained the better option.

She paused the scan, considering the contours again.

Not ideal. But possible.

She opened the 3D reconstruction and waited for the model to settle. The proximal neck was short, though measurable. The curve could be managed with precise wire control and disciplined imaging. Bleeding risk would be lower. Recovery, faster. The arch still posed concern, but it hadn't ruled itself out.

Behind her, the door opened.

"I knew you'd already be here."

Regina didn't turn. "Grade III dissection, distal to the left subclavian. The proximal neck is short. The arch is steep."

"Endovascular?"

"That's the current plan." Regina adjusted the sagittal view. "If I can seat the graft without compromising the branches, it should hold."

Elsa moved closer, her attention settling on the projection. "How stable?"

"Responsive to pressors. Central line is in. He's still intubated."

"I'll take radial access before induction. Large bore, both sides. Crossmatch six. We'll bring two with us."

"You're expecting conversion."

"I'm preparing for it."

Regina inclined her head once. Not agreement. Alignment.

Elsa's gaze remained on the screen. "Trauma's on their way up."

Regina shifted the view again, adjusting the 3D reconstruction.

"It's been a while since you took one of these yourself," Elsa said, quieter this time.

Regina didn't answer.

Elsa didn't push. She pulled her phone from her pocket and sent a message off to her team, thumb tapping fast and precise. Then she slipped it away and returned her attention to the scan.

Neither of them spoke.

The door opened behind them.

"He's on his way up." Emma's voice carried tension just beneath the surface. "Sats held. Pressors down to one. We've got a window."

Regina's shoulders shifted. Barely. "I've reviewed the scans."

Footsteps crossed the room. Emma stepped in beside her, not so close as to interfere, but close enough to read the image. Closer than anyone else would have dared.

"And?"

"It's a contained Grade III. Distal to the subclavian. The arch is steep, but I can navigate it. I'm planning endovascular."

Emma's eyes tracked across the reconstruction. "It's risky."

"It's a qualified approach."

"There's no real seal zone."

"There's enough." Regina toggled the view, her voice even. "With wire control and pacing—"

"You're banking on control." Emma didn't raise her voice, but something caught behind the words. A familiarity, sharpened at the edge.

Regina adjusted the view, jaw set. The dissection curved clean and sudden across the outer wall. She had reviewed it twice already. She reviewed it again.

Emma's focus held on the screen, deliberate and unmoving. "He's young. No comorbidities. No prior interventions. Chest is clean. I can give you the space."

Regina toggled to the sagittal plane. Thin margin. Sharp rise. Worse under pressure.

"He'll bleed," she said.

"Not if I'm fast."

Her eyes traced the flare just above the takeoff. A knife's edge. Maybe less.

"You'll need the fourth space."

"I know."

"And if he destabilizes before—"

"I won't let him."

Regina glanced over. Emma met her gaze without hesitation. No bravado. Just certainty, grounded and lived-in. Regina had once built an entire life around that certainty.

She didn't speak. Didn't nod. Just followed the lumen's curve one last time.

Then she straightened. "We open."

Emma moved first.

Regina's gaze followed her to the door. Lingered there a moment longer than necessary.

It was reflex, residual and ungoverned. Like the memory of impact before the pain.

Emma's voice carried down the corridor, briefing the trauma team, confirming access, asserting order.

Regina turned from the screen.

Elsa remained where she was. Her gaze rested on the scan for a moment, then shifted.

"Is this the first time you've worked together?" she asked. Her voice held no particular inflection.

Regina did not answer immediately. She smoothed the edge of her coat sleeve, a small adjustment that required no attention. "It is."

Elsa's eyes lingered. Just a breath too long.

Then she looked away. She gathered her tablet with one hand and turned toward the door.

"Could have fooled me." She paused at the threshold. "I'll see you in OR Two."

Regina did not watch her go.

+++++

Emma

OR Two was already humming by the time Emma stepped into the scrub room. Through the glass, the setup was taking shape: drapes pulled, instrument trays open, the circulator logging vitals with one hand and checking blood units with the other.

They were fast.

She turned the water on hot and reached for the brush.

There was always this stretch. The gap between control and chaos. The beat before skin split, before the field opened and everything stilled enough for focus to take over. She used to resent the waiting. Now she used it.

She scrubbed her nails clean, working methodically from left to right. Palms, knuckles, between the fingers. Rinse. Repeat.

She'd done enough of these to know how quickly they could tank. Blink, and the pressure's gone. Wait too long, and you're shoulder-deep in a chest, trying to claw it back.

The seal zone was trash. They both knew it. She'd called for the field because it was the only way to stay ahead of the bleed—not because Regina couldn't land the graft, but because she might not get the chance.

She dried off and pushed through the doors.

The tech was waiting. Gown first, then gloves, snapped into place, snug at the wrist.

Emma rolled her shoulders once and approached the table.

The chest was already prepped. Drapes tucked, landmarks exposed. Betadine glistened across the skin, sharp lines drawn in. She traced the fourth intercostal with her eyes, ran the angle in her head. She knew exactly where she was going.

The patient looked even smaller up close. Heart rate holding at 112. BP low, but steady. Pressor dose was manageable. If they moved fast.

She glanced at Elsa.

"Any changes?"

Elsa didn't look up. "Nope. Art line's reading clean. Vent's quiet. He's holding."

The room settled into that particular stillness she'd come to expect just before a high-stakes open. No music. No jokes. Just the sound of monitors ticking in rhythm and the last few pieces of setup sliding into place.

The door opened.

The shift was immediate. The room snapped to attention. Everyone but Emma.

Regina entered, scrubbed to the elbows, hands held high. The tech didn't need prompting; the gown was already waiting. Regina stood still while the fabric settled around her, ties pulled snug at the back. Her eyes swept the room: Elsa, the monitors, the drape.

They caught on Emma. Just for a second. Then moved on.

Emma's fingers curled once at her side. A useless damn reflex.

She made herself breathe, slow and measured. This wasn't the time. In here, she was who she'd worked to become. Not the stupid girl Regina had walked away from.

Regina took her position across the table.

Her hands hovered just above the drape, reading the terrain as if it were familiar. Like she knew the angles before she saw them. Like the outcome had been decided the moment she arrived.

Emma centered herself over the fourth space, retraced the landmarks in her head. Lateral to the sternum, just above the nipple line. Wide enough to expose the arch, clean enough to close without struggle.

"Vitals?" she asked.

Elsa's voice came from behind the drape. "MAP's holding. Tidal volume low. You've got five, maybe six, before we need to drop pressure."

A beat. Then: "He's ready when you are."

Emma nodded. "Good."

She looked to the circulator. "Confirming: male, twenty-four. Cyclist, blunt trauma, suspected aortic transection. Left thoracotomy, fourth intercostal."

"Confirmed," Regina said.

Her voice was controlled, professional, but Emma still felt it like a jolt under her skin.

She looked up.

Regina was already watching her. Steady. Exact. That look she gave when she meant it, when she expected something and knew she'd get it.

It should've felt clinical.

It didn't.

"You get me there," Regina said, low and precise, "and I'll land the graft."

"I'll get you there."

The blade hit her palm, cool and familiar.

Emma centered her stance, locked in, and made the first cut.

+++++

Regina

They stood at the scrub sink in silence, side by side.

The water ran hot against Regina's skin. It softened the stiffness in her fingers without offering relief, and she made no effort to adjust the temperature. Discomfort had its uses. It gave her something immediate, something she could anchor to without consequence.

Emma moved with purpose beside her, technique unhurried and precise. She kept her eyes on the basin. Regina registered every shift of weight, every adjustment of grip, as though her own body had been trained to notice. The proximity was clinical by definition. Intolerable by every other measure.

The patient was stable.

That should have been enough. But the wire had shifted off axis, the pressure had dropped. The arch had turned sharply. The seal had begun to narrow.

Her left hand had anchored the sheath. Her right had maintained tension through the curve. There had been no space to pause, no tolerance for hesitation.

She had calculated the angle and begun the rotation. Her hands were already in motion.

But the graft would have slipped. The flare would not have seated. The seal would have failed.

And then Emma had moved.

It had been a shift small enough to miss, but exact enough to matter. Her elbow angled outward, wrist rotating just slightly, clearing the field by less than a centimeter. Just enough space. Just in time.

They had never trained together. Had never built the language that lived between movement and intent.

But somehow, Emma had understood.

Regina finished rinsing.

The silence pressed in, sharp at the edges. Emma had not spoken. Had not looked at her since the last suture was tied.

Regina reached for the towel. The cotton was coarse, institutional. She pressed it into her palm with more force than necessary, then worked it slowly over each finger.

She could have spoken. Should have, perhaps.

The assist had mattered. The timing, even more. That someone had read her that well—that Emma, after all this time, had anticipated her next move without a word exchanged.

Don't.

Emma had said it more than once. She had meant it.

So Regina bunched the towel, tossed it into the hamper, and reached for the door.

She did not look back. If Emma followed, she did not hear it.

+++++

Emma

Emma made a point of seeing her patients.

Some attendings didn't bother. They'd round once in the morning, sign off on notes, call it done. Let the residents handle the rest.

That wasn't how she worked.

You didn't crack someone's chest open and then disappear. You looked them in the eye after. Tracked the recovery. Gave a damn.

Bed five was first.

Nineteen-year-old kid. GSW to the left chest.

This morning he'd still been on the vent.

Now he was sitting up. Mostly. Propped against a stack of hospital pillows, pale and wired to half a dozen monitors, but breathing on his own. It wasn't nothing.

Emma knocked once on the doorframe.

The kid's mom, Theresa, glanced up fast. Same hoodie she'd been wearing since day one, scrubs underneath. She hadn't left his side much.

"You're back," Theresa said. Her voice was worn thin.

Emma stepped inside. "Told you I would be."

She moved to the bedside and reached for gloves. "Hey Marcus," she said, quieter. "Mind if I take a look?"

His gaze tracked her. He didn't flinch when she snapped the gloves on, didn't resist when she lifted the gown.

The dressing was clean. Edges sealed. No fluid. Skin cool under her fingertips.

"Looking good," she said. "Really good."

He didn't respond. His breathing was shallow, but steady.

"You hurting?"

"Little bit."

She waited. Gave him space to crack.

"Okay," he said finally. "More than a little."

Emma nodded. "I'll adjust the meds."

Theresa hadn't moved from her chair. Just kept her hand on his ankle like it anchored them both.

Emma turned to her. "He's holding steady. Vitals are strong. The incision's clean. His chest tube's draining less than this morning. That's a good sign. If things stay this way overnight, we'll start talking about moving him out of the ICU tomorrow."

Theresa nodded. Her eyes were rimmed in red, but dry.

"Thank you, Dr. Swan."

Emma gave a small, real smile. "That's what I'm here for."

She faced Marcus again. "You're doing great. I'll be by tomorrow. If the trend holds, you might get upgraded to actual food."

Her gaze dropped to the bedside tray. The cup of Jell-O sat open, barely touched.

Emma arched a brow at it. "Can't blame you."

Marcus didn't smile, exactly, but something in his face eased.

She stripped off her gloves and stepped toward the door.

"Page the nurse if anything shifts," she told Theresa. "I'll be around."

And then she moved on.

Just outside the pod, Belle and Elsa stood by the med station. Belle had her tablet in one hand, scrolling absently. Elsa held a half-finished coffee, posture loose.

Emma walked over.

Belle glanced up. "How's he doing?"

Emma leaned against the counter. "Better than expected. If he holds overnight, I'll start the transfer paperwork in the morning."

"Pain?" Belle asked.

"He said a little. Didn't push for more, but it's written all over him."

Belle's mouth twitched, thumb hovering near her screen. "What are you thinking?"

"Scheduled Tylenol, oxy PRN. He's post-op day two. I want coverage, not fog."

Belle tilted her head. "You want to keep the IV dilaudid available if he needs it?"

"Yeah. Taper slow. Let him catch up to himself."

"Alright. I'll put it through and flag the nurse for closer pain reassessment."

Emma lifted her chin slightly. "Appreciate it."

Belle tucked the tablet under her arm. "You settling in okay?"

Emma arched a brow. "At the hospital or my new apartment?"

"Dealer's choice."

She could've lied and said fine. Could've made a joke and moved on. But Belle had that kind of face. Open, patient, the kind that didn't ask unless it mattered.

"Leased a place downtown. Looked decent online. Concrete floors, exposed beams, one of those converted lofts that seems like a good idea when you're scrolling at midnight."

"And now?"

Emma exhaled through her nose. "Now it echoes every time the fridge kicks on. Feels like I'm living inside a warehouse with opinions."

The empty boxes still stacked by the wall. The way the silence had weight to it. She didn't mention either.

"That sounds like the start of a horror movie," Elsa said.

"If it is, I hope the ghost knows how to cook."

Belle smiled, quick and real. "So you live up to the surgeon stereotype. Can't even manage an egg?"

Emma tilted her head. "I can cook an egg."

Belle raised a brow. "Like an actual egg? Or one of those cafeteria specials that comes out rubbery and sad?"

Emma shrugged, half a grin tugging at her mouth. "I can scramble. Probably. I just haven't needed to in a while."

Elsa took a slow sip of coffee. "That sounds like someone running on vending machines and bad decisions."

Emma grinned. "If I didn't want a life full of poor choices, I wouldn't have gone into trauma."

Belle gave her a look. Warm, teasing, but edged with something softer. "Well, if you hit a full week without a vegetable, we're staging an intervention."

Emma leaned her forearms onto the counter, smirk softening. "Appreciate the heads-up."

Elsa exchanged a glance with Belle, then turned back. "We're having dinner at Belle's Friday night. You should come."

Emma blinked. "Yeah?"

"Nothing fancy. Just food that didn't come out of a wrapper. And vegetables. I can guarantee at least one."

The instinct was to deflect. Say she had charts to finish, or sleep to catch up on. But something about the way they said it made that harder to do.

"I'll think about it."

Belle's smile widened like that was more than enough. "I'll text you the address. Just in case."

Emma's gaze drifted past them toward the SICU corridor. Her weight shifted slightly.

"Think I'll look in on the case from earlier."

Elsa followed her gaze. "The cyclist?"

Emma nodded once.

"I'll come with you," Elsa said. Easy, but deliberate.

Belle tapped her tablet back on. "I'm heading back down."

Emma pushed off the counter. Elsa fell into step beside her. Belle turned the other direction, and the three of them separated with the quiet efficiency of people who worked in proximity, not always together.

The hallway stretched dim and quiet. Monitors blinked. A nurse passed the other way, head down, papers in hand.

Elsa broke the silence.

"You know, I've seen Regina operate with a lot of different surgeons over the years."

Emma glanced over. The name had barely left Elsa's mouth and she already wanted her to stop talking.

She didn't have the bandwidth for this.

Didn't have the space.

Not today. Maybe not ever.

Elsa kept walking, eyes forward, like she hadn't noticed the tension creeping into Emma's shoulders.

"She's consistent. She makes a call and sees it through."

They reached the door. Emma picked up the chart, flipped it open. Let her eyes skim the words without really reading them.

Elsa stopped beside her. Quiet. Present in that way Emma was starting to recognize. Like she wasn't pushing, but she wasn't leaving either.

"Today was different."

Let it go. Just let it go.

"Different how?"

Damn it. She really was her own worst enemy.

Elsa didn't answer right away. She tilted her coffee cup, swirled what was left.

"She changed her plan."

Emma's brow lifted. "Surgeons do that. Things shift. We adapt."

Her tone came out flat. Dismissive, maybe.

Elsa considered her for a moment. "Most do."

A pause.

Then: "Regina doesn't."

Emma's jaw tightened before she could stop it.

That didn't track. Not with the Regina she'd known.

Regina had never stuck to a plan just to prove she was right. She'd tossed the whole thing if there was a smarter way through. She'd adjusted. She'd backed off when she needed to. She'd listened—God, she'd listened, even when it pissed her off to do it.

And with Emma? She'd bent more than once. Not out of weakness. Regina didn't have that in her. She'd bent because she cared. Because Emma's opinion had mattered. Had meant something.

Elsa was watching her. Level. Quiet. Like she was hearing things Emma hadn't said.

"It was a good look on her," Elsa said. Easy. Genuine. "Worked out for the kid, too."

She tipped her chin toward the chart still in Emma's hands.

Emma wasn't going to read into it. This wasn't the time. And even if it was, what the hell would she do with it?

"Maybe I just have that effect on people," she said. Dry. With a crooked smile that didn't quite land.

Elsa took one last sip of her coffee.

"Maybe you do," she said. Voice light. "Either way, it worked out for him."

Emma didn't answer.

"I'll let you go in." Elsa gestured toward the chart with a small tilt of her chin, then stepped back. "I'll see you around."

Emma tapped the edge of the clipboard. "If not in the OR, maybe Friday."

Elsa's smile came easy. "That would be nice."

She turned and walked off.

Emma stayed where she was, eyes on the chart, letting the quiet settle in full.

Then she turned the page and moved on.

+++++

Regina

Everything was done.

And still, she had not moved.

The quarterly staffing report sat open on her screen. Final edits complete. OR utilization data color-coded, annotated, woven into the broader metrics summary she owed Hopper by Friday.

Her inbox was quiet. Her calendar locked down through next Wednesday. Her to-do list cleared for the first time all week.

She could have gone home.

Instead, the block utilization summary for her department remained open. Start times, turnover delays, cancellations. Line items no one outside the department cared about until they did. The kind of numbers she sharpened ahead of a conversation that had not happened yet, but inevitably would.

Her phone lit up without sound.

The cursor blinked in the final cell, waiting for the last formula. She entered it. Adjusted the formatting. Saved the file.

Then she reached for the phone.

The voice came through smooth and certain. "Regina. Still at the hospital, I imagine."

Regina's grip tightened slightly. "I'm the Chief of a department. That tends to involve being here."

"Mmm." The sound carried approval, or something close enough. "I only hope they're giving you what you deserve. You didn't work this hard to be buried under surgical residents and departmental busywork."

"I'm not overrun."

"That's my girl." A pause, brief and weighted. "I meant to say—your father would be proud. I know I am."

"Thank you, Mother." She straightened in her chair. "I've arranged for Martin to meet you at the terminal."

"That's thoughtful." Cora's voice softened in a way Regina had spent years learning not to trust. "He always did drive more carefully when it was you who scheduled him. I suppose people rise to meet your expectations."

Regina shifted her gaze back to the monitor. The spreadsheet blurred slightly at the edges. "Your itinerary mentioned an eleven-thirty arrival. I've blocked the afternoon."

"Good. I'd hate for us to rush. Bellacroix has the terrace reserved. They've improved the linens since the last time we went. Someone finally convinced them starch doesn't impress."

Regina made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.

"You'll wear the navy coat, I assume?" The question came light, conversational. "The one with the sharp collar. It suits the setting, especially on the terrace, assuming the forecast holds."

Regina's throat tightened. "I'll decide in the morning."

"Of course." The indulgence in Cora's tone was unmistakable. "I only mention it because people tend to watch, especially now. The right choices make an impression. They say something about who you are."

Regina kept her voice even. "I'm not in the habit of choosing poorly."

A soft laugh came through the line. "Well. At least not anymore, dear."

Regina's hand remained where it was, resting lightly against the edge of the laptop. Her gaze stayed fixed on the screen, though the numbers had ceased to hold meaning.

Cora never needed to name names. Regina had chosen once—without permission, without apology. She had paid for it in silence, in exile, in the careful removal of every part of her life that had once made her feel whole.

Heat gathered at the base of her neck. Shame, but divided against itself. One part carved by Cora, shaped by years of cold correction. The other, quieter and harder to name, came from having not fought harder.

"Have you given any more thought to what we discussed last time?" Cora's tone remained effortlessly smooth.

The last remark still sat sharp in the place where composure thinned. Regina's breath stayed even.

"You'll have to be more specific."

Cora's voice gentled, polished just enough to sound sincere. "Regina. You're the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at a prestigious hospital. You've climbed every ladder I put in front of you. And a few I didn't."

Regina said nothing.

"And yet," Cora went on, slow and deliberate, "there's no one at your side."

Pressure returned behind her temple, dull and insistent. Regina reached forward and closed the lid of her laptop.

"We've talked about this." The weight of patience worn thin carried through the line. "You're not a resident anymore. You don't have to prove yourself with hours and call sheets. You're a woman of influence. You should be building a life that reflects that."

"I have a life." The words came quiet but firm.

"You have a career. Which is exceptional. You've mastered the work. But that alone won't build legacy."

The correction arrived smooth and certain, as if the line had been waiting its cue. Regina stared at the faint outline of her reflection in the darkened screen. Nothing untrue lived in what Cora had said. That was what made it dangerous.

The pause that followed was light, almost conversational.

"Do you even want children, Regina?"

The question struck somewhere old. Somewhere closed off.

Regina blinked. Once. Then again.

She should not have let it catch her. But it did.

"Yes." Her voice was not steady, but it held.

She drew breath. "Yes. I do."

The thought was not new. The wanting had lived in her for years, shaped during a time when those hopes had felt within reach. She had imagined a family. But that life belonged to a version of herself she had forfeited, along with the person who had once made it feel possible.

And wanting, she had learned, was never enough.

"I see." Cora's tone remained cool and measured. "So you understand why timing matters. You're no longer twenty-five. Opportunities narrow, whether you choose to see it or not."

Regina's fingers curled around the edge of the desk, slow and deliberate. The contact steadied her.

"This isn't pressure. It's perspective. You've cultivated a reputation, certainly. But reputation is fleeting. Legacy is what endures. And legacy is never built alone."

Regina did not respond. She kept her gaze level, her breath controlled.

"I'm not asking you to compromise. I'm saying it's time to invest in something lasting. You have options. Good ones."

The pause that followed was thin but intentional.

"I only want what's best for you." Something that passed for warmth touched Cora's voice.

Regina let a breath settle before replying, tone carefully smoothed. "I appreciate that, Mother. I'm looking forward to tomorrow."

The words landed without flaw, careful and exact.

"Wear the navy."

The line went dead.

Regina

The navy coat had arrived the week she was named Chief. Tissue-wrapped, impeccably folded, accompanied by a card in her mother's hand: A woman in your position ought to look the part.

It rested now on the armchair in her bedroom, laid out the night before after she had pressed it herself.

Sunlight cut across the floorboards in narrow gold. Most mornings, she was gone before it reached past the shutters. But today, the schedule had been adjusted. Chen had taken rounds, and anything movable had been moved.

She had a few hours at the hospital before lunch. The day was no longer hers, but that did not excuse disorder.

She dressed before the mirror, its height ensuring nothing escaped notice. One button at a time, she fastened the cream blouse, the silk cool against her skin. She smoothed it flat with the heel of her hand, then secured the cuffs with their small, mother-of-pearl buttons. The trousers aligned with the jacket. Navy, structured, the hem grazing her heels without a crease.

Sleep had eluded her all week. The weight of it gathered faint behind her eyes.

She reached for the concealer and covered it.

The lipstick came next. A shade of red Cora had once dismissed as theatrical in daylight.

Regina applied it anyway.

Her mother would notice. She would parse the choice, extract whatever meaning suited her. It would give her something to say. Something Regina had already prepared to absorb.

She crossed to the chair and lifted the coat by the collar. The lining was cool, the shape unyielding. She slid one arm in, then the other, and let it settle over her shoulders.

In the mirror, the fit was flawless.

The cut followed close through the sleeves, rigid across the back. Meant to hold its lines, not move with her. Built for presence, not function. Restrained to the millimeter.

And none of it hers.

Her mother's voice rose without prompting. It's not control if it unravels the moment someone else is in the room.

It had been there from the beginning. Woven into instinct. Embedded beneath every decision. Cora had taught her to anticipate judgment, to enter every room already accounted for. There was no margin for uncertainty. No grace for error. You held your ground, or you forfeited it.

For years, she had mistaken that for strength.

She reached for the cuffs beneath the sleeves. Her hands stilled halfway.

A memory surfaced. Unbidden. Whole.

They'd skipped class that day. Reckless, entirely Emma's idea.

The storm had rolled in fast: sheets of rain, sideways wind, the sky drained of color. Regina had just turned the key in her dorm door when Emma caught her hand.

"No one's taking attendance during a hurricane," she'd said, eyes bright with mischief.

"It's not a hurricane," Regina had replied, even as she was being tugged down the stairs.

She'd resisted, as she always did. There had been a midterm to prepare for. Notes to organize.

But Emma was a force. Inevitable. And they'd ended up behind the library, beneath the old pedestrian bridge. The rain blurred the outlines of things. Regina's shoes were soaked. Her coat clung to her sleeves. Emma's hoodie hung dark with water, droplets sliding down the curve of her neck.

They didn't speak at first.

The rain filled the space for them.

Regina had pressed her back to the brick, trying to remember why she'd resisted this, why it was so hard to let anything soft or light take up space.

She could still feel the shape of Emma's hand in hers, even after she'd let go.

Emma had been watching her. She had that frustrating way of seeing things Regina hadn't meant to offer.

"You alright?" she'd asked, after a while.

Regina had nodded. "I'm fine."

Emma didn't press. She didn't fill the quiet. Just moved a little closer, until their shoulders brushed.

"You don't have to earn every second," she'd said, low.

Regina had glanced over.

Emma wasn't looking at her. "You don't have to prove anything. Not with me."

The words weren't dramatic. Weren't meant to be. They just settled, firm, certain, like something Regina should have already known.

She hadn't answered. She hadn't had language for the way it felt.

Emma's hand had found hers again. No insistence. No angle.

Only presence.

Regina had let her fingers rest in the spaces offered.

And something eased.

She hadn't known, then, how rare that kind of room would be. What it meant, to be held without condition.

After Emma, it had never come back.

The mirror re-entered focus. Regina adjusted the lapel until it lay precisely as intended. The echo of that day lingered beneath the coat's weight: an uninvited warmth, a trace of being seen without the careful lines she now carried.

Cora was in town for a reason. She was never anywhere without one. That it happened to be the same week Emma had reappeared at her hospital strained the definition of coincidence.

Timing that felt too precise had taught Regina to be wary.

+++++

Emma

The first cup was almost gone when Ruby came down the hall, ponytail swinging, two coffees in hand.

She held one out. "Figured you could use it."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Should I be worried?"

"Call it goodwill," Ruby said. "Or karmic debt from the chest tube disaster."

Emma accepted the cup. Warm—definitely bought, not brewed in some hallway drip machine with a grudge. She took a sip. Sweet but strong.

"That wasn't even your screw-up," she said.

"Yeah, well. Students are technically ours until proven otherwise."

Emma paused, like she might argue the point. Didn't. "Fine. You're absolved."

Ruby leaned a forearm against the counter like she had nowhere better to be. "Heard Park's looking for you."

Emma took another sip before answering. "Yeah. She wants to 'walk through workflows,' like that's a normal thing people say."

"Mid-morning admin summons," Ruby said. "You're officially on the radar."

Emma glanced over. "That good or bad?"

Ruby's mouth tilted. "Depends. Did she smile when she said it?"

"She… did something adjacent to smiling."

Ruby lifted a brow. "And?"

"Said she trusts my instincts. Wants to hear my take."

Ruby gave a low whistle. "Alright. You're in."

Emma turned the cup in her hands. "Still can't tell if it's mentoring or punishment."

Ruby snorted. "Is it weird I'm kind of jealous?"

Emma shot her a sidelong look. "Yes."

Ruby just grinned.

Emma rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter. Ruby fell in beside her. The coffee was kicking in, warmth spreading through her chest, but the question still sat there—why she was getting pulled into a process meeting on day four.

"Where to?" Ruby asked.

"Upstairs," Emma said. "Park wants it face-to-face."

"Perfect. Staffing's been dodging me on the overnight float. If I catch them in person, they'll have to pretend to care."

Emma gave a noncommittal nod. She still didn't have a read on how things really worked here—who played politics, who kept score.

The elevator came into view. She hit the call button; the light blinked on with a soft chime.

The doors slid open.

Regina stood inside—alone.

Something dropped low in Emma's stomach before she could brace for it.

She looked—

Fucking hell.

Dangerous.

The kind of dangerous that made Emma lose her place for a beat.

The coat cinched at the waist. Collar sharp against her jaw. Lipstick dark enough to be deliberate. Hair pulled back without a strand out of place.

Emma's breath caught. Just for a second. Long enough to feel stupid about it.

Regina's eyes passed over her without a hitch. Cool. Controlled. Like Emma had never been there at all.

Ruby stepped in first. "Morning, Dr. Mills."

Regina's gaze shifted. "Morning."

Emma stayed back. The doors started to close. She stepped forward before she could second-guess it, crossing to the far side of the car. Calm on the outside. Inside, her pulse kicked harder than it should have.

The car was built for stretchers, for full trauma teams packed shoulder to shoulder. Just three of them here, and somehow it felt crowded.

Ruby sipped her coffee. "You look sharp today. What's the occasion?"

Regina didn't answer right away. Her gaze stayed on the floor numbers. Then, evenly: "My mother's in town."

Emma blinked.

Right. Her mother. The one she still filed under cruel as sport. The kind of woman who made her feel less bad about not having a mom of her own. If that's what they came like, she was better off.

And just like that, the pieces clicked.

The coat, the lipstick, the posture. This wasn't fashion; it was armor. Every inch deliberate. Every inch for Cora.

The Regina she remembered around Cora always pulled in. Went quiet. Held herself like she was bracing for something unnamed. Even when she smiled, there were cracks.

Now?

Nothing. Clean lines. Sealed tight. Untouchable.

Emma wanted to call it a visual contrast, but it wasn't just that. It was the gap between the way Regina had looked at her the other day—less guarded, almost like she'd meant it—and the way she stood now, a fortress rebuilt overnight.

What had Cora cut out to make her stand like that?

Emma didn't ask. Wouldn't have known what to do with the answer.

She took another sip and watched the numbers climb. Ruby said something, but the words slipped past her. The noise in her head was louder.

+++++

Regina

The sun had emerged after all. It bathed the terrace in bright light that did little for the temperature. A steady breeze kept lifting the corners of the tablecloth, unsettling the place settings just enough to register as irritation.

Cora had chosen the restaurant for the view. She preferred places that appeared refined from a distance. Comfort was incidental.

The table had been set before Regina arrived. Sparkling water on ice. A shallow dish of olives no one would touch.

Her mother's tea sat steeping beside her, untouched.

"Punctual as ever." Cora's gaze moved to the coat. "Good. You wore it."

Regina sat.

"It suits the space. You carry it well."

Regina unfolded her napkin. "You said it would."

The smile that followed was faint, unmistakably pleased. "And you listened."

The opening sequence followed its usual rhythm. Updates on Boston's nonprofit sector, a note about fashionable philanthropy, a single remark about the linens. Less starch this time. Someone should be commended.

Regina kept pace where expected. The choreography had been learned years ago. Every exchange built toward something. Cora never wasted time on idle grace.

The salad arrived, artfully sparse. A few leaves arranged with deliberate asymmetry. The vinaigrette barely touched the plate.

Across from her, Cora set down her utensils. "They've improved. I remember when this place tried far too hard."

Regina shifted a leaf aside with her fork. More gesture than intention.

"You can always tell when someone's overreaching." Cora's fingers rested lightly on the knife's handle. "There's a tone to it. Just slightly off. Like they're trying to be heard in the wrong room."

Regina took a sip of water. Her gaze didn't shift.

Cora smiled. Precise. Economical. "But not you."

It wasn't praise. The shape of it had become familiar by now. Positioning, not affirmation.

Tension gathered between Regina's shoulders. The prelude was unmistakable. Something always followed.

"You've come into your own," Cora continued. "The way you lead. You enter a room, and the room adjusts."

Regina held her expression steady. "I have a capable team."

Cora waved that aside. "You sit at the head of a department. You've shaped something formidable. People recognize your name. They defer."

The words came lacquered in polish, but the shape beneath had been carved into Regina's awareness years ago. Cora never lingered in admiration for its own sake.

"You always had potential. You just needed the right frame."

Regina reached for her water. Her fingers stayed steady, though the chill beneath her skin had already settled in. Years in proximity to her mother had taught her body when to retreat inward.

"And now?"

"Now you're nearly there."

Regina drank. A single, deliberate swallow.

Across the table, her mother waited. The pause was calibrated, precise. Cora never waited without purpose.

Then: "There's just one piece left."

Of course there was.

"Legacy."

Cora said it as if naming gravity.

Regina's chest tightened. Automatic. She kept her voice composed. "I lead a department. I set direction. I operate, and I teach."

Cora inclined her head. Acknowledgment, not assent.

"You've built something. I'll give you that." Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup. "But hospitals change. Boards rotate. Donors shift. Names fade."

Her voice softened. Barely. Coaxed into something resembling warmth.

"Family is what endures."

Regina kept her breath even, her jaw set. The reaction stayed where it always had: compressed, internal, unseen.

Cora's smile returned. Precise. Unhurried.

"What you've done is remarkable. But what carries our name forward?"

She lifted her tea. Poised. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Regina's grip on the stem of her glass tightened. Briefly. She released it without comment, returning her hands to her lap, one folding over the other with mechanical care.

Cora went on, interpreting silence as consent. She always had.

"She's intelligent. Her family's discreet, well-connected. They move in the right circles. Not that lineage is everything, of course, but we both know how quickly the wrong association erodes credibility."

Regina's gaze remained level, her expression still.

"I've spoken with her mother." Cora's voice remained light. "Only briefly. Enough to recognize shared values."

Regina smoothed her napkin over her knee. "I see."

"She's open to the possibility." Cora placed her cup down. "As I trust you will be. You're not getting any younger, Regina. The time to build with intention is now."

The old constriction pressed against her sternum. Tight. Familiar. A pressure she had not felt this acutely in years.

But she had learned how to sit through these conversations without showing the bruise. That skill had not diminished.

A gust of wind lifted the edge of the tablecloth. It caught the corner of the napkin. Shifted a spoon.

She did not reach for it.

"You've cultivated something rare. Now it's time to ensure it lasts."

Not a suggestion. A decree. The reason she had come.

Whether to be relieved that this was not about Emma, or unsettled, knowing the conversation remained inevitable, Regina could not decide. If Emma stayed at Boston Mercy for any length of time, Cora would notice. She always did.

"We'll be giving her a tour of the hospital this afternoon. Three o'clock. Her family's donations span three states, and they've taken a particular interest in surgical innovation."

Regina's spine straightened a fraction.

Emma was everywhere now. The last thing she needed was Cora edging closer.

"She wanted to see where you work. Where you lead. I thought it would be grounding."

"And did you think to inform the department?"

"I thought you might prefer the opportunity to shape the impression yourself."

That smile again. Serene. Engineered.

"She's curious, Regina. Genuinely. I told her you had vision. That you knew how to move things forward."

Cora took a final sip of tea. Unhurried. Unyielding.

"She'll be waiting outside the main entrance. And Regina—"

Her tone lightened, falsely gentle.

"We will not keep her waiting."

+++++

Emma

The cursor blinked at the end of her note.

The overhead page cut through before she could finish.

Trauma Team to ED. ETA four minutes. Blast injury. Pedestrian. Solo.

Emma pivoted toward the stairwell, badge swinging against her hip. Her feet hit tile fast, the rhythm automatic.

She took the stairs two at a time, one hand skimming the rail, the other already reaching for her trauma badge. Burns were routine. Explosions weren't. They came with pressure waves and debris—injuries that looked stable until the patient crashed halfway through a workup.

By the time she cleared the second floor, the trauma curtain was already open. The gurney wheels shrieked as it rolled through.

The smell hit first. Burned oil and melted plastic. Synthetic fabric that had turned to sludge. The kind of stink that clung to you through multiple showers.

The medic's voice cut through the noise, sharp and practiced. "Male, twenty-eight. Lit a cigarette near a propane tank. Got thrown maybe six feet. Flash and contact burns—lower abdomen, right thigh. GCS fourteen. Stable en route."

Emma was already gloving up. "Name?"

"Mike. Alert when we got there. No meds, no allergies. We cut his pants to keep pressure on the leg."

The medic stepped aside.

Bright blisters striped the lower abdomen and inner thigh. Sloughing already. Deep partial-thickness at best. Some areas looked waxy—tissue that wouldn't recover. But that wasn't the priority.

The lateral thigh was open. Split wide from mid-hip down nearly to the knee. Tissue blackened at the edge. The blast had torn more than it burned. Probably secondary debris, maybe direct pressure.

The margins weren't clean.

"Tourniquet?"

"Didn't need one. Bleeding responded to pressure."

Emma crouched, pressed two fingers gently into the muscle just below the wound. No contractility. No rebound. The tissue was soft, unresponsive.

Dead muscle. Great.

She straightened. "This isn't a dressing and wait situation."

Her voice lifted, loud and level. "Get Burn and Ortho. Two large bore. Warm LR. Trauma labs, coags, carboxy. Type and cross for four. Move."

Nurses peeled off in sequence—IVs, blood draw, monitors, rhythm strip. Efficient. Familiar. No wasted steps.

Ruby appeared beside her, already gloved and gowned. "Talk to me."

"Flash and contact burns—lower abdomen and thigh, likely full-thickness in spots. Blast laceration to the lateral thigh. Muscle's nonviable. It's not bleeding now, but he'll be septic by morning if we leave it."

Ruby gently lifted the leg, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. That's not salvageable."

"He needs a formal washout and debridement. Now."

Emma turned to the resident hovering in the doorway. "Page the OR. Trauma slot, debridement set-up, wide prep. Burn and ortho will meet us there."

The resident hesitated. "Should we image first?"

Emma didn't blink. "Open wound. Nonviable tissue. No tourniquet. No time. We don't need a CT to confirm what's already on the table."

She pivoted back to the patient. He was fading under the pain, breathing faster, pupils tight. Not crashing, but riding the edge.

Emma leaned in close. "Mike. You're at Boston Mercy. You've got some burns and a leg injury. We're taking you to surgery to clean the wound and stop the damage from spreading. You understand?"

He gave a slow nod. His voice rasped out, half-formed. "Hot dog stand…"

She leaned closer. "What's that?"

"Just wanted lunch," he muttered.

She straightened. Bad luck and bad timing—story of the world.

"Let's move."

The team mobilized around her. Monitors detached with quick clicks, the gurney already rolling toward the corridor. Ruby called out orders as they went, her voice slicing clean through the noise.

Emma peeled off her gloves, the latex snapping free.

This was the part that made sense. No politics. No careful words or loaded silences.

Just damage and what you did about it.

+++++

Regina

Regina keyed them into the lab. She had chosen it for their first stop. Quiet, removed from the day's usual rhythm. No one would interrupt here. No one would drift in with questions.

No one, she hoped, would come around a corner and complicate the arrangement any further.

It was the kind of work her mother wanted on display. A curated show of excellence, precisely framed.

Her pulse pressed high beneath the collar of the navy coat. It had not eased since she stepped onto campus beside Cora. Not after the introductions, not after the walk from the entrance. Not even now.

Inside, the lab sat in between uses. Equipment stood powered but idle, screens lit but unattended. A draft printout of trial data sat clipped to the central console. The technician had followed her instructions exactly.

She moved to the terminal, entered her credentials, and began where she always did.

"We're tracking long-term outcomes in patients who received regenerative cardiac grafts during bypass."

She didn't turn. Let the data lead. Let the terminology carry.

"This cohort received a modified patch designed to reduce scar formation and preserve myocardial function. We're six months out. The results are stable."

The words landed with precision. The data shimmered across the display, color-coded and orderly.

Behind her, fabric shifted—a coat settling, footsteps closing the distance to the console.

Regina glanced back.

Genevieve stood a few feet away now, hands folded lightly at her waist. The scarf at her neck was silk, the coat charcoal wool and tailored close. Her hair was swept into a pinned twist—clean, practical, elegant without effort. She moved the way people did when they'd spent years in rooms like this. When belonging had never been a question.

Her gaze tracked the screen, then returned to Regina. Not scrutinizing. Appreciating.

"This is the trial you spoke about at the Harvard exchange, isn't it?" Genevieve asked. Her voice was warm, exact. "I remember someone mentioning Mass General in the same breath."

Naturally. That was how these things moved. Information passed at the right tables, carried by the right names.

Regina nodded. "They're running a parallel protocol. We lead the trial."

"And you're overseeing all of it? Surgical, clinical, research?"

"I'm the principal investigator."

"Of course." The words softened, admiration without surprise. The kind of response that confirmed what had already been decided.

Cora's voice followed from somewhere to Regina's left, touched with both pride and possession. "She never delegates the parts that matter. That's always been her approach."

Something warmer crossed Genevieve's expression—maybe even fond. "Most people in your position don't stay that close to the details."

Regina met her gaze briefly. "The details are where outcomes live."

Genevieve gave a quiet nod. "It shows."

The warmth in her tone settled too close. Regina turned back to the terminal.

"The next set tracks left ventricular ejection fraction at rest and under exertion."

She advanced the display. New graphs populated. Clean lines. Controlled variables. Easier to manage than the rest of it.

She presented as she always did. Her pace matched the room, her pauses landing where attention needed to hold. Each metric came with context, each transition arranged to carry the weight she wanted remembered. She had given this talk before—to donors, fellows, board members with long memories. She knew what they expected. She gave it to them.

Cora watched with the particular gleam she reserved for things done correctly. When the room, the moment, and the image all aligned. When Regina fit the shape she had been carved into.

Genevieve listened with composed attention, her posture upright but not rigid. Her interest was even, receptive, unobtrusive. She responded the way one might to a completed painting—admiring the lines without asking what it took to steady the brush.

She smiled when it served. Nodded when it would land.

And Regina felt it. Something small and tight catching just behind her breastbone.

Genevieve had drifted nearer. Her focus remained unbroken, steady. The set of her shoulders was precise, every shift contained within a narrow range. There was no angle to manage, no need to anticipate. She never pressed, never drifted beyond the boundaries the moment allowed.

She asked about systems. Protocols. Oversight.

Never once did she ask what it took to hold it all up.

Perhaps that was the design. The kind of compatibility Cora could craft in advance and still call organic.

Genevieve was everything Regina had once believed she was supposed to want. Intelligent. Gracious. Beautiful in a way that didn't demand notice. A woman who could hold court or fall silent, who appreciated structure, who offered space but never depth. Drawn to outcomes, not origins. To poise, not process. To the polished surface Regina had spent half her life preserving.

And so, Regina played the part.

But with each response, she receded. Disappeared in increments. One carefully measured word at a time.

Genevieve's attention had drifted toward a framed study summary on the far wall when Cora spoke again.

"Why don't we see the operating suites?"

Regina paused. A breath—no more than that. But Cora caught it.

"They're finishing cases," Regina said. "It's late in the day. The last block might still be in use. We could go through the sim lab instead."

"Simulations are for students." Cora's tone was smooth, dismissive. She turned toward Genevieve, indulgent. "You should see where Regina works at her best."

Regina's next words were already forming when Genevieve turned.

"I'd love to see it," she said. Calm. Certain. "If it's no trouble."

The redirect died before it reached her lips. To refuse now would draw attention to the refusal itself.

"Of course," Regina said. Her tone stayed level. Her face revealed nothing. "This way."

She led them toward one of the last places she wanted to go. Emma could be anywhere. The OR corridor. The lounge. Scrubbing in. Lately, that seemed unlikely.

The collar of her jacket pressed against her throat. Too structured. Too close.

Genevieve moved beside her with the comfort of someone long accustomed to being welcomed. Behind them, Cora's presence settled like a signature: unmistakable, perfectly placed.

Regina held her posture. Kept her gaze forward.

The tension gathered beneath her skin. A seam drawn too tight across the center of her chest.

One more pull and something would split.

They reached the elevators. Regina pressed the call button. Each movement exact.

The doors opened. She stepped in first. Genevieve followed. Then Cora.

Regina faced forward as the doors slid shut.

The descent began.

+++++

Emma

Emma stepped into the hallway and pulled the cap off the back of her neck. The air hit cooler than she'd expected—enough to register, not enough to help. She let out a breath and rolled her shoulders once. More habit than relief.

Elsa was already waiting. Clean scrub top, cap still on, arms folded loose across her chest.

Emma leaned into the wall beside her. "Something go wrong?"

"No." Elsa's voice stayed even. "But I wasn't happy with his respiratory effort at the end."

Emma crossed her arms. "He held sats."

"End-tidal drifted. Nothing critical, but it caught my eye. Effort was shallow. Could've been early block regression, pain guarding, or stress response."

Emma exhaled through her nose. "You think we'll have to reintubate?"

"Unlikely, if PACU handles him properly. He's metabolizing fast and under-reporting. If they delay pain control, he'll overcompensate until he crashes."

Emma's jaw shifted. "And no one catches it until he's circling the drain."

"I flagged for frequent reassessment and left standing orders for escalation." Elsa paused. "Burn still wanted to hold the PCA. Said he 'looked comfortable.'"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because you had him paralyzed and dialed in."

She glanced over. "You waited out here just to tell me that?"

Elsa didn't miss a beat. "Felt more direct than a note in the chart."

Emma huffed. "And harder to ignore."

"Exactly."

A pause settled between them. Emma shifted her weight, easing one shoulder back against the wall. Her scrubs clung to her spine, damp with sweat and the residual heat of the OR.

She needed something for her hands. "Coffee?"

Elsa checked her watch. "It's 4:10."

Emma shrugged. "And?"

That earned the faintest smile. "Sure."

The corridor opened ahead. Elevators to the right, stairs just beyond. Emma pressed the call button, then let her hand drop.

"Stairs might be faster."

Emma turned slightly.

Elsa met her eye. "You seem like someone who resets better in motion."

Emma let out half a breath. Almost a laugh.

"You're not wrong."

They turned together. Their footsteps were quiet on tile, two steps out of sync, then even again.

+++++

Regina

The air had cooled. Regina stood on the plaza outside the hospital, the sun low behind the building, casting long shadows across the pavement. The breeze from earlier had stilled.

Genevieve waited by the town car, adjusting her coat. A strand of hair had slipped near her temple. She left it there. It softened her, slightly. Made her seem less composed by design, more composed by habit.

"I meant what I said." Genevieve's voice was warm, deliberate. "Your work is extraordinary. I'd love to see more of it. And more of you, if you'd allow it."

The words were gracious. Carefully placed. This was not flirtation for show. Genevieve had made her choice, and Regina could read it in the steadiness of her gaze, the way she held herself: the confidence of a woman accustomed to interest being returned.

Cora lingered off to the side. Close enough to catch every word. Distant enough to seem incidental—to Genevieve, at least.

"Then I look forward to it."

Regina's voice was polished, shaped by habit. She let a small smile follow. Just enough to register. Just enough to satisfy. It landed the way her mother would expect.

She felt nothing behind it.

Genevieve reached into her coat and drew out a card, holding it between two fingers.

"Text me."

Regina took it. The card was thick, expensive. Its presence in her palm carried weight. Faint, inevitable. The weight of things already arranged.

Genevieve turned to Cora. "Thank you for the introduction."

Cora extended a gloved hand. "The pleasure was mine."

Genevieve stepped into the waiting car. The door closed with a soft click. A moment later, it pulled away.

Regina remained where she was. Her coat pressed heavier against her shoulders now, as though it had absorbed every moment she had spent holding herself in place.

"She likes you." Cora's voice was light, pleased. "I could see it."

Regina said nothing.

"She has discernment. And ambition. That's rare, Regina. Don't dismiss it because it arrived in a palatable form."

Her tone stayed even. It always did.

"You handled yourself well today. There's elegance in restraint. You let her reach. That was wise."

Regina kept her eyes forward.

"I'm glad it met your expectations."

"It exceeded them." Cora's voice cooled with praise. "Though I never expected less."

She adjusted her handbag. At the curb, Martin stepped forward.

"There's a banquet in October. Your father and I are hosting. I'd like to see you there. With her."

Regina's grip on the card shifted.

"I assume the seating is already arranged."

"Of course."

Cora moved closer. "One final thing."

Her voice gentled. Trained into softness.

"Whatever you're still holding onto... be sure it's worth the cost."

Regina did not reply.

Cora kissed her on both cheeks. One side, then the other.

Then she turned. Martin opened the door. She slipped inside without pause. He closed it behind her and returned to the driver's seat.

The car pulled away.

Regina remained.

The plaza stilled. The car had vanished into traffic, its sound already folded into the city.

Everything had followed its design. Every word delivered, every silence chosen. She had become the shape they recognized, constructed over years, offered without flaw.

What followed was not peace. Only the quiet that lingers after endurance, when nothing collapses but everything strains.

Her gaze drifted toward the hospital. Soon, she would walk through its doors exactly as she had left.

Not immaculate. Just practiced.

No one would question it.

They never did.

She slipped the card into her pocket and turned. Her heels struck the pavement with perfect rhythm, but her balance felt off by half a breath. As though the ground had shifted and no one had told her.

+++++

Emma

Emma had no destination. Just the certainty she wasn't ready to go back to her apartment.

The stairwell let out behind the surgical wing: concrete slick with condensation, rust blooming across the old utility door. It didn't look like part of the hospital anyone was meant to see. Which made it better.

She kept walking.

Her shift was over. Her body registered it. Pace slower now, shoulders easing down, the throb behind her eyes making its case for ibuprofen. But her head kept looping. Static without direction.

She passed a locked cage of gas cylinders. A loading dock. A stack of broken pallets slouched against the wall.

The air back here smelled like city heat and coolant. Old bleach, maybe. Trucks. That hospital-meets-back-alley smell no one bothered fixing because no one was supposed to walk this way.

The path curved. Brick on one side, concrete on the other. Tight. Quiet.

Then she saw it. A bench, half-tucked behind a service pipe, like someone forgot to haul it off when they cleared the rest of this place. Bolted steel, scratched paint.

Someone was already on it.

Regina.

The set of her shoulders, the angle of her head. Something about it landed sideways. Familiar in a way that made Emma's chest tighten before she could stop it. Snow outside the dorm windows. Regina in the hallway, coat still on, eyes rimmed red, saying she'd had enough.

That January, they were only a week into the new semester. Regina had come back late, three days after the dorms reopened. No texts. No calls. Just appeared in the doorway, jaw tight like she hadn't unclenched since New Year's.

Emma had been on the floor with her laptop, half-listening to the radiator knock and spit. Syllabi spread across the rug. She'd looked up, expecting a sharp comment or at least a glance that said move.

Instead, Regina dropped her bag. Stood there. Silent. Barely breathing.

Then: "I can't go back there."

Nothing else.

And then she sat. Right there on the floor, coat still buttoned, legs folded, hands fixed in her lap like she didn't trust them to move.

Emma hadn't said anything. Didn't know what would land without making it worse. So she'd shifted closer.

Regina had looked at her once, eyes sharp with something she couldn't keep pressed down anymore. She started to speak, stopped. Her mouth pulled—pride, refusal, pain—and then it broke.

Tears came. Quiet, unstoppable.

Emma had reached for her, pulling her in through the layers of wool and whatever else she'd been using to hold herself together.

They never spoke of it again. Regina washed her face, changed clothes, carried on like it hadn't happened.

Emma didn't. She carried it. The weight of what it took for Regina to fall apart. How rare it was to watch her let go of anything.

Now, sitting on that bench, Regina had that same look. Not the polished version she gave the rest of the world. Something past that.

Emma lingered where she was, hands deep in her pockets, air sharp in her lungs. Too much between them now to pretend it was simple. Too much history in the way.

She didn't move at first. But she was always going to.

She crossed the last few steps slow enough it didn't feel like a choice.

Dropped onto the bench beside her.

Regina didn't look over.

Emma kept her eyes forward too. The space between them held steady, but the tension sat in her jaw, tight enough she could feel it. Every reason to leave, all of them loud in her head.

"You alright?" she asked, voice low. Easy to ignore if Regina wanted to.

A pause. Then, "I'm fine."

Emma let it sit there. No point pushing.

She leaned back, hands still in her pockets. The hum from the service pipe behind them, the faint slap of a loading dock door at the far end—background noise she barely registered.

She let herself drift closer until the outer layers of their coats brushed.

Regina shifted then, closing the gap so their arms met through the fabric. The contact held, warm where the air wasn't.

The change was so slight it barely stirred the air, but Emma registered it. Regina settling.

And she stayed.

Emma

Emma pushed through the lounge door and let it swing shut behind her. The scent hit first—burnt coffee and industrial sanitizer, as uniform as a locker room you'd used for years. Never pleasant, but recognizably yours.

Two residents were hunched over a tablet at the counter, the glow of a surgical video reflecting off their tired faces. One had his scrubs bunched at the knees, like he'd slept in them. The other looked about five minutes from face-planting into his own notes.

She passed behind them toward the coffee station without saying anything. Two pots sat on the burner: one nearly empty, its glass bottom baked to brown; the other fresher, steam curling from the spout. She grabbed a disposable cup—the kind hospitals chewed through like the planet could take it—and poured from the newer pot.

Good was generous.

The coffee was bitter enough to make her mouth pull, but it was hot, and it sat solid in her hands. She wrapped both palms around it, using the heat like a tether.

The apartment crept in anyway. Bare concrete and half-unpacked boxes. The fridge hummed like it had better things to do. She'd signed that lease on a Sunday night with the same impulse she used to buy a one-way ticket: a clean break and forward motion, something you didn't undo lightly. Every other landing had been the same. She could be gone tomorrow and leave nothing behind but the scuff marks on the floor.

The thought had surfaced this morning before her first cup. It was sharper than it should have been after only a week in the city. She had done it before. The final click of a door. The pull of a bag strap biting into her shoulder. The momentum already carrying her somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

She hadn't expected Regina here. And once she had, Boston stopped feeling like a blank page. That first time seeing her again still pulled in her ribs, the way a hard sprint left a stitch you couldn't stretch out.

She took another drink, the bitterness settling in her chest. The residents hadn't moved, one still bent over the tablet and the other scribbling on the back of a crumpled order sheet.

The door opened.

Regina stepped in, eyes on her tablet, thumb moving in short, precise swipes. White coat, hair pulled back, shoulders set like she'd already been running the day for hours. She was composed again—the slip Emma had caught on the bench yesterday was gone. It had been the brief return of the woman she used to know. Now she was back to the present-day version, tempered and contained, minus the full armor she'd worn for Cora.

"Morning."

The word left Emma before she'd decided to give it, pitched low enough to pass for routine, though it didn't land that way in her chest.

Regina's steps slowed. She glanced up from the tablet, the kind of brief pause that in anyone else might have been nothing.

"Morning."

Low. Roughened by sleep. It hit like something Emma had known by heart once and hadn't heard in too long. Her fingers tightened around the cup, warmth pressing into her palms.

She could have stepped in. Said more. Closed the distance, the way she'd done yesterday. But yesterday, Regina had needed a tether, and Emma knew how to be one.

Yesterday had already cut close to a line she couldn't afford to cross twice. She hadn't been able to afford it the first time.

So she left the space between them intact. Gave Regina a small nod and walked out, the coffee still warm against her hands.

+++++

Regina

Emma's back presented itself as she left. Regina allowed herself the liberty because there was no risk in it. The residents were lost in their sleep-deprived haze, and Emma was not about to turn around.

The play of muscle in her arms registered first. The strength in her shoulders. Emma Swan, grown into her frame, all sinew and steel under the hospital lights. Stronger than before. More certain in her movement. More of everything.

The bench returned without invitation. The press of her arm against Regina's, solid through layers of clothing. Warmth that had lingered long after Emma had stood, offered a quiet thank you, and walked away. Regina had felt, briefly, like some version of herself worth returning to.

Emma had sat beside her yesterday. Emma had greeted her first today.

Don't.

She could not indulge this.

Regina drew her focus back to the tablet, scanning the first lines of an operative report. The buzz in her pocket came a moment later.

She slid the phone free without hurry.

I trust you've already extended your thanks to Genevieve for the time she gave you yesterday.

The words sat there, precise and pointed in the way only Cora could manage. The number on that finely appointed card remained unused. A detail her mother likely already knew. By now, she had probably spoken to Genevieve's own mother, plotting in the way of women who had made a lifetime sport of it.

Genevieve had been beautiful. The kind of beauty that never risked being out of place. Composed without stiffness, her words measured yet warm enough to pass for ease. Any mother would be pleased. Cora certainly was.

But she was not Emma.

The pull came, low in her chest, insistent. She had her reasons for leaving, and those reasons still held. Emma had every right to hate her. Regina had done nothing to prove she could be trusted.

Did she want that trust back?

The question lodged deep, rattling something loose that felt unwise. Wanting anything from Emma was the sort of mistake that could only end in ruin.

She dimmed the screen and slipped the phone into her pocket without answering.

There was a surgical slate to review. Teams to assign. Outcomes to track. Meetings to chair, budgets to approve, a department to keep in order. The work was quantifiable. It followed rules. It rewarded precision. And unlike the rest, it could be mastered.

+++++

Emma

The elevator doors slid open on step-down. The air moved slower here—monitors keeping an easy rhythm, nothing like the impatient beeping upstairs in the SICU.

Marcus's room was three doors in. Emma stepped through. The blinds were wide to the morning light, his bed propped halfway up. Still pale, but color had returned to his face. A definite upgrade from the last time she'd stood here. Theresa sat beside him, hands loose in her lap now—not white-knuckled on the bedrail the way they'd been.

"Morning," Emma said.

Theresa's smile was faint but real. "Morning, Dr. Swan."

Marcus lifted a hand, more a tired wave than anything. "Hey."

Emma set her coffee on the counter and pulled on gloves. "Heard you had a quiet night."

Theresa nodded. "Slept almost straight through."

"That's what I like to hear." Emma moved in closer, eyes on the monitor first. Heart rate steady in the eighties, pressure holding, oxygen right where it should be. She lifted the edge of his gown. Dressing clean, edges sealed, skin warm but not hot.

"Chest tube came out last night?"

"Yeah," Marcus said, his voice stronger today. "Feels weird without it."

"That's normal. You'll get used to breathing without the leash." She listened to his lungs, one side and then the other, then pulled the stethoscope from her ears. "Pain?"

"A little."

Emma glanced at Theresa, who gave a small nod to back him up.

"Manageable little, or trying-to-tough-it-out little?"

Marcus's mouth pulled into the faintest smile. "Manageable."

"Good. Keep it that way. There's no prize for pretending it doesn't hurt." She stripped off her gloves. "You're on the road now. Diet's advancing today. Real food, if you want to call hospital eggs real food. PT will get you walking the halls. If things keep moving in the right direction, you're looking at a few more days before you get out of here."

Theresa's shoulders eased another notch. "That sounds… amazing."

Emma picked up her coffee, using the motion to cap the moment before it got too heavy. That satisfaction of watching someone come back from the edge—the kind of thing you kept with you. A reminder on the nights it went the other way.

"I'll be back later to check on you."

Theresa thanked her. Marcus lifted his hand again.

Emma stepped into the hall, flipping to the next name on her list.

+++++

The hallway she turned into was one of those in-between spaces—more corridor than destination. People passed through without slowing. Mid-morning kept it moving. Carts rolled over tile, elevators chimed, a page broke over the speakers and faded into the noise. Emma kept to the right, tracing the quickest way back upstairs. Boston Mercy had a pretty standard layout, at least. She hadn't gotten herself turned around yet.

Up ahead, Ruby had claimed the arm of a chair beside a vending alcove like it was her personal throne, hair piled in a messy knot, one sneaker braced against the seat. Aurora stood next to her, takeaway cup in both hands, eyes bright over the rim. Belle sat across from them, legs crossed, tablet balanced on one knee, looking like someone who could afford to be unbothered.

Ruby's gaze swung toward her first. "Swan. You headed somewhere, or can we pull you into a wager?"

Emma slowed, letting the foot traffic stream past before cutting toward them. "Depends. What's at stake?"

"Odds on the transplant team imploding before lunch," Ruby said.

"Ruby's odds," Aurora added. "The rest of us are simply present."

Belle's smile was mild. "I'm reading. Or I was."

Emma stayed standing, leaning one shoulder into the wall. "What's the trigger?"

"Brand-new attending told one of the fellows he'd 'streamline the workflow.'" Ruby grinned like she'd just been handed front-row tickets.

Aurora's mouth tipped faintly. "To the fellow who created it."

Emma huffed out a laugh. "Confident."

"Or reckless," Ruby countered. "I say the first raised voice hits before noon."

Belle glanced up at Ruby. "That's uncharitable." A pause. "Possibly accurate." Her eyes went back down to the tablet.

"What about you?" Aurora asked. Her gaze settled on Emma, amused. "Any predictions?"

"Not until Monday. They'll stew on it all weekend first."

Ruby pointed at her with mock gravity. "Sounds like someone's speaking from experience."

Emma smirked faintly. "Let's just say I've worked in a few hospitals."

"That reminds me," Aurora said. Her gaze lingered, just a second longer than casual. "How's the first week treating you?"

Emma gave her the safest answer she had. "Plenty to keep me busy."

Better than: Fantastic. My ex works here, and my running hypothesis is that I'm cursed because I've run into her every damn day.

Belle tilted her head slightly. "It's a lot, starting somewhere new. Most people forget how much."

Emma caught the weight in the words—not advice, not pity, just fact—and returned it with a nod. "Yeah."

"I've been told you might be joining us for dinner tonight at Belle's," Ruby said. The way she smiled made it sound less like an invitation and more like a foregone conclusion.

Emma arched a brow. "Have you now?"

"You should come," Ruby said. "It's been a while since we've had fresh blood to torture with Belle's cooking."

Belle shot Ruby a pointed look.

"Belle is an excellent cook," Aurora said, and pointed her cup toward Emma with a smile. "And there's wine."

The pull was there—easy warmth, an offer that didn't ask for much in return. Emma didn't plan on staying here long. Getting pulled in had never worked out in her favor.

Still. Aurora's glance lingered, warm in a way that was hard to deflect. Ruby's grin had that sharp edge that made her both cautious and curious. And Belle kept her focus on the tablet, but not quite enough to sell the disinterest.

"Tempting," she said finally.

"Should be," Ruby replied. "We even use real plates."

"That's because I own real plates," Belle said, her tone dry enough to make Ruby grin wider.

Aurora glanced between them, then back to Emma. "It's Friday. You've survived your first week. That deserves more than vending machine pretzels."

The corner of Emma's mouth pulled, but she didn't give them more than that. "I'll think about it."

Ruby leaned back on her perch like that was a win.

"That's all we ask."

+++++

Emma was halfway through a discharge plan for a post-splenectomy when the overhead cut through the hallway noise.

"Rapid Response, 4 East, Room 412."

Marcus's room.

She was moving before the rest of the words landed. The chart went down on the counter; her coffee arced into the trash as her stride broke into a run.

The nurse outside his door stepped back. "He was fine twenty minutes ago—"

Emma was already past her.

Marcus was slumped against the pillows, skin the color of paper, each breath a shallow drag. Theresa was half out of her chair, one hand gripping the bedrail.

"What's happening?" Theresa's voice caught hard on the second word.

Emma pulled gloves from the wall dispenser, snapping them on as she crossed to the bedside. "We're going to find out. Give us some space here, Theresa."

Theresa stepped back but didn't go far, fingers still twisted in the strap of her bag.

"Marcus, can you hear me?"

His eyes fluttered but didn't track.

The pulse ox on his finger read 84% and falling. The monitor showed a pressure of 78 over 50.

Emma's palm went to his neck—jugular veins distended, even upright. She pressed the stethoscope to his chest: heart sounds muffled, rate sluggish. The cuff cycled again. Narrow pulse pressure.

Tamponade.

A nurse appeared at the head of the bed. Emma didn't look up. "Page CVICU—attending, not fellow. Open a bed and have the team ready."

Theresa's voice came from just behind Emma's shoulder. "Is he dying?"

Emma didn't turn. "We're moving fast. He's in the right place for this."

The nurse was already on the phone, relaying Emma's orders into the receiver.

Emma twisted the oxygen flow higher, swapping the nasal cannula for a non-rebreather. The mask fogged with his next breath.

"Hang on, Marcus," she said—not because he could hear her, but because saying it locked her to the center of the job.

The nurse cupped a hand over the receiver. "CVICU wants details."

Emma kept her focus on the monitor. "Likely tamponade. Penetrating subclavian injury, grafted, post-op day four. Acute hypotension, muffled heart sounds, distended neck veins, narrow pulse pressure."

Theresa's breath hitched audibly at "tamponade," but Emma didn't spare a glance. There wasn't time to explain.

The nurse relayed it. A beat later: "They're escalating to CT surgery."

Emma checked the monitor again. Sats still dropping, pressure holding in the 70s only because the diastolic was climbing with the squeeze. The clock in her head was already running.

"Prep to transfer him upstairs now. Keep him upright, keep the mask on, and skip the labs—CVICU will pull them on arrival."

One of the nurses guided Theresa toward the far wall as the transport team came in. Her hands were pressed to her mouth, but her gaze stayed locked on Marcus.

Emma remained at the bedside while they moved him onto the stretcher, one hand steadying the oxygen mask, the other securing the monitor leads.

Theresa's voice was low, meant for Marcus, but close enough for Emma to hear. "I'm right here, baby. I'm right here."

Emma didn't take her eyes off him until the elevator doors closed.

+++++

The CVICU doors swung wide. Marcus's monitors shrieked over the hiss of oxygen as the transport team pushed through at speed. Emma stayed at the head of the stretcher, one hand sealing the mask to his face, the other keeping the tubing clear. The RT matched her stride, bag-valve-mask ready.

Mulan was already at the far side of the bay, clearing space around the bed. "Lines are primed, ultrasound's up."

Theresa had kept pace at Emma's left, her breathing audible even through the noise.

Emma didn't look away from the monitors. "Theresa, we're starting a procedure to help him. Please go with the nurse, and we'll update you the moment we can."

The bed locked into position with a sharp click. A nurse appeared at Theresa's elbow. "Ma'am, I can walk with you to the waiting area."

"Please—" Theresa's voice caught.

Emma leaned just far enough for her words to carry. "You can help him now by giving us room to work. Go with her. I promise, as soon as we know anything, you'll know it too."

Footsteps receded down the hall, the nurse's voice low and steady beneath Theresa's uneven breathing.

Emma turned back to the monitor. "Sats are eighty-four on high flow. He needs an airway. Seven-and-a-half."

"Seven-and-a-half," the respiratory therapist repeated, reaching for the tube.

Emma passed over the lubricant before it was asked for, then stepped aside for the RT to take position at the head of the bed. The laryngoscope slid past Marcus's teeth, light catching the curve of the epiglottis. Cords clear.

"Advance," the RT said.

Emma guided the tube in herself, holding it steady while the cuff inflated. The bag connected. Marcus's chest rose in clean, mechanical rhythm. The end-tidal trace leveled.

The pressure didn't.

Aurora appeared beside Mulan, echo probe in hand. "I've got the window."

Cold gel spread across Marcus's chest. The probe swept in a practiced arc until the screen lit: fluid crowding the pericardial space, heart muscle squeezed to a shallow, urgent pulse.

Regina strode in, gloves half-on, her pace keyed to the room's urgency. She crossed to the bedside in a straight line. Mulan shifted at the tray. Aurora angled the probe without being asked. The room settled—hands steadied, voices leveled, movements fell into cleaner sequence.

"Large effusion," Emma said, stepping back from the head of the bed. "Pressure's collapsing."

Regina's gaze swept from the monitors to the echo screen, taking in rhythm, waveform, the stifled squeeze of the ventricles in a single pass.

"Prep pericardiocentesis tray," she said. Her voice cut through the noise, even enough to anchor the room. "If this taps arterial, we take him straight to the OR."

Mulan cleared the cart. The sharp bite of chlorhexidine rose over the heat of bodies and lights.

Emma reached for the drape, pressing it into Regina's palm before the word formed.

The kit landed on the cart, steel bright under the lights.

"Needle."

Emma placed it in her hand. Regina angled it under the xiphoid, the motion smooth and economical.

Her free hand lifted. Emma set the guidewire into her grip.

The wire slid through, guided by Regina's sure control, her focus fixed on the monitor.

"Pressure's seventy-two over sixty," Mulan called.

"Wire's in," Regina said.

Emma was already ready with the dilator.

Regina advanced it, drew it back, and seated the syringe in a single breath.

The plunger pulled. Bright red filled the barrel instantly.

"Arterial," Regina said. Her tone cut clean across the room. "We're moving now."

Aurora was already on the phone.

Emma cleared the tubing from the drape, eyes tracking the dipping pressure.

Regina withdrew the needle, passed the syringe to Mulan, clamped the line, and turned. Her eyes met Emma's for half a second, the slight tilt of her head all the confirmation Emma needed.

Emma moved with her along the bed, their pace slotting into the same cadence as the team wheeled Marcus toward the OR.

+++++

They cleared the last corner in a tight wedge around the bed. The OR doors swung wide—light and stainless steel, everything in motion.

Anesthesia was in position, voice steady, confirming settings. The mask hovered. The circulator stepped beside the gurney, hands ready.

"Transfer on three."

Emma took the right side, grip firm on the endotracheal tube and monitor leads as Marcus was lifted across. The ventilator hissed, settled. The arterial line tracing wavered lower still.

Regina's voice cut through the shift in bodies. "We're opening the chest. Median sternotomy."

The words pulled Emma forward. Her body turned toward the scrub sinks, Regina beside her.

Hot water ran over her hands, heat seeping through to her bones. Soap slicked under her nails as she moved through the motions—neither rushing nor dragging. Beside her, Regina's shoulders shifted, a subtle brace before she stepped back toward the field.

They entered together, hands high. The scrub tech moved in with gowns. Cotton settled over Emma's shoulders, gloves sealing snug against her wrists.

The Mayo stand gleamed under the lights. The chest tray lay open, instruments aligned in the exact sequence the next minutes would demand.

Regina took her place at the patient's right. Emma moved to the left. The drape settled in a crisp, blue frame around the sternum.

"Scalpel."

The nurse set it in Regina's palm. She found the correct grip within a blink and cut in one straight line from notch to xiphoid, no drift or drag. The saw followed, whining high and steady, until the sternum split.

Emma had worked with plenty of quick surgeons. Regina wasn't just quick—she was deliberate in a way that made speed inevitable. Every motion aimed at the next, no gap between steps. By the time most people found their landmarks, Regina was through the bone.

Emma called for the retractor. The cold weight settled into her grip. She seated the arms against bone and turned the crank one notch at a time, resistance shifting with each click. Heat and damp air rose as the chest opened.

Regina didn't waste a moment. A few swipes of cautery sealed the bleeding edges; mediastinal fat parted under her scissors in clean strokes. She cleared thymic remnants, swept them aside without breaking rhythm. The pericardium came into view—white, glistening, stretched tight over the muscle beneath.

"DeBakeys."

Regina lifted the sac just enough to see her angle. Scissors followed. One measured bite and the pressure broke—dark blood surging into the field.

Emma reached for the suction before the call could come, sliding the tubing in. Low pull, steady. Warmth and the muffled rush of fluid into the reservoir. The freed heart rose into the gap, beats striking harder, but the monitor didn't echo the strength.

"Now we look for the source," Regina said.

They scanned together, eyes running the right ventricle's curve until a slow ooze caught the light, low on the anterior wall near the diaphragm. Emma's hand moved for a sponge before the nurse could react.

"There's our problem." Regina lifted a thin veil of pericardium, exposing the injury. "Shockwave injury to the right ventricle. We'll repair it now."

The words landed clean and certain. Shockwave injury. Rare, but not unheard of. Regina said it like a case note, but all Emma could hear was that she should've caught it before it ever got here.

A pledgetted 4-0 Prolene came across, needle loaded. Regina took it without looking up.

Emma adjusted the suction to match her sightline, tracking the angle. The first stitch went in shallow and exact, drawing the edges together without tearing fragile muscle.

She kept the field clear, tails trimmed as each knot locked down. The leak stopped under Regina's fingers.

"Vitals?"

"MAP fifty-two and climbing. Sinus rhythm. End-tidal holding."

Regina irrigated. Emma cleared the site until the runoff ran pale. A final check of the sutures, then that contained nod—the one that meant the worst had passed.

"Loosely close the pericardium."

Silk slid smooth between Emma's gloves. She brought the edges together without limiting motion, then moved to sternal wires—draw, twist, clip—until bone met bone. Layered closure followed, steady rhythm, each shift in pace answered without a word.

Dressings sealed. Instruments counted. The retractor lifted away.

Regina stripped her gloves at the table's edge, the snap sharp in the quiet that followed. She peeled her gown off in one clean motion. Light caught along the line of her cheek as her gaze found Emma's. For half a breath, the relief was there, clear and unguarded.

"Good work," she said, voice low enough for only Emma to hear.

Emma gave a small nod, more felt than seen, and stepped back from the table. The moment was over, but it followed her out of the room.

+++++

Regina

The taut precision of the repair still lived in her hands. Each movement had fallen exactly where it should. No wasted motion. No space for doubt. The kind of focus that narrowed the world until it was nothing but suture, muscle, and the sure weight of her own skill.

Marcus was stable now. The ventricle held under her work, the heart pressing on as though it had not been insulted at all. That was what mattered. The outcome was everything.

And yet.

She had worked with Emma Swan again without stumble or misstep. There had been no barked correction, no sharp glance across the field. Emma had anticipated her at every turn, meeting her before the need could be spoken aloud. The rhythm between them had settled fast. Unearned, yet instinctive.

Emma had taken the shockwave injury hard. The set of her jaw had shown it, the way her gaze had fixed on the wound as if sheer will might stop the bleed. That was her instinct: shoulder the weight, carry the fault, hold it where no one could see.

Regina could have told her that even she might have missed damage like this on first pass. That some injuries only revealed themselves in the doing. That Marcus's return to the table was no reflection on her skill. But the room had been full of people who believed she and Emma Swan had met only days ago, and to them it would have seemed strange for Regina Mills to offer comfort. Least of all to a new attending.

So she had stayed silent. The urge to cut away that needless guilt had been sharp enough to make her bite her lip beneath the mask.

That meant something she preferred not to examine.

She still cared.

+++++

Emma

The CVICU sat in half-light, overheads dimmed to something easier on the eyes. Vents hummed low over the hiss of warmers. The usual chorus of monitors kept time in the background, steady enough that Emma barely registered it anymore.

Marcus was in the bed closest to the nurses' station, still intubated, blanket puffed high over the Bair Hugger. The grey had lifted from his skin. Color was starting to come back. He looked breakable—tubes and wires everywhere—but the numbers held.

Emma stood at the foot of the bed, hands shoved in her coat pockets, eyes on the trace. Just a quick check before moving on. That was the plan, anyway. Her feet had other ideas.

The waveform was clean now. Nothing to hint at the hours it had taken to find the bleed. Shockwave injuries were like that. They hid. They fooled people who should've known better.

Didn't matter. He'd been hers to watch. She'd had the chance to see it coming.

Movement caught at the edge of her vision. She didn't turn, but the shape of it was familiar—the way Regina crossed a room, even now. The glass door whispered open. Footsteps, measured and quiet.

Regina came into view beside her. Surgical cap gone, short dark hair faintly flattened from hours under it. The collar of her coat hung open over rumpled blues. Even like this, there was something in the way she carried herself that caught you and didn't let go.

"Pressure's stable," Regina said. She glanced at the monitor, then at Marcus. "Drain output has been negligible since closure. That's promising."

Emma didn't answer right away. The numbers were good. She knew that. Didn't change the fact that she'd missed it until it was almost too late.

"We'll keep him intubated until he's warmer and gases look good," Regina continued. "Otherwise he's ready for the night."

She didn't leave it there. Her gaze shifted—not to the monitor this time, but to Emma. "This wasn't something you could have prevented."

Emma's jaw flexed. "Should've seen it coming."

Regina shook her head, the motion small but deliberate. "You know how these injuries hide." Her voice dropped, low enough that it didn't carry past them. "They don't show themselves until the sac is at capacity. You got him here in time. That's what matters."

And just like that, the Regina she'd been facing all week—precise, composed, untouchable—was gone. In her place stood the woman Emma had known before hurt and silence and time had bricked a wall between them.

It was the kind of moment she used to take for granted. The pull of it was immediate, strong enough to make her want to hold on, sharp enough to make her want to bolt.

The glass doors slid open behind them. Regina turned, and Emma followed the movement—Aurora stepping into the room, her expression calm but purposeful. Only then did Emma realize how little space had been left between them.

"His mother, Theresa, and aunt, Ms. Carver, are in the consultation room," Aurora said. Her voice carried soft but clear over the low hum of the machines. "I've given them the basics, but they'd like to hear more about what happened from both of you. If we go together—trauma and CT—it will help them feel confident he's getting the best care."

Emma's first instinct was to say she could handle it. She'd been talking with Theresa since the night Marcus came in. But this wasn't about history—it was about showing the family everything was solid.

"Of course," Regina said, without hesitation.

Emma looked at Marcus. The ventilator lifted his chest in slow, steady rhythm.

For him.

"Alright," she said. "I'm in."

Aurora gave a quick nod. "Five minutes." She stepped away, the soft glide of the glass following her out.

Emma stayed where she was. Regina did too.

"You did right by him, Emma." Quieter now. The way only she said her name.

Emma didn't answer. She wasn't sure she could.

Regina turned to go, and the edge of her coat brushed Emma's sleeve as she passed. Probably nothing. Still, Emma felt it.

+++++

Both women looked up when Emma entered with Regina a step behind.

Theresa sat closest to the door, spine rigid as though bracing for another blow. The circles under her eyes had deepened since morning. Beside her, a woman Emma hadn't met yet watched them with a steady, assessing gaze. Early forties. Same sharp jaw as Theresa.

The sister. Hair pulled back tight. Blazer over jeans. The kind of combination that said she'd come straight from somewhere else and had no intention of leaving until she got answers.

Emma crossed the short distance and stopped in front of Theresa. The urge to turn around and be anywhere else pressed at her ribs, but this wasn't the time.

Not about her.

"Dr. Swan," Theresa said. Some of the strain in her face eased.

"Theresa. Ms. Carver." Emma kept her voice level. "I wanted to check in with you directly. Dr. Mills and I are here to walk you through what happened today and what comes next."

She tipped her head toward Regina. "Dr. Mills is our Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. She performed Marcus's operation with me."

Regina moved forward with that measured calm she could summon on command. "We thought it best to update you as a team, so you have the clearest picture from both specialties."

Theresa gave a small nod, steadying herself. Ms. Carver leaned back slightly, her expression guarded but listening.

Emma began. She kept her tone locked down; Theresa would hear any crack in it. "Marcus was recovering well after his initial surgery. This morning, his blood pressure started dropping without another clear cause. We found fluid collecting around his heart. Blood from a very slow leak in the right ventricle."

Theresa's hands laced tighter.

"It wasn't part of the original repair," Emma continued. "This was a small injury from the shockwave of the bullet. Those injuries can be microscopic at first and take time to show themselves. The leak was so slow it didn't become obvious until today."

"Was he… in danger?" Theresa's voice caught on the last word.

Emma didn't look away. "Yes. But we recognized it early and got him straight to the OR."

Regina's voice came in smooth, like they'd planned the handoff. "The procedure went as expected. We removed the fluid and repaired the injury with additional suturing and sealant. His heart is pumping effectively now, there's no active bleeding, and his post-operative imaging looks stable."

Ms. Carver's posture shifted, still guarded but no longer braced. "How can you be sure it won't happen again?"

Emma had always hated that question. No one could promise it.

Regina answered first. "There are always risks after an injury like his. What we know right now is that the repair is secure and he's being monitored closely in the CVICU. If anything changes, our team will act immediately."

Emma stepped in before the next question landed. "We'll also be watching for other post-surgical complications. Infection. Rhythm changes. Right now, all of his numbers are strong. He's sedated to give his heart the best chance to rest."

Theresa let out a breath and some of the stiffness left her shoulders. "So he's stable?"

"Yes," Regina said. "He is."

Emma gave a small nod to confirm it. "We'll keep you updated."

Theresa's gaze softened, gratitude pushing through the exhaustion. "Thank you. Both of you."

Ms. Carver gave a short nod.

Emma rose, the chair legs scraping the floor. Beside her, Regina did the same.

+++++

Regina

The consultation room door closed behind them with a muted click. The hallway stretched ahead, quieter than the space they'd just left.

Emma glanced her way. The smile was small, almost fleeting, but it reached her eyes. A single nod followed—acknowledgment with no need for words—before she turned down the corridor.

Regina remained where she was. Emma's stride carried her toward the elevators, shoulders weary but unbowed. That same focus Regina had witnessed in the OR, fierce and unrelenting, now softened by the quiet that followed a battle fought well.

She should have turned away.

She did not.

At the far end, Emma pressed the call button without a backward glance. The doors opened, light spilling across the floor. She stepped inside. The doors slid shut. Gone.

Regina's breath left her with more weight than she cared to measure. Emma lingered in her thoughts. She always did. It would be too easy to take a step toward that. Too easy, and far too dangerous.

Her phone was already in hand. The screen lit beneath her touch, her mother's unanswered message waiting where she had left it. She slipped her other hand into her coat pocket and drew out the card Genevieve had pressed into it the day before. The lettering caught the light.

She keyed in the number. Her thumb moved across the screen with deliberate precision.

Genevieve, this is Regina. If you're free this weekend, I'd like to continue our conversation over dinner.

She sent it. The screen went dark. Cora would take it as progress, perhaps even compliance, and that would serve its purpose well enough. A concession to keep her mother's attention fixed elsewhere.

What stirred in her today was far from past tense. Which meant it could not be given room to grow.

+++++

Emma

The sliding doors let her out into air that still held the last stretch of daylight. Boston moved around her—heels hitting pavement, the squeal of a cab's brakes, salt off the harbor threading through it all.

Regina was still in her head. Yesterday's quiet crack in the armor, small enough most people would've missed it, had pulled her in before she'd had time to think better of it. Some instincts didn't fade. Didn't matter how many years or miles she put between them.

And today, in the middle of a crisis, she'd watched Regina take the reins—every movement certain, every decision delivered with that unshakable confidence. Impossible not to look. Shoulder to shoulder at the foot of Marcus's bed, hearing that low, steady tone when she'd said it wasn't her fault. Years since she'd heard her speak like that. Years since she'd seen that particular softness surface.

Those eyes had been her undoing once. Standing there, with all that history packed into a single glance, they still could be.

She could pack it all away. Shove it onto a shelf and leave it there. That was the plan, anyway. Except it had been years since she'd had anything she actually wanted to keep.

Boston was supposed to be a stop. Work. A paycheck. Somewhere she could walk away from without feeling it. A week in, and she'd spent more time with other people than in her own apartment. And it wasn't just Regina.

The crosswalk light flashed red. She stopped at the curb, traffic streaming past in white and red blurs. Four blocks east and she could be at her place. No questions. No one watching her and wondering.

Belle's invite surfaced instead.

She'd been here before. Other cities, other lives. Every time she stayed, every time she let herself believe it could last, it got pulled away. Almost adoptions. Regina. Somewhere along the line, she'd learned it was safer to leave before anyone decided she didn't belong.

Dinner. Just dinner. But she wasn't buying it.

The light changed. She crossed, pulling her phone from her pocket before she reached the far side.

Her thumb hovered. That old instinct to keep moving pressed one way. Something older tugged the other.

She typed: Don't eat all the vegetables without me.

Regina

The townhouse bore the remnants of the evening. A dress draped over the back of a chair, heels abandoned at the base of the stairs. Regina had left them there deliberately, too restless to feign order. They lingered like evidence of a night performed rather than lived.

Genevieve had been flawless company. Polite, attentive, cultured. Every word balanced, every gesture measured. Regina could find no fault in her, which was perhaps the problem. By dessert, the taste had already begun to fade.

She rose late and drifted through her rooms with coffee in hand, unsettled. She tried the paper, set it aside after the first headline. She opened a book, stared at the same sentence until the letters blurred. The walls closed in, oppressive and airless.

By the time the cup cooled on the table, she was already gone.

The hospital lobby was nearly empty, the guard half-hidden behind his coffee. The elevator arrived without delay, its ascent marked only by the soft pull of machinery and her own reflection in the steel doors.

The CVICU carried its usual chorus. Monitors kept their rhythm, ventilators released measured sighs, nurses moved with quiet efficiency. Sunday shifted the balance. Rounding teams were smaller, but families crowded patient rooms, their voices rising and falling around the machinery. What endured was the relentless pace of survival, indifferent to the day.

Regina turned the corner and slowed. Emma was already there, seated in the alcove outside Marcus's room, elbows braced on her knees, hands loosely clasped. Her attention held steady on the boy through the glass.

The sound of Regina's heels pulled her head up.

Their eyes met. Emma's expression was unflinching, direct, the same refusal to yield Regina had always known. It caught her off guard, sharper than she cared to admit. Then Emma's mouth tugged at one side, the faintest suggestion of amusement breaking the tension.

"So you don't have a life either?"

Regina's brow lifted. "I prefer to call it responsibility."

Emma let out a breath that edged toward a laugh. "That's one word for it."

Regina peered through the glass. "His pressures are stable. Oxygenation has improved."

Emma shifted in the chair, her arm draped over one side. "Yeah. He looks stronger today. Numbers line up with it."

Regina inclined her head. "We will see if it holds."

Emma's eyes cut toward her, keen but not unkind. "You ever let yourself just take the win?"

"Stability today does not guarantee tomorrow."

The humor drained from Emma's face, leaving her expression bare, marked by the truth of how well she understood it.

Regina had taught her that lesson. The guilt sliced through her, clean and sharp.

She cleared her throat. "Do you make a habit of visiting your patients on weekends, Dr. Swan?"

Emma leaned further into the chair, one leg stretched out into the narrow alcove, a faint smirk ghosting across her lips. "Only the ones I don't want to lose sleep over."

"It is not your fault he is here."

The smirk slipped, leaving Emma's mouth pressed thin. "Doesn't really matter, does it? He's still here."

Her answer lingered, blunt and immovable.

Regina folded her hands. "Guilt does not alter an outcome."

Emma gave a short laugh, dry as dust. "Tell that to my brain at three in the morning."

Regina's reply died there. The ease that had once come readily with Emma slipped away so quickly now. The blame was hers. Feeling it changed nothing, but she felt it all the same.

She turned to Marcus, his chest rising evenly against the hum of the ventilator. "He is improving. That is what matters."

Emma's expression eased as she watched through the glass. "Yeah."

The pause stretched. Regina's gaze was drawn to that softened look, though it never once turned her way.

"Now this is a surprise."

Aurora's voice carried down the hall, bright against the hum of the ward. A tablet was tucked under her arm, her ponytail shifting with each step. She stopped before them, brows lifting. "What are you two doing here on a Sunday?"

Emma leaned into the chair, arms folding. "What are you doing here?"

Aurora gave her a pointed stare, half amusement, half exasperation. "On call. And I got a call. That's how it works."

Emma let out a short laugh. "Fair."

Aurora's gaze flicked to her, then to Regina, her tone softening. "Dr. Mills."

Regina gave a brief nod. "Dr. Hale."

Aurora hesitated, then let her smile return. "No shortage of doctors keeping an eye on him." Her attention slid to Emma. "And don't think I've forgotten Friday night. You said you'd at least try practice Thursday."

Emma's grin was quick, almost careless. "Pretty sure that was me saying no."

Aurora grinned in return. "I heard yes." She shifted her tablet and moved on, her steps folding into the rhythm of the ward.

Of course they were trying to rope Emma into their team. Regina could still see her on the field, driving forward without hesitation, every step certain. Back then Regina rarely missed a game. She would bring study materials when she had to, but she wanted to be there, watching Emma command the field.

She forced the memory aside before it could root.

Regina kept her eyes on the glass. "Do they know you played on scholarship in college?"

In the reflection, Emma's head tipped, wary and faintly amused. "No. And I'd rather keep it that way."

Regina allowed the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. "You never did care for expectations."

"Yeah." Emma's breath edged toward a laugh. "They get in the way."

The chair gave a quiet creak as she settled once more. The silence held, steady as the monitors beyond the glass.

+++++

Emma

Friday morning. Another week down. Easier than the last, at least. Fewer surprises.

Emma poured what was left in the lounge pot, black sludge spattering into a paper cup. One sip and her mouth pulled tight. Burned, bitter, and somehow worse than yesterday's.

She'd only run into Regina a handful of times all week. Every encounter had been straight-up professional. Exactly what colleagues were supposed to be.

Professional was fine. She could live with fine. Except it felt wrong. With Regina, nothing had ever been surface-level.

And no matter how flat the week had been, she couldn't shake you didn't imagine it—or the look on Regina's face when she said it, like the admission itself had cost something.

In the quiet of her apartment, her thoughts kept circling back. Not to the accusations she'd already thrown. To the questions left hanging. The ones she wasn't sure she even wanted answered.

If it was real, why leave?

If it mattered, why erase her?

And what the hell was she supposed to do with you didn't imagine it now?

She drained another mouthful, grimacing. She needed better than this. A machine. Espresso, the real thing. She could picture it on her counter, stainless steel catching the morning light. But then it would just be one more thing to haul when she moved. The thought sat heavier than she wanted. She shoved it down and tipped the cup again, bitter all the way.

The door swung open. A resident came in, coat slipping off one shoulder, folder in hand. He gave her a nod on his way to the counter.

"Morning."

Emma lifted her cup in return. "If you say so."

He poured, glanced into his cup. "Still terrible?"

"Gets worse every day."

That earned her the faintest tilt of his mouth before he headed out.

The door clicked shut. Emma leaned against the counter, the cup warm between her palms. Her mind drifted back to the field under the lights.

Aurora's voice carrying from midfield, cutting through everything. Mulan throwing herself into every challenge like the ball had personally insulted her. Ruby darting up the wing, cursing every time it didn't go her way. Elsa cool as ice, stepping in at just the right second to strip her clean. Belle in the middle, never out of place no matter how messy it got.

They'd pushed her up front for the scrimmage. She hadn't argued. Just took the spot and stayed quiet. Then the ball dropped high, straight to her chest, and her feet were already moving. The strike came easy, clean, like she hadn't spent years away from it.

The looks on their faces had almost been worth it. Confused, a little stunned. She didn't explain. No mention of how much of her life had once been built around that game. Let them wonder.

She kept herself fit. Had to, to stay ready in trauma. What hit different was the rhythm. The snap of acceleration, the quick cuts, the way her body remembered patterns she hadn't touched in years. Sprint, turn, recover. And the grin that slipped out before she could stop it.

It was fun. Real fun. The kind she hadn't let herself have in a long time.

Her phone hadn't stopped buzzing after. The group chat she'd been added to after that first Friday dinner running wild, Ruby egging her on, Aurora swearing she was in. Emma hadn't said yes.

She tipped the cup and drained the last swallow. Bitter all the way down.

The door creaked again and someone laughed in the hall, too bright for the hour. Emma dropped the cup in the trash and straightened.

Time to move.

+++++

Regina

Wednesday marked twelve days since Marcus had been brought into the CVICU. Long enough that attention ought to have moved elsewhere, to the dozens of matters pressing from every direction. Yet Regina's steps carried her down the corridor all the same.

It would pass as diligence. Oversight on the day a patient left intensive care was reasonable, unquestionable. That explanation would suffice for anyone else.

It did not suffice for her.

She wanted to see Emma when the outcome settled. To watch her stand at the threshold between survival and release and let herself claim it. A win. Emma Swan had always been formidable in victory, and Regina had always been drawn to it. More than she should have allowed herself.

The team had gathered at the doorway when she arrived. Aurora glanced up first, surprise flickering across her face before she replaced it with a brisk nod. One of the residents shifted, uncertain. None spoke.

Emma met her gaze directly, a question narrowing in her eyes.

Regina would not answer it. She turned to Aurora instead, chin lifting. "Shall we?"

Aurora recovered and began. "Sixteen-year-old male. Hospital day sixteen, ICU day twelve. Status post left subclavian repair for gunshot wound, followed by sternotomy for tamponade on post-op day four. Intubated on arrival, extubated on ICU day seven. Stable now, for transfer to step-down."

The team moved inside. The residents angled themselves toward the monitor, murmuring over vitals. Aurora advanced to the bedside, stylus already ticking across the screen.

Marcus sat propped against pillows, pale but present, chest rising evenly. His aunt stood against the wall. Theresa lingered at the bedside, smoothing the blanket in restless strokes.

The intern presented, tone quiet but steady. "Overnight uneventful. Afebrile. Pressure one-oh-eight over sixty-eight, heart rate ninety-two, oxygen saturation ninety-eight percent on room air. Hemoglobin twelve, stable from yesterday. Chest X-ray clear, no effusion."

Aurora confirmed with a small nod, scrolling quickly. "Incisions clean, sternotomy site intact." Her eyes found Emma. "Trauma?"

Emma answered without pause. "He's awake, walking with PT, breathing clear, eating fine. No neuro concerns. He's ready for step-down."

The aunt's voice broke through. "So he can leave here?"

Emma turned to her, expression softening at the edges. Regina's chest tightened. She could not look away.

"He's stable. He'll still be in the hospital, but he doesn't need the ICU anymore."

Relief broke across the aunt's face. Theresa bent low, whispering the words back to Marcus as if they were sacred. He managed a thin smile.

"Maybe I'll finally get some sleep," he said. "This place is so loud."

Emma's mouth curved, the briefest glint of warmth. Regina's breath caught. She could not look anywhere else.

"Don't get your hopes up. Hospitals aren't built for peace and quiet."

The boy gave a breath of laughter, weak but true. "You're telling me."

Aurora tapped her stylus once against the tablet. "I'll place the transfer orders now. Someone will come for him shortly. He should be settled in the new room before lunch."

The residents began to drift toward the door, tablets already flipping to the next name. Aurora followed, her pace brisk, stylus in motion.

Emma gave Marcus one last nod. "You're in good hands."

His aunt murmured her thanks, voice breaking with relief.

Emma turned toward the hall.

Regina turned as well, though her steps slowed. Genevieve's world was polished, arranged to shine. Emma was none of that. And Regina could not make herself turn away, not until the pull inside her threatened to show.

A win. She allowed the thought only a breath, then pressed it back where it belonged.

+++++

It was early evening when Regina shut down her computer, the last of the day's work saved or sent. Wednesdays were not nights she usually surrendered to anything beyond work, yet a museum opening waited, and Genevieve's invitation had carried the weight of expectation.

Emma had been right. Expectations did get in the way.

By the time she left her office, she wore sapphire silk instead of scrubs, polished into the kind of elegance that belonged beneath gallery lights.

The elevator opened to the atrium. Regina crossed the polished floor toward the doors, already turning over the question of arrival, how late one could be without remark.

Near the glass, three of them lingered. Ruby leaned against the window frame, bag slung low, laughter quick in her throat. Elsa stood beside her, arms folded, posture loose in the way that came at the end of a shift.

Emma held a step back. Shoulders drawn, hair pulled tight, fatigue plain in her stance.

Regina meant to pass them without pause.

Elsa glanced up, smiling in that easy way.

"Regina."

The name carried. Ruby straightened, her eyes flicking over the silk. Emma's gaze moved slower. It lingered, then lifted, and in it was the same look Regina had known too well. As if Emma still saw her that way. The thought caught, burning hotter for being unwanted.

Regina broke it first.

"Well, look at you. All dressed up." Ruby's grin widened. "And on a Wednesday? Scandalous, Dr. Mills."

Regina fixed her with a look meant to cut, but Elsa spoke before it could land.

"I think you look lovely." Calm, as though civility might undo Ruby's irreverence.

Ruby only smirked. Emma stayed silent. The quiet pressed heavier than words, weighted with what had already passed between them. Regina kept her focus forward.

"The museum is opening a new exhibit." She offered context that required no answer.

Elsa inclined her head, expression courteous. "At least one of us has a life outside this place. Enjoy your evening."

"Don't stay up too late." Ruby, amused at her own wit.

The retort sat sharp on her tongue. Regina left it there. "Good night."

She turned toward the doors. Cool air struck her skin as the glass parted, crisp against the warmth inside. Her heels carried her across the pavement, into the evening that waited. Genevieve beside her. The practiced murmur of Boston's high society ready to receive them.

It should have filled her mind. Instead, Emma's look clung to her still, ghosting along her skin. With every step she despised the part of herself that refused to let it go.

+++++

Emma

The door thunked shut behind her. The stairwell outside Belle's apartment still smelled like dinner—garlic and rosemary baked into the walls like it was permanent.

Second Friday night in three weeks. Somehow it had already turned into a thing. They'd pulled her in like she'd been sitting at that table all along, no questions asked.

The first night she'd hung back on the threshold, waiting for the catch.

Tonight she'd caught the dish towel Belle tossed her and poured a glass without thinking. Muscle memory for something she'd done maybe twice.

Almost normal. Close enough that she'd let herself lean into it.

And of course Aurora couldn't leave it alone. Same speech she'd been running since that first practice last week. Emma had skipped yesterday—why would she go? She wasn't on the team. But Aurora kept circling back, relentless, and Ruby piled on like she could smell weakness.

It hadn't taken long for her to give in. Maybe she was just tired of the back-and-forth.

Or maybe she wanted another shot at what had hit her out there last week. The rhythm still wired into her body, the grin that had broken through, lighter than anything she'd felt in a long time.

Some of that ease had been at the table tonight too, in the laughter and the rhythm that settled around her like it fit. It followed her out onto the sidewalk. She was holding onto it. Don't get used to it.

Halfway to the T stop a café across the street came into view, its windows fogged, yellow light spilling out onto the pavement.

She might have kept walking. Probably would have, if not for the burst of laughter from a couple stepping out.

Burnt espresso cut through the air, and suddenly she was there again. Tile under her shoes, not pavement.

It had been warm that night too. The library intercom had crackled the closing notice and they'd packed up fast. Emma, Regina, and a couple of tag-alongs from bio whose names never stuck.

They hadn't been much of a study group. Just enough shared notes and half-formed questions to keep ending up in the same corner. Emma had kept edging closer, tossing in an answer when it mattered, and every time Regina's eyes had slid to her, quick and assessing.

That was what stayed with her. The jolt of it, alive under her ribs, the way her breath had caught and heat had climbed before she even knew why.

She'd been orbiting Regina for weeks by then. Sitting close enough in lecture to hear the clipped edge of her voice. Watching her straighten her shoulders, like she was carrying weight no one else could see. When she disagreed, her mouth tightened, deliberate, her eyes landing heavy on whoever she was answering. Emma hadn't been able to look away.

It wasn't stalking. Not really.

That night, leaving the library, they hadn't had a plan. Just a midterm coming up and a half-hearted consensus for caffeine. Emma didn't remember choosing the café. Only that she'd ended up there, at the same table, next to Regina, like gravity had pulled her into place.

Notes had been opened. Pens uncapped. A performance of focus for the first few minutes. Emma hadn't even bothered to pretend. Her eyes had stayed on the page, waiting.

One of the others—Josie or Jonie or something—had mangled a term in her notes, loud and confident like she thought she'd nailed it. Emma hadn't looked up.

"Guess that's why they call it pre-med," she'd said, low and dry, pitched just right to land between them.

Regina's eyes had cut to her. A flicker first, a quick read, narrowing for half a second. Then the crease between her brows had smoothed. And then it had happened.

A laugh.

Not tight. Not polite. Warm. Full. The kind of laugh that had cut through the low café hum and hit Emma square in the chest like it had a target. It hadn't been loud, but it had felt loud. For a moment, everything else had dimmed.

Regina must have seen something in her face, because she didn't look away.

The door swung open ahead. Emma blinked. The café across the street resolved into plain glass and yellow light. Just a café. Nothing pulling.

"Right," she muttered, and kept walking.

She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. The air pressed close, heavy with city heat, clinging to her skin and the pavement underfoot. Exhaust and fried food drifted up from the corner. A trace of sugar carried from a bakery down the block. Ordinary smells. Nothing that explained the weight lodged at the edge of every breath.

But she knew. It had been there since Wednesday. Since Regina. Since the dress she couldn't shake, no matter how much she tried. Since the museum opening Regina had named like it was nothing—exactly the kind of place this version of her would walk into, polished and perfect, with someone who belonged at her side.

Someone who wasn't Emma.

She hadn't seen her since. Maybe that was for the best. Still, her gaze kept dragging through the halls like it hadn't gotten the message. Every time she caught herself, she told herself to quit it. Every time, she didn't.

Her phone buzzed. The group chat.

Aurora had sent a blurry shot of Ruby knocked out on the couch, arm over her face like she'd been taken out in combat.

Victory, Belle wrote underneath.

Mulan replied with a single period.

The thread lit up again. Aurora lobbed a one-word caption that had Belle threatening exile.

Elsa dropped a skull.

Emma's mouth twitched. She almost typed something back, then locked her screen instead. The tension eased, like air let out of a valve.

The T rumbled underfoot. A siren peeled off somewhere in the distance. Boston was loud enough to drown the part of her that wanted to turn around, press her hand to café glass like that would rewind anything.

She crossed at the light. Steam curled out of a manhole and wrapped her boots. Three weeks ago she would've gone home to the hum of the fridge and nothing else. Tonight she still carried the sound of a spoon hitting the side of a pot, Aurora arguing about coffee temperature, Elsa's dry "No" to flambé.

And beneath all of it, steady as a heartbeat, the echo of a laugh she hadn't stopped wanting to chase.

She let it stay.

Warm. Inconvenient. Hers.

+++++

Regina

The cafeteria grated the moment she stepped inside. Voices pitched too high, chairs scraped across tile without rhythm, the espresso machine wheezing through each labored hiss. Regina crossed to the cold case and selected from the center row: grilled chicken, arugula, a scatter of almonds over greens that had already begun to wilt. Barely acceptable. She added a bottle of water and turned without pause.

The line crawled forward. She held her place, spine straight, refusing the shift of weight that would betray impatience. The tray remained balanced in her hands, posture fixed, card ready before the cashier raised his head. Efficiency wasted on inefficiency.

The first empty table left her exposed to the main corridor. The second bore crumbs and a smear of something red across the surface. She settled for the third, backed against the wall, where both exits remained in sight and no one sat close enough to intrude.

She opened the container and cut into the chicken with the side of her fork. Dry. She chewed, swallowed, forced the second bite down without tasting it.

The clock above the dispensers read twelve-thirty. Thirty minutes until her next meeting.

Her phone vibrated against her leg.

Genevieve: 7 tonight still good?

The restaurant name followed. She had been there once before. The atmosphere had been subdued, curated to suggest ease without ever risking intimacy. Staff attentive, courses reliable, nothing left unaccounted for. Predictable.

A month had passed since their first dinner. They met once or twice a week, each one contained within the boundaries Regina set. The museum opening had gone smoothly, almost satisfying in its success.

Genevieve's hand had rested a moment too long when they parted. Her eyes had lingered. The pauses between sentences had stretched, weighted with something Regina could name but would not meet. Careful, patient, edged with expectation.

She kept saying yes. Suggested the next venue when it was expected. She arrived on time, listened with care, asked questions that created the outline of intimacy without offering its core. Genevieve left smiling. Regina left untouched.

At times, guilt pricked at her, paired with the awareness of the hollowness beneath the arrangement. Yet there was a strange comfort in its structure. Nothing unruly. Nothing that could break through.

The thought of repeating it tonight pressed against nerves already worn thin by the day.

She let the screen go dark in her hand.

A pastry case opened nearby. The scent drifted out—warm, heavy, faintly sweet.

Cinnamon.

It curled around her, and the library table surfaced without warning. Years ago. Sunlight slanting through tall windows, the particular hush of a weekday afternoon.

The paper bag had landed in front of her.

"Cinnamon rolls," Emma had announced, peeling it open. "From the basement café with the flickering light and the guy who might be a ghost."

Regina had kept her eyes on the page. "I am not—"

"—hungry." Emma had finished it for her, already pulling one apart. "You said that yesterday. And the day before."

"Cinnamon rolls do not constitute food."

"Sure they do. Carbs and fat are macronutrients, Regina." She had said it with mock authority, the smile audible in her voice.

Regina had turned a page she had not finished. "Your diet will catch up with you."

"Not today." Out of the corner of her eye, Regina had seen her tear off another piece and flick it upward, catching it cleanly in her mouth. "Today I'm young and invincible." She had leaned back, chair tipped on two legs, posture all ease and defiance. "Besides, I've got practice later. It'll all burn off."

Regina had looked up then. All lean muscle and a grin careless enough to be infuriating, yet no less compelling for it.

"You are going to break your neck one day behaving like that." Dry, though she had not been able to disguise the faint pull at her mouth.

Emma had rocked her chair forward with a thud, grin brightening. "And you'll be there to say you told me so."

Regina had tried to return to her book. The words had blurred.

"Come out with me Friday," Emma had said suddenly, as if they had been in the middle of that conversation all along.

Regina's head had snapped up. Emma had been watching her, steady and direct, and for a second Regina had forgotten what she meant to say.

"Out?" The word had slipped, sharper than she intended.

"A date." Emma had said it plainly, as though daring her to laugh.

Regina had straightened her shoulders. "What makes you think I would say yes?"

Emma's mouth had quirked. "Because I like you. And I think you might like me back."

The silence that followed had been taut. Alive.

"Friday," Regina had said at last, voice even though warmed despite herself. "Somewhere with cloth napkins."

Emma's grin had broken wide, unrestrained. "I knew you were high maintenance."

Regina had lifted her pen, though her hand had lingered above the page before it moved. "Do not be late."

"I wouldn't dare."

The memory released her.

Her phone buzzed again.

Cora Mills: Your and Genevieve's invitation to the banquet has been mailed. Try not to wear black.

The lightness collapsed. Regina stared at the message, thumb poised above the screen.

Attendance had never been in doubt. The banquet had been months in the making, a curated exhibition dressed as celebration. Cora called it intimate. What she meant was control.

The guest list was a chessboard. Every name positioned to provoke a reaction, forge an alliance, eliminate a threat.

Genevieve's name would be printed beside hers. Aligned with care.

Regina could see it already: linen runners in calculated neutrals, candlelight tuned to the precise warmth that photographed well, wine pairings chosen for narrative rather than taste. A pianist playing pieces that sounded expensive. Smiles honed into conversation pieces. The whole evening moving like a clock her mother had wound.

Genevieve would shine, of course. She knew how to hold a room like that.

Regina set the phone down. Her gaze slipped out of focus.

Emma's face surfaced. Uninvited. Inescapable.

Older now, and more arresting than she should ever have been. Time had not diminished her. It had honed her instead, lent her a gravity that drew attention without effort and left no room for dismissal.

Since the day of Marcus's transfer, Regina had kept her distance. It was defensible. Her role provided every excuse to do so. Meetings, oversight, demands enough to justify absence.

In truth, the balance between them had grown brittle, and she understood precisely why. Emma had looked at her in the atrium, and it had undone her. That gaze lingered still, heavy with questions Regina had no answer for, and others she could not bear to voice.

So she arranged her days with care, shaping her movements around avoidance, dressing it in the language of duty. The lie might have convinced anyone else. It did not convince her.

And beneath it all, worse than retreat, worse than cowardice, was want.

That she despised most of all.

She reached for her phone again. Her fingers brushed the edge, then stopped.

The message from her mother still glowed at the top of the screen. A performance in three acts: arrival, smile, departure. With Genevieve cast as co-star.

Regina turned the phone over and allowed the ache its place, quiet but undeniable.

Some memories refused to release their hold.

And cinnamon always lingered.

Emma

Emma tossed her badge onto the table and dropped into the chair. Intake wasn't her territory, but Aurora had convinced her it counted as community service. A few hours of jotting vitals and fielding half-baked complaints hadn't worn her out so much as left her restless.

Ruby was bent over the intake logs, lips moving as she cross-referenced numbers on her screen. Mulan marked down supplies on the whiteboard, methodical as ever. Aurora jabbed at the EMR like sheer force might make it cooperate.

Emma stretched one leg under the table.

"Remind me—who suckered me into this?"

Ruby didn't lift her gaze. "You volunteered."

"I said I might be free. Then someone hit me with a calendar invite that exploded glitter all over my phone."

Aurora raised a hand, grinning. "It sparkled for public health."

"You realize I've been here, what—six weeks? Pretty sure this counts as hazing." Emma glanced at her palm, ink smudged from a half-faded blood pressure cuff.

Mulan shut the supply cabinet with her elbow. "You'll live."

"That's what you told the guy with three missing teeth."

"He will," Mulan said, matter-of-fact.

Ruby snapped her laptop closed. "C'mon. You didn't hate it."

Emma snorted. "The flickering lights? The toddler who turned my stethoscope into a mic? The guy who sneezed halfway through asking if I was single?"

"No," Ruby said. "The part where you helped."

Emma's answer didn't come right away. She plucked the lollipop Aurora had lobbed onto her clipboard and unwrapped it one-handed.

Aurora leaned on the desk, bright-eyed. "You're coming back next month."

Emma stuck the candy in her mouth. "Don't count on it."

Mulan passed her on the way to the door. "Showing up—that's what counts."

Emma bit down on the lollipop stem. The words were only words. Nothing she hadn't heard before.

But they stuck anyway.

The dorm room came back to her then—flat on her back, fever burning through her, sheets damp beneath her. Her body had been leaden, every shift an effort. The air stale after two days with the window shut.

The lamp on her desk had glowed low. Someone had turned it on.

She'd blinked through the blur, not sure if she was awake, until she saw her.

Regina.

Hair damp, windblown. A paper bag on the floor, notes spread neatly beside it. Reading, quiet, intent.

Emma hadn't spoken. Just lay there, trying to make sense of it.

She hadn't told anyone she was sick. Hadn't answered her phone. Fever, stomach flu, broken wrist—she'd carried those on her own.

Yet Regina was there.

"You break into all your girlfriends' rooms?" The words had rasped, rough in her throat.

"Your RA let me in."

"Seriously?"

"You weren't in class, and you hadn't answered my messages. So I asked." A small shrug. "I can be persuasive."

Emma had pushed herself upright, slow, body protesting. The room tilted.

Regina pressed a cup of tea into her hands. Mint and honey curled up with the steam.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know." Regina had returned to her seat, calm as if the answer explained itself.

Emma stared over the rim. Too fogged to read much, but one thing was clear: Regina wasn't waiting for thanks. She was just there.

"I haven't showered or changed. Pretty sure I look like roadkill."

A brow arched. "Yes, a positively tragic sight. Now—" Regina drew a container from the bag and eased the lid open. Garlic and herbs rose warm from the steam, real food. She placed it within reach. "Eat."

Emma eyed it. "You crossed campus in a storm for soup?"

"I crossed campus because you're sick. And stubborn."

No argument left. Emma sat the tea down, took the bowl.

The first sip hit like relief she hadn't known she was holding back. Her throat eased. Her chest warmed. Her eyes stung, and it wasn't from the fever.

Her gaze dropped to the soup, then lifted.

"Why are you doing this?"

Regina's tone didn't change. "Because I care."

Emma didn't know what to do with that. She'd heard it before, but always with strings. Regina's didn't sound like that.

Half the soup was gone, and still Regina sat nearby, notes in hand, as if she had nowhere else to be.

When Emma's eyes started to close again, Regina stood. She left her packet of notes on the nightstand, shook two pills from a small bottle and pressed them into Emma's hand. A glass of water followed.

"Take them."

Too tired to argue, Emma obeyed.

Regina carried the container to the tiny fridge, tucked it inside, and returned. She tugged the blanket higher and pressed a kiss to Emma's forehead. Soft. Certain.

The ache in Emma's chest wasn't fever. It was the first time she could remember someone actually staying when she was down.

For almost two years, Regina had been steady.

And then she was gone. One day there, the next she wasn't. No chance to call out the contradiction that burned in her chest.

Emma had told herself people left. She'd been repeating that her whole life. But this one hollowed her out worse, because she'd believed Regina might be different.

Now circumstance had thrown them into the same orbit again. Close enough for collisions in the halls and cases that wouldn't let her look away. The words she'd buried came alive, pressing up through her ribs.

Something nudged her arm—the corner of a notebook. Ruby's voice followed. "Earth to Swan. Anybody home?"

Emma blinked. The room snapped back. Monitors dark, intake booths cleared, vitals cart shoved against the wall.

"Yeah." Her voice came out rough. She cleared it. "Just thinking."

Ruby tilted her head, expression light but concern edging in underneath.

"You good?"

"Fine."

Ruby's mouth quirked, half-smirk, half-check. "Good. Because we're getting dumplings."

Aurora finally looked up from the screen, finger hovering over the keyboard. "And drinks. Rounds are happening. Don't even try to duck out."

Ruby was already heading for the door. "We've earned it. Carbs, grease, the whole deal."

Emma snagged her coat off the chair and fell in step, lollipop stem still caught between her teeth.

+++++

Emma

The girl was strapped to the stretcher, skin washed out, lips edging blue.

"Sixteen-year-old female," the medic called across the bay. "Blunt chest and abdominal trauma, unknown mechanism. Pressure seventy-eight over fifty, heart rate one-fifty, sats mid-eighties. Decreased breath sounds on the left, chest wall crepitus. Oxygen and IV en route."

The team lifted, smooth and practiced, sliding her onto the trauma bed.

Emma moved to the head, exam gloves snapping into place. "Airway?"

"Patent," the medic said.

She checked anyway, leaning close to watch the chest. The right side lifted with each breath. The left barely moved. Under her palm the ribs gave and crackled, bone shifting where it shouldn't.

"She needs a chest tube."

Ruby already had the kit pulled. She tore open the sterile pack, instruments clattering onto the tray. Emma stripped off her exam gloves, pulled a gown over her arms, and donned surgical gloves while Ruby hooked up suction and opened tubing.

"Ready," Ruby said.

Scalpel into Emma's hand. Eyes locked on the chest. Incision. Blunt dissection through muscle, clamp spreading until she felt the give. Her finger pushed into the pleural space. Air hissed, then blood ran hot across her glove.

Not liters, but too much for a girl this size.

The monitor ticked upward. Systolic scraped into the eighties. A bump, nothing more.

"Call the blood bank," Emma said. "Emergency release, two units O-neg on the infuser."

Ruby relayed it without looking up. Another nurse sprinted for the cooler.

Emma swept the chest with her stethoscope. Faint sounds now on the left through the tube. Better, but not enough. The pressure refused to climb.

Her hand slid to the abdomen. Firm. Distended.

"FAST," she ordered.

Probe into her hand, gel across skin. Right upper quadrant first. Morrison's pouch lit with a dark stripe between liver and kidney. She shifted left. More black near the spleen. Down to the pelvis. Fluid pooling around the bladder.

"Positive FAST," she said. "She's bleeding intra-abdominal. Prep the OR."

Ruby's voice carried the order across the bay. The charge nurse jumped to it.

Emma angled the probe subxiphoid, tilting toward the heart. The pericardial sac was clean. No effusion. But the image made her stomach knot. The chambers looked stretched, the contraction sluggish.

Not what she should be seeing in a teenager.

"Do we have any history on her?"

Keisha shook her head from the computer. "Couple of ED visits. Lacerations, a broken wrist."

The pattern sat wrong, but it gave Emma nothing for the heart on the screen. She turned the probe back into position.

The doors opened again as a nurse returned with the cooler. The first unit was spiked and locked into the rapid infuser.

The monitor held systolic in the eighties, heart rate still running near one-fifty. Too fast. Too weak.

"Page cardiology."

From the corner, the charge nurse echoed the order and picked up the receiver.

Emma kept the probe steady, focus fixed to the screen.

"PD's here," Ruby said.

She glanced up. A cop stood beyond the glass, unmoving, watching. Her gaze dropped back to the girl. Bruises mottled her skin in purples and browns, each one stamped at a different point in time.

Heat crawled under her skin until her heart slammed against her ribs. Fury she'd buried years ago clawed its way up anyway.

"This was no accident." The words tore out jagged. Everything narrowed to that truth. Her fingers tightened around the probe until they ached.

"Dr. Swan." Ruby's voice yanked her back. She glanced over, caught the look. They needed her here.

The monitors shrieked, dragging the moment into focus. The girl was bleeding out inside her own body.

Emma ground her jaw, driving the anger back into its shallow grave.

"Let's get her to the OR."

+++++

Regina

Aurora had called her directly. A sixteen-year-old girl with injuries sufficient to explain a crisis, yet the scan suggested more. Motion too diminished. A chamber stretched far beyond what belonged in a child.

Regina left for the emergency department at once, her meeting with the hospital lawyers struck from mind. Aurora never called without cause.

Now, at a terminal in the workroom, Aurora brought the clip forward. Grainy. Each beat jolted the frame. The ventricle sagged, the squeeze barely there.

Trauma could not account for this. What lay on the screen bore the shape of years—a heart unattended, left to deteriorate until failure became inevitable.

"This is congenital," Regina said.

Aurora shifted beside her, breath slipping out as she raked a hand through her hair. "That was my read as well."

"Where is the history?"

"There isn't one."

"Impossible." Regina's focus remained on the flicker of the ventricle. "She has survived sixteen years. Without intervention she never would have reached this table. What is going on here, Dr. Hale?"

"That's what we need to figure out. She came in on a vague story. PD is waiting right outside. The only charted history is scattered ED visits. She's on the table with a bleeding spleen, and Elsa says she already crashed once."

Ruby had been leaning against the counter, arms folded, listening. At last she broke in. "So she's been through here how many times, and nobody connected the dots."

Regina paused. "Then we will. This girl has been failed enough." She turned her attention to Aurora. "Page social work. Make certain child protective services are on her chart before she leaves the table."

"Sure thing," Aurora said.

Regina's eyes lingered on the frozen image a moment longer before she straightened. "Now. Let's hear from that officer."

Ruby remained behind as Regina and Aurora stepped into the corridor. The officer waited near the station, broad frame set apart from the flow.

"I'm Dr. Mills, cardiothoracic surgery. This is Dr. Hale, my colleague."

"Officer Dawkins." The reply came automatic, his brow furrowing as he spoke. "Cardio? I thought she was under the ER."

"She is. But her heart showed an abnormality in the initial workup. She is in surgery now for her injuries, but to treat her heart, we need more information. What can you tell us?"

He scanned the hallway before settling back on them. "She's sixteen, in foster care. We got called out for a domestic. The foster father's in custody. The mother was there too, but she was cleared at the scene. She should be on her way up now. Maybe she can tell you more. That's all I know."

"Then we will hear what the mother has to say." Regina turned to Aurora. "I will speak with the family. Stay close to the OR and watch the updates. Once she is out, move for imaging as soon as it is feasible."

"Understood," Aurora said, her mouth curving. "And if anyone can keep that girl alive long enough for it, it's Swan."

The optimism in her voice landed bright, but Regina went still.

Emma. Of all surgeons to take the case.

Foster carried a different weight now. A girl shuttled through homes, broken open on Emma's table. Regina's jaw tightened. Emma's hands were steady. Her heart stood to break.

The certainty drove her a step nearer to Aurora, drawing her out of earshot.

"Does Dr. Swan know this child is in the system?"

Aurora blinked, caught off guard. "I… I'm not sure. I only just heard myself. Why?"

Emma would not treat it as another case. She would drive past caution, as if saving this girl might recast her own story.

Tension coiled low in Regina, pulling taut. She raised her chin, the lapse sealed before it could show.

"It can be difficult," she said at last, voice even, "to carry such knowledge into an operating room."

Aurora nodded, though her head tilted, questioning. Regina gave her no more to read.

"Keep me updated." The words were clean, final, enough to send Aurora upstairs without delay.

+++++

Emma

Emma shoved out of the scrub room, cap still on, and yanked her white coat over her shoulders as she moved. Elsa and Aurora stood ahead, bent over a tablet.

Both looked up when she closed the distance.

Aurora spoke first. "I spoke with the officer in the ED. She's a foster kid. They were called for a domestic. Foster father's in custody. The mother was supposed to come, but hasn't shown up yet. CPS is here now."

The air left Emma's chest in a rush.

"It looks congenital," Aurora continued. "She must've had a repair as a baby, but we have no record of proper follow-up. We won't know how bad until imaging, but with her out of surgery we'll have a window soon."

Emma's lungs seized. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, fingers curling until her nails bit into her palms.

That girl had coded twice on her table. Too long, both times. Emma had felt how close her heart had come to giving up.

She dragged in a breath. It came ragged.

Great. Both were watching her now. Aurora's eyes wide, full of concern. Elsa's steady, unblinking. The weight of their attention made her want to turn away, but neither said a word.

Emma forced her shoulders square. "You two go with her to SICU. Stay on her until imaging's done. I'll head down and update CPS."

Elsa looked like she might push back, but Aurora spoke first. "We've got her." She glanced at Elsa, and after a beat Elsa gave a small nod, though her focus remained on Emma.

Emma didn't wait. She turned and took the stairs two at a time.

She pushed through the ED doors and scanned for the officer or one of those cheap suits with good intentions and nothing to show for it.

A few steps in, Ruby cut across her path, clipboard tucked under one arm.

Ruby gave her a once-over, one brow arched. "You look like you went a few rounds with a wrecking ball. How bad?"

Emma exhaled through her nose. "Kid's down a spleen. We almost lost her twice on the table, but she's holding."

Ruby shook her head, sympathy softening her expression. "And you? You okay?"

A clipped dip of her chin. "I'm fine."

Ruby snorted. "Yeah, sure. I've known you six weeks and even I can call bullshit on that."

Emma ignored it. "Where's the CPS worker?"

Ruby jerked her chin toward the side hall. "Consult One. She went in with Dr. Mills and the cop. Foster mom finally decided to show. Hours late, can you believe it?"

Something cold dropped through Emma's chest. "Why is Regina here?" It came out sharper than intended, and Ruby tilted her head, interest sparking in her eyes.

"Because the kid's gonna need heart surgery. Who else would they want in the room?"

Perfect. A kid the system had already chewed up, a foster mom who couldn't even show on time for this, and Regina—the last person Emma wanted present—there to witness her caught up in it.

"I'll update them," Emma said.

Ruby didn't move, didn't press. Just gave that half-smile that said she'd filed it away for later. "Go do your thing, Swan. And maybe try breathing while you're at it."

Emma ignored her and headed for Consult One, her stride clipped and sure, even if everything inside her wasn't.

+++++

Regina

The door swung open with force.

Emma filled the doorway, shoulders squared, posture braced as though her body alone might hold the room at bay.

Regina's gaze caught on every brittle edge, every line of fury held in stillness. The old impulse rose, swift and sharp: to take that anger into herself, to guard it, to keep those watching eyes from seeing what should never be theirs.

She folded her hands on the table. Her shoulders ached with the effort of remaining motionless, but her expression stayed composed.

"Dr. Swan," she said evenly. "We were just beginning."

She inclined her head to the others. "Dr. Swan is the trauma surgeon who operated on Cassandra. I believe she has a report for you."

Emma did not sit. She stood tall, hands buried in her coat pockets, her gaze locked on the foster mother.

"When Cassie came in, she had multiple broken ribs, a punctured lung, and abdominal bleeding." Each word was struck like a hammer, deliberate, unflinching. "I picked up on an issue with her heart during the workup, but priority was stabilizing her. I took her straight to the OR. We removed her spleen. She was touch and go on the table, but the bleeding's controlled. She's in recovery now."

The facts were clinical. Strain seeped through every one. Emma's shoulders too rigid, jaw locked, each syllable dragged from her as if it cost more than she could spare. She spoke like a surgeon delivering facts, yet what bled through was raw, unhealed.

Once, that fracture had opened only for Regina. Emma had laid it in her hands: anger, grief, all the hidden places no one else was allowed to touch. Regina had steadied her then, and for a time Emma had trusted she could set down her armor.

Now the same break, exposed in front of strangers, turned the memory against her. The sound of it scraped through her like accusation. She pressed her hands tighter together, knuckles white beneath the table.

"Our team is imaging her heart as we speak," she said, redirecting to the foster mother. "We do not yet know the extent of the damage, but she will likely require another surgery. Is there anything you can tell us about her condition?"

The woman blinked, fingers twisting on the purse in her lap. "No. They never told me anything about that. She never… she never said she had a bad heart. She's been through so many homes—seven in sixteen years—and nobody ever said a word to me about it. How was I supposed to know?"

Seven homes in sixteen years. The words fell heavy, fouling the air. Emma's fists drove deeper into her pockets, her body angling back as though distance might dull the cut.

"What matters now is that we establish her medical history," Regina said, catching the room before the silence could unravel. "However incomplete, any detail could prove useful."

The foster mother shook her head. "We don't know anything."

That, at least, carried the ring of truth.

"She will need to stabilize from the injuries she sustained before we can move forward."

Regina turned to the case worker. "Search for any records that might be of use."

The woman nodded. "I'll try."

"He didn't mean to hurt her." The foster mother blurted it out, voice climbing. "He just… he loses his temper. She talks back, she knows how to set him off. I try to keep them apart when it gets bad, but tonight…" Her words thinned, splintered. "It got away from me. I called as soon as I realized. She looked so small on the floor… I didn't know what to do."

Regina kept her face impassive. The cadence was familiar: excuses rehearsed until they sounded like absolution, as though shifting blame might mend broken bone.

Emma's silence stretched, thin as wire, ready to snap.

"Our responsibility is Cassie's care," Regina cut in, voice firm enough to draw a line. "The rest lies with CPS and the police."

The foster mother's head snapped up. "Is she… will she be okay?"

Emma spoke first. "She's likely to make it through tonight. After that depends on whether someone finally takes care of her."

The words tore through the room, freezing pen to paper, pulling the officer's gaze toward her. The foster mother recoiled, stricken.

Regina let herself look at her then. Emma's eyes were unflinching, defiant, and the force of it caught hard in her chest. She met the challenge in silence, unable to give or take ground.

The pause stretched until the officer spoke. "Mrs. Carter, we'll need to go over your statement again."

"And we'll need to discuss Cassie's placement," the CPS worker added.

Regina rose. "We will provide updates as her condition changes."

Emma, at least, had the good sense to say nothing more.

Regina stood with the others, but the old vow coiled tight inside her. She had promised Emma safety. Emma was breaking anyway.

+++++

Regina attempted to intercept her in the hall, but Emma moved past as though her presence carried contagion. The impulse to follow pulled at her, insistent. She forced it down and returned to the work that remained.

Compartmentalization was the discipline their profession demanded. Most acquired it, or they fractured beneath the weight. Emma possessed none of it today. The case had struck too near, and for a surgeon, that was a dangerous threshold to cross.

Emma lingered in her thoughts until Aurora's summons drew them both back into the CVICU imaging suite.

The small room was lit by the pale glow of monitors. Regina fixed her attention on the images Aurora advanced, each one revealing what had been left undone. A patch across the septum. A conduit at the outflow tract. A heart once repaired, then abandoned. The right ventricle distorted, walls thinned to fragility.

It should never have reached this point. To leave a child with only half a remedy was negligence beyond forgiveness. And beneath the black and white images lay the colder truth: she was not certain she could repair what had been allowed to fail.

Emma stood beside her, arms folded across her chest.

Elsa remained at the edge of the room. She held no clinical role here, yet she did not leave. The way her gaze moved to Emma before returning to the screen told its own story. It was not the case that kept her present. It was Emma. Loyalty, quiet and freely offered. Regina acknowledged it, even valued it, though what else might rest beneath remained opaque.

Aurora broke the silence. "The CT shows the old Tetralogy repair. Patch across the septum, some dilation along the outflow tract. The right ventricle is severely enlarged. No clot, no fluid around the heart."

She paused, attention lingering on the screen a moment longer before she shifted.

"The echo is more concerning. There's severe pulmonary regurgitation, the right ventricle is barely functioning, and now the left is failing too. Her ejection fraction is around thirty percent."

Emma leaned closer to the monitor, eyes narrowing as if sheer focus might force the number higher. "Thirty?"

"Possibly lower." The subdued quality in Aurora's voice suggested she had arrived at the same conclusion.

"And she's been surviving like that?" The disbelief was unmistakable.

"She must have been showing symptoms before now," Elsa said.

Regina inclined her head. "Shortness of breath. Fatigue. Any exertion would have left her diminished. It would not have been subtle."

Emma's posture tightened. "Nobody cared enough to look."

Aurora glanced up, something unsettled crossing her expression. "Did Cassie ever tell anyone she felt unwell?"

Emma's jaw clenched. The words came out forced. "She wouldn't have. When it's all you've ever known, you don't question it. You learn to live with less."

The air thickened with more than the case. Aurora hesitated, as if trying to decide whether Emma spoke for Cassie or herself. Elsa's gaze lingered too, searching.

Regina returned her focus to the monitor. To look at Emma now would be to expose her further, to let the others see what should never belong to them.

"Cassie has adapted to her limitations," Regina said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact. "It is common in children with congenital disease. They rarely know how far their baseline has fallen from what it should be."

Aurora nodded. "That makes sense."

Elsa added a soft sound of assent.

The pause frayed at the edges until Emma cut through it. "So what's the plan?"

Regina let the question settle. Emma was braced, waiting for something she could fight for. Regina had only the truth, and it would never feel like enough. She drew a slow breath.

"The right ventricle is beyond repair. The heart is too weak to withstand intervention. Transplant is the only path left."

Aurora's glance was wide, regretful. "I agree."

Emma pivoted toward her. "That's it? Put her on a list and hope someone dies fast enough to save her?"

Regina kept her voice level. "It is not hope, Emma. It is medicine. Her ventricle has failed. Nothing in our arsenal can alter that."

She gave the name its full weight, deliberate. Emma's expression flickered—brief, but there.

Emma shifted her stance, bracing her hands at her hips as if steadying herself against the words. "She could survive with an LVAD. Buy her time until a donor comes through."

"Her right ventricle is too compromised to support one."

"Then a BiVAD." Emma stepped closer, voice climbing. "We both know the systems exist. You're the expert. Make one fit."

Elsa shifted forward. "Emma, that's—"

Regina's gaze cut to her, sharp enough to hold her in place. "Leave it. This is between us."

She turned back to Emma. "A BiVAD carries prohibitive risk. In her state, survival is vanishingly unlikely. ECMO might hold her for hours, perhaps a day or two, but it would hasten her collapse. None of these are true remedies. They would only drive her body further into failure."

The words left her with the composure she intended. Speaking them tore through her. To give that certainty to Emma felt less like truth than betrayal.

Emma held herself still, jaw shifting, breath pulled tight, shoulders rising against the strain. Regina had seen the shape of it before—Emma forcing herself to hold, though the hold would never last.

"You don't know that unless you try."

"I do know." She gave it to Emma alone, carrying something she had only ever given to her. "Please trust me on this."

Emma's gaze burned into hers, fierce, unrelenting, as if will might bend her answer. Then came the exhale, sharp with defeat. Emma stepped back, hands flung up. "So we do nothing? Just sit here and let her slip through our hands?"

The step carried more distance than the space it covered. Regina smoothed her expression.

"We prepare her for transplant," she said, each word deliberate. "And we do everything in our power to give her the one chance she has."

Emma shook her head, mouth twisting. "That's not a plan. That's surrender."

"It is reality." Her tone held calm. Her heart pounded beneath it.

Emma's lips parted, closed again. Breath caught jaggedly, her frame locked until the words tore loose.

"No, it's you. You're doing it again. Giving up, walking away. She needs you, Regina."

Her name, broken on Emma's tongue, cleaved straight through her. The accusation cut deeper than the case. Because it was true. She had walked away from Emma.

The truth surged fierce in her chest, uncontainable. She longed to close the distance, to take hold of her and beg for the chance to put it right.

The thought stopped her cold. She did want that chance.

Emma was already turning, gaze sliding away as if burned by her own words. Her coat flared as she shoved through the door. Footsteps pounded down the corridor, each one reverberating in Regina's chest.

The quiet that followed was loaded. Aurora sat rigid, fingers wound together, her stare fixed on the floor as if it might open a way out. Elsa pushed from the wall at last, brow furrowed. "I should go after her," she said, steady in tone though less so in stance.

Regina lifted her chin. "No. I will."

She would not let Emma walk away with only the shadow of truth. Not again.

+++++

Emma

The first door that looked like it might buy her a second alone—she shoved through it.

The latch caught behind her. Too loud. She leaned back against the door, dragging air like she'd just sprinted five miles on nothing but adrenaline and spite.

On-call room. Empty.

Good.

She pushed off and dropped onto the cot. The landing jarred, frame unforgiving under the thin pad. She hunched forward, elbows on her knees, pulse still hammering like her body hadn't caught on that the sprint was over.

Every word she'd thrown in that room came back swinging. Too much, too fast, no way to reel it back in. Aurora staring like she'd just watched a car crash in slow motion. Elsa's concern written plain across her face, the kind of open worry Emma couldn't stand to look at.

They weren't supposed to see her like that.

And Regina—

She dragged both palms down her face. She could still hear it, the way it had left her mouth: harsh, unfair. Wrong. Regina hadn't been walking away, hadn't given up on that girl. She'd known it even as she said it, known it had nothing to do with Cassie at all.

She'd promised herself she could keep this clean. Professional. Instead it had spilled everywhere, years of it, in front of the worst audience she could've picked.

Regina had taken it. Just stood there, absorbing hit after hit. Never checked her, not even when she'd crossed the line with the foster mom. Patient in a way Emma didn't deserve.

She ground her palms into her eyes until sparks lit behind them. She should've held it back.

Should've done better.

A knock cut through the quiet.

She stilled. If her head had been on straight, she'd have called out occupied. Should've locked the damn door. Instead the handle turned, a slice of light spilling in.

Regina.

Of course it was Regina.

"You don't quit, do you?" She aimed for bite, but it came out weak.

"I wish that were true." Quiet. Stripped. Not the practiced version Emma kept running into lately. Closer to the Regina she remembered.

Regina crossed the room, perfume faint in the air, coat rustling. She sat beside her. The cot dipped, vinyl shifting under the weight, the narrow frame crowding them together. Closer than Emma wanted to be.

Regina caught her gaze and didn't let go. "I abandoned you once. I will not do so again."

Emma's throat cinched. She'd braced for distance, for some polished line she could shove back against. Not this.

Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, fingers locking on her knees until the ache cut sharper than the sting in her chest. Don't cry. Not here. Not with her.

"Shit." She dug harder into her knees. "Don't—" The rest caught jagged. She shook her head, staring at the floor. "Don't say things like that."

Regina didn't move. Didn't ease, didn't back off.

"Walking away from you was my worst mistake," she said, voice low, edged with sorrow. "And I am sorry for how I did it. If you want me gone, say so. Otherwise… I owe you an explanation."

That was all it took. The tears slipped free before Emma could choke them back. She lurched upright, away from the cot, putting space between herself and Regina's face laid open in a way she couldn't stand to look at.

Her hand found the wall. Cool plaster, steady under her palm.

A rough sound broke loose, caught between a laugh and a sob. "Where the hell was that when I needed it?"

"I lacked the courage," Regina said. "And you bore the cost."

Emma's hand slipped down the wall until her arm hung useless at her side.

All the questions she'd hurled at the dark over the years rushed up at once, but only one broke loose. "Why?"

Silence stretched, long enough Regina might never answer.

"Sit with me," Regina said at last, soft enough it brushed the back of her neck.

The sound of it almost made her shiver. She shook her head hard. "Just say it."

"I will," Regina answered, firm but not harsh. "But not with you standing over there. Sit with me. Please."

Her chest pulled tight. That narrow cot—not a chance. She yanked the chair from the desk instead, legs screeching on linoleum. She dropped into it, set square in front of Regina, knees nearly touching in the cramped space.

"Fine. I'm here. Now talk."

Regina sat rigid, hands folded like she was the only thing keeping herself upright. "It was the summer before our junior year. My mother decided it was time I became… serious."

The bitter curl of her mouth showed before she smoothed it out.

"She had tolerated certain things until then—us among them—because she fancied them mere indulgences." The word came clipped, sour.

The sound of it sliced under Emma's skin. Indulgence. That was what Cora fucking Mills had called them. What Regina echoed now, even if the acid in her voice said she hadn't believed it. Two years, boiled down to something her mother could dismiss with a flick of her hand.

"When I told her I wouldn't end it, that I…" Regina faltered. "That I loved you—" Her voice broke. "She reminded me how much reach she had. She said she could have your scholarship revoked. That you would never set foot in a medical school."

Emma could only stare. The words landed like the punchline to a cruel joke fifteen years late.

Regina pressed her lips into a line before forcing the rest out. "I yielded to fear and obeyed her."

Emma waited for more. Something that might actually make sense. After all that silence, that was it?

Maybe it was true. But right now it felt paper-thin against the wreck Regina had left behind.

"Fear." It came out harsher than she meant. She raked her hands through her hair. "She threatens my scholarship, and you fold. That's the end of our story."

Her chest felt too tight, her skin too hot. She pushed to her feet, paced to the far corner and back, but it didn't burn off. She spun, fixing Regina with a look. Sitting on that narrow cot, Regina looked smaller. That only made it worse.

"You didn't even give me the chance," she snapped. "We could have figured it out. Together."

Regina's hands clenched in her lap. "You think I didn't want that? That I didn't see it?" She didn't waver. "A life with you. All of it." Her breath trembled as it left her. "She knew exactly where to strike—your scholarship, your future, everything you had worked for."

Heat flared behind Emma's eyes. "It wasn't everything I worked for, Regina."

Her hand dropped. She met Regina's gaze. "I worked for us. I wanted us."

Regina's face held both sorrow and resolve, written plain enough Emma couldn't look away. "You are a good doctor. The way you fight for your patients, the way you refuse to let them be lost… it matters." Her voice softened. "You matter."

"Don't tell me it had to be one or the other," Emma shot back. "You didn't get to decide that for me."

The words hung between them, too heavy to move through. Her ribs felt bound, pulse climbing all over again.

Then the overhead came to life: "Code Blue, SICU, room six."

The sound cut the moment clean in two. Her pager buzzed against her hip, and the part of her that had cracked open slammed shut. She was already moving, hand on the door. "That's Cassie."

Behind her, Regina rose too, falling into step at her heels.

+++++

The monitor was screaming when Emma pushed through the door. Flatline alarms, the kind that made her teeth ache. Cassie's body heaved with each compression, sternum driven down and recoiling back. Oxygen hissed hard through the tube, the bag squeezed in rhythm with the pounding on her chest.

Defib pads plastered across her skin. Leads spitting artifact with every jolt.

Aurora stood anchored at the foot of the bed, voice slicing clean through the storm. "Epi's in. Keep compressions."

Emma's hands twitched for gloves. Her whole body screamed at her to move—to shoulder someone aside, to grab the chest or the bag. Anything but stand idle while a kid's heart quit in front of her.

But the bed was jammed shoulder to shoulder, and she was already too compromised to lead it. Her head was still buzzing, chest tight from everything that had come spilling out. One wrong call could do more harm than good.

A nurse pumped at the sternum. Another called the count. RT squeezed air through the tube. IV lines sagged heavy with fluid. No room for her here. She had to stand there empty-handed, every second stretching, while a sixteen-year-old's heart refused to beat.

Regina moved up beside her. Close enough that Emma felt the brush of her coat each time she shifted. Silent. Steady. Too near to ignore.

Aurora's eyes flicked from the clock to the chest. "Pause. Pulse check."

Everything stopped at once. The hands lifted. The bag stilled. A nurse pressed fingers to the carotid, steth jammed against bone, whole body leaned in. The monitor cleared of noise, the jitter settling.

A beat. Another.

The nurse's voice snapped up. "I've got a pulse. Sinus tach, one-forty."

Emma's knees threatened to give out, and she locked them hard. Relief cut through, sharp and mean, because it was never safe to trust it. A rhythm like that could vanish as fast as it came. She'd seen it too many times: climb, flicker, gone.

The room exhaled around her. Gloves snapped free. Wrappers scattered across the floor. The cart closed with a crack. Voices dropped, steadying into orders that carried no trace of the chaos that had just passed.

Her chest was still burning. Eyes fixed on the monitor's thin peaks. "You're sure transplant is the only option?"

Regina turned from the screen. No mask, no distance, just that clear steadiness Emma had once let herself lean on. "Yes. Transplant is the only way."

The fight drained before it reached her mouth. No ground left to take, no angle to push. Only the choice to believe her.

Her arms had been folded so tight across her chest she could feel the ache in her muscles. She let them fall. The release left her unsteady.

"Then put her on the list."

"I will." Regina's face held no flicker of triumph. "We will do our best for her."

We. She said it like a foregone conclusion, and it had no right to be that reassuring.

Emma didn't move. She stayed where she was, shoulder to shoulder with Regina, eyes on the fragile rise of Cassie's chest. Her own pulse hadn't settled since the code, but the steadiness at her side pressed through anyway, the way it always had before everything went to hell.

Emma

The morning carried a cold bite. Boston tipping toward fall. City lights scattered across the river's black surface, lamps along the path doing the work the sun hadn't started yet.

In. Out. In. Out. Breath kept time with her stride. Shoes struck damp pavement. Quick. Light. Don't slip.

A bow light skimmed the water and vanished under the bridge. She kept her eyes forward. Left, right, left, right. Maintain the pace. The cold threaded her lungs and came out hot. Sweat slid down her spine, the air stripping it away. Skin chilled, core burning.

Her head had been noisy from the jump. Too little sleep. Too many thoughts. She'd crashed late, woke early, and reached for the only thing that ever shut it up: running. Well, running and sex. And sex sure as hell wasn't on the table at five in the morning.

Running did what it always did. Built a tunnel. Narrowed the world to breath, feet, the path ahead. Her lungs found a rhythm, her stride almost steady.

Then the texts pressed in—the ones waiting, stacked and unread. Ruby. Elsa. Aurora. Each name crowding her head until the road felt uneven and her breathing turned rough.

She hadn't answered since yesterday. The silence felt both rude and necessary.

Regina hadn't asked if she was okay. Hadn't needed to. She'd taken a chair beside Cassie's bed and stayed there long past their shift. No speeches, no fix-it declarations, just presence.

In, out, in, out. The kid was still holding on, last she checked.

They hadn't touched the on-call room conversation again. Emma didn't raise it. Regina didn't push. Hours side by side, each at a computer—the kind of quiet that let her breathe like herself again. The noise in her head went from siren to hum. Quieter than she'd expected, quieter than it had been since.

She was still furious. That part hadn't changed. She'd earned the right to stay that way.

But then Regina did things like slipping out and coming back with a plastic container of exactly what she would have picked, only with extra vegetables piled in. Always the vegetables. Her signature move, the same as it had been back then.

Dinner didn't rewrite the past. A container with her name on the lid didn't sand down the edges of everything between them.

She lengthened her stride until her calves bit and that felt honest. Left, right, left, right. The Charles exhaled a cold draft and she took it in like punishment and medicine at once.

Boston was supposed to be clean slate. New city. New hospital. Do the work. Go home alone. Keep the lines straight.

Boston Mercy blew that up on day one.

Last night she'd lain on her cold mattress, staring at the ceiling until she couldn't take it anymore. She'd ended up scrolling job boards until her thumb cramped, spinning lies about fresh starts in other zip codes. But she hadn't meant any of it. She knew that.

Just like she knew Cassie had changed the math. Sixteen, chewed up by foster care, down a spleen, a heart giving out too soon. Someone had to see her through. It had landed in her chest and rooted there.

And against every warning bell in her head, Regina had changed the math too. Dropped it at her feet, years late and heavy enough to bruise. Blamed Cora. Blamed fear. Blamed the threat of losing the scholarship she'd clawed her way into and fought twice as hard to keep. And it all sounded like the truth Emma had been swallowing since the day she walked out.

She'd called it her worst mistake.

They were the words Emma had once wanted more than anything. But now they went down like sludge, thickened by all the years they'd gone unsaid. Wanting them now felt like betrayal of the version of herself that had survived without them. So she drove harder, faster, pounding pavement until the ache in her thighs spoke louder than memory.

What if she believed her? What if that was enough to keep her here? And if it was… then what?

The hospital came into view, solid against the dark. She slowed to a jog, then to a walk. Sweat cooled on her neck, hair plastered damp to her temples. Steam lifted from a vent, curling into the pre-dawn.

She shook out her arms, swiped a sleeve across her forehead, and crossed the street. The doors slid open, fluorescent light spilling over her as she stepped inside.

+++++

Regina

Paper had consumed her desk. Yesterday's scans and chart notes lay in ordered stacks. Journal printouts sprawled beside them, margins dense with marks from her own hand. Every arrow and underline was an attempt to extract one more line, one more fragment of data that might sustain Cassie's heart long enough for another to take its place.

It was for the girl. That much was true. But the deeper truth cut cleanly: she could not watch Emma break again. Not after all the ways she already had. She would burn through every hour she possessed to spare Emma one more loss.

A knock.

"Come in."

She didn't lift her head. The door opened. She finished the notation, set the pen aside, and folded her hands. Only then did she look up.

Aurora stood in the doorway, coat half-buttoned, damp hair clinging in streaks. Her gaze swept the disorder across the desk before steadying. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

"Dr. Mills. I came as soon as I read your message."

"I know the hour is early."

"It matters little when someone needs us." Aurora's smile was faint, deliberate.

"Then let us ensure she receives what she needs. Dr. Larsen will join us shortly."

Aurora's brows rose. "Elsa?"

"Her sister. Anna."

The pause stretched a beat too long. "You mean to put her on the case? She has only just finished training."

Aurora's eyes sparked with something—hesitation, perhaps concern. Regina held her gaze. "Do you believe her unfit? Curious. I had thought you and her sister enjoyed some measure of closeness."

Aurora's chin lifted, the brief lapse smoothed away. "Closeness does not blind me. I respect them both. But this case is formidable, and I would see the girl given every chance."

"Experience can dull urgency, Dr. Hale. Anna hasn't yet been bent by boards or burdened with politics. She will give everything she has, and that is what this case requires."

Aurora considered the words in silence long enough to make it plain she understood. Then, with the faintest curve of her mouth, she inclined her head. "Then I will see she has the support to give it."

"I expected nothing less."

Aurora shifted her weight. Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk before she drew them back. "Yesterday, in imaging. Things ran hotter than I expected. Dr. Swan is exceptional at her work and she's a friend, but she went further than she should have. I've never seen her act like that. Whatever was going on, you didn't deserve it."

If only she knew. She had deserved every word Emma hurled at her, and more besides.

"Your loyalty to your colleagues is admirable, Dr. Hale. And your concern is appreciated. But you need not worry. Dr. Swan and I are sorting it out."

They were not. Nothing was anywhere near sorted, but it belonged to her and Emma alone.

Her and Emma. The thought lodged in her chest, an ache she despised. Something once so complete had unraveled into this.

A second knock broke through the silence.

"Come in."

The door swung open and Anna slipped inside, notebook clutched in one hand, her badge flipped backward on its lanyard. "Sorry—hi—Dr. Mills, Aurora—uh, Dr. Hale. I came straight over. Didn't even stop for coffee, which was probably a mistake, but I did read the file on the way."

"You're here, Anna. That's what matters." Aurora's mouth softened.

Anna's grin was quick, almost sheepish, before she turned. "Right—okay, so. I mean, saying this girl's had a rough go is kind of the understatement of the year. I'm guessing you pulled me in because you need a pediatric cardiologist to get her moving on the transplant list?"

"We need a complete pediatric evaluation: echo, labs, functional assessment. Transplant will not consider her without clear documentation. That is why you are here, Dr. Larsen. Your task is to establish eligibility and move the process forward without delay. Given her condition, we will pursue Status 1A."

Anna blinked. Her pen hovered over the page. "Status 1A." The words caught for a beat. Her grip tightened around the pen before she nodded, quick, almost too quick. "I've never had a 1A patient before. But if you say she qualifies, then I'm in. What's the plan?"

Regina drew two folders from the stack and slid them across the desk, one to each of them. "I am never without one, Dr. Larsen. This will get us started."

+++++

Emma

The monitor's glow drilled into the backs of her eyes. Emma dragged a hand down her face, the grit of dried sweat stiff against her skin.

Ugh.

The shift had opened with blood on the floor and hadn't let up since. She hadn't made it upstairs to see Cassie.

Aurora had breezed through between cases, breathless and bright, said she and Regina were working the transplant board with Elsa's sister—the baby peds cardiologist. All nerves and rapid-fire words, but apparently good enough to hold her place in the room. Regina would fill her in later, Aurora promised. She just wanted Emma to know things were moving.

Fine. Good. At least someone was pushing Cassie's ball upfield while she was stuck down here in the mud.

Coffee? Forget it. Food? A fairy tale. Just pagers screaming and the next body shoved through the door.

This one was a mess.

The CT showed shards of jaw like scattered glass. Nasal bones collapsed, swelling already climbing over the ruins. An airway like this wasn't a question; it was a countdown. No grace period. She leaned in, gritty eyes chasing the wreckage frame by frame. For the moment, the man was still breathing on his own, but every tick of the clock inched the margin closer to zero.

The door opened behind her. She turned.

Elsa stepped in, hair pinned tight, jacket still crisp, shoes untouched by blood or bile. Too neat. Too intact. Fucking anesthesiologists.

They hadn't talked since yesterday. Elsa's texts still sat unopened on her phone, quiet landmines she hadn't had the guts to step on. She wasn't ready then. She wasn't ready now.

Emma straightened. "Forty-six-year-old male, laid his motorcycle down with no helmet. Massive facial trauma."

Elsa's gaze went straight to the scan. "We need to secure the airway."

"Yeah." The bones looked like someone had taken a hammer to the center of his face. "What's the call, doc?"

Elsa studied the image for only a moment longer before answering. "We'll take him awake with a fiberoptic scope, minimal sedation. It's the safest approach."

"That's slow."

"It's deliberate. If I rush and miss, you've got nothing left to work with. If it fails, I cut straight to a surgical airway. Cric kit will be at the bedside."

"The second you call it, I'm cutting. He's got a bleeder in the belly that won't wait long."

Elsa didn't waver. "I can manage it."

A grin tugged at Emma's mouth, sharp and short-lived. "That's what I like to hear in my OR." She pushed back from the monitor. "Alright. Let's go save him."

+++++

Regina

The restaurant gleamed. Glass, silver, reflections everywhere. Each surface polished into submission. On another day she might have admired the presentation. Today it scraped across her nerves. She had meant to cancel. After yesterday it would have been reasonable, even wise, but the hour had arrived too quickly, and she would not compound her failures by insulting Genevieve with neglect.

Genevieve was already waiting. She rose as Regina approached, her expression softening into something more intimate than polite.

"There you are," she said, and brushed a kiss across Regina's cheek. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to come drag you out of the hospital myself."

Regina lowered into the chair. She drew the napkin across her lap with unnecessary precision. "You know that would cause a scene."

"Worth it," Genevieve replied, eyes bright with playfulness. "You work yourself to the bone, and then you arrive looking like this." Her hand swept the length of Regina with easy admiration. "Flawless, yes, but running on fumes."

"It has been a trying twenty-four hours," Regina allowed.

Compassion flickered across Genevieve's face, unguarded and earnest. It struck like an open hand. Guilt surged, clawing for space in Regina's already crowded chest. To be looked at as if she deserved such tenderness—when she did not—pressed against something she could not afford to examine.

"Next time," Genevieve murmured, "I'll come to you. I can survive cafeteria food if it means I see you."

"I would hardly subject you to that indignity."

"The point isn't the food." Genevieve leaned forward. "It's being where you are."

That was precisely the problem.

Regina set her glass down carefully, fingers steady though her throat tightened. "Tell me," she said, tone polished to an edge, "how is the planning for your fundraiser? I imagine the guest list grows longer by the day."

Genevieve tilted her head at the deflection but gave a gracious nod nonetheless. "Longer, yes, though half will decline and send a check instead. Which, I suppose, is still useful."

"The mark of true generosity, to spare one the ordeal of conversation."

Genevieve's laugh rang out, bright and unrestrained. A few diners turned their heads. She didn't notice or didn't care. Her attention stayed fixed on Regina, warm in a way that pressed close, too close, like the links of a chain drawing tighter until breath caught.

"You are dreadful," Genevieve teased.

"So I've been told." Regina raised her glass. The curve of her mouth belonged to habit more than truth.

Yesterday had changed things. Everything, perhaps. Genevieve had done nothing to deserve this. The cruelty of it was clear. Her heart was already bound to a gravity she had fallen into long ago, one she had never escaped. One she had never truly wanted to escape.

Genevieve traced the rim of her glass. "Your parents' banquet is coming up. Have you thought about the drive? If we left Friday, we could steal one quiet night on the coast before the weekend begins."

There it was. The natural progression after six weeks of dinners. An invitation toward closeness, toward something deeper. She should have welcomed it. Instead her chest constricted. Her mother's expectations settled heavy over the table, the choreography already written.

Regina placed her glass down. "The days leading in will be difficult to spare."

"If you made the time, it could be worth it." Genevieve's voice remained light, but her intent pressed through.

It rang false. Not Genevieve's sincerity. Her own emptiness. She had nothing to give this perfectly acceptable woman.

"I will consider it." The words came smooth, polished, carrying none of her own truth.

Genevieve's smile held, though something flickered in her eyes. "That's fair. Just promise you won't let the hospital decide for you."

Regina should have said something more. Something honest. Instead she let the guilt curdle, sharp and sour, until the server appeared with pen in hand and a professionally neutral demeanor. She welcomed the interruption.

+++++

Emma

They didn't save the guy. Emma had worked on him until her arms shook, sweat soaking through her scrubs, and still had to call it. Sometimes it didn't matter how fast you cut or how hard you pushed. The body was already gone.

Motorcycles. She'd never understand volunteering your body to asphalt.

It was the end of her shift. Her body needed a hot shower, maybe ten hours with her eyes shut. What she wanted was Cassie. To stand over that narrow bed and watch the rise, the numbers, the proof the fight hadn't slipped through a crack she'd missed.

Want beat out need.

"I'm going up to CVICU," she said, glancing at Elsa as they stepped into the hall together.

"So am I," Elsa answered. "I need to check on a few things before I head out."

They rode the elevator in silence, machinery humming steady under their feet, the panel ticking its way toward the floor she actually wanted. Emma had skimmed Elsa's texts after scrubbing out. There'd been no are you okay, no I'm here if you want to talk. Elsa hadn't tried to crack her open.

And now as they stood together, alone and without the press of an ongoing trauma, Elsa didn't fidget, didn't shuffle her weight, didn't cough up some polite line to fill the air. She just stood there, spine straight, hands loose at her sides, eyes on the numbers overhead.

Elsa wasn't going to push.

Emma had spent years snarling at pity, slamming walls up when people poked. This felt different. Like someone pulling out a chair and leaving it empty, waiting for her to sit down. Like the truth was already there between them, waiting for her to stop pretending she didn't see it.

And maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing.

By the time the doors opened, words were already crowding her throat. Holding them back felt like choking on something she couldn't swallow down.

She stepped out fast, shoes hitting the floor harder than they needed to. The hall stretched toward CVICU, but halfway down she cut right, caught the handle to the on-call room, and shoved the door open.

"Inside," she muttered, tugging Elsa with her.

Elsa stumbled once, a frown cutting across her face. "Emma, what—"

The door thudded shut behind them. Emma stayed there, back pressed to it, pulse still hammering. Her scrubs clung damp to her skin. She wanted to peel them off, but instead she crossed her arms.

"Relax. I didn't drag you in here to hook up."

Elsa's brows lifted, barely a flicker.

"What?"

"Are you even interested in women?"

"Yeah. My whole life. You?"

Elsa paused for a breath. "Yes."

Huh. So that was out there now. How had that never come up? Between Ruby, Aurora, Mulan, Regina, and now Elsa—was everyone in her orbit gay? The thought almost made her laugh. Almost.

"Well, good for us. But I didn't pull you in here for a coming-out party."

Elsa tipped her head, gaze narrowing. "Why did you?"

Now or never. The words pressed back up her throat like steam under a lid.

"I never knew my parents."

The words dropped between them, blunt and bare. The kind you couldn't claw back once they were out.

Elsa didn't move. No nod. No sorry. Just quiet.

"I grew up in the system. All eighteen years." Her focus stayed on the scuffed tile, then lifted. "So that line I'm supposed to keep with Cassie... it isn't there. You saw it yesterday. I came in hot. I'm sorry. I figured you should know why."

"Emma." Elsa's voice dropped, something soft catching in her expression.

Great. Her stomach turned. "Don't give me pity. I don't need it."

"No, you don't. And I wasn't going to." The silence stretched, long enough to feel deliberate. "My parents died when I was young."

That one hit sideways. Elsa always looked sealed tight, like nothing could leak through, but she should have known that control like that didn't build itself from nothing.

"I pulled you in here thinking I was the mess," she said.

A corner of Elsa's mouth shifted, almost a smile. "I wouldn't say you aren't. But for a long time it was only Anna and me, moving from one place to another. When I aged out, I made sure we had a home."

Her gaze flicked to Elsa's lab coat, still crisp like it had never seen a wrinkle. "And somehow you both end up doctors?"

Elsa's brow arched. "How did you become one? A surgeon, no less."

Fair point.

"Athletic scholarship for undergrad. A mountain of student debt for med school." She shrugged, quick and sharp. "I did what I had to do."

Elsa went still, her expression sharpening with something clearer. "I knew it." She gave a small wag of her finger, the closest thing to gloating Emma had ever seen from her. "You're far too skilled on the pitch for youth soccer to be your only training."

So much for keeping that gag alive a little longer.

"That can't have been easy. But you did it." The sincerity in it tugged at something in her chest she didn't want touched.

"Yeah, well, you did it too. Both of you."

Something crossed Elsa's face before she glanced away. "Our paths were different. When we each turned eighteen, there was a trust fund waiting. Enough that Anna and I could choose what we wanted without worrying."

What she would have given for that kind of safety. Instead she'd be hacking away at student loans until the grave.

"It didn't erase the loss. But it gave us ground to stand on. And I'll always be grateful for that."

Don't be a dick, don't be a dick, don't—

"Well," she said, forcing a crooked lift of her mouth, "I'm glad you picked this path. I like having you parked in a chair while I do the heavy lifting in the OR."

Elsa's lips curved, faint but sure. "Someone has to keep the patient breathing while you play hero."

The humor hung for a breath, then eased out of Elsa's voice, leaving it firmer, weighted. "You know you have people now, don't you? Ruby, Aurora, Mulan, Belle. Me. And even Regina. Which still surprises me, considering how long it took her to say anything to me that wasn't about a case."

Her chest pulled tight. Traitor move. "Regina doesn't count."

"Of course she does." Elsa said it like fact she could measure. "I've seen her cut people down for less than how you spoke to her yesterday. And she hasn't stopped working that transplant since. Anna thinks she hasn't slept."

I abandoned you once. I will not do so again.

The thought shot through her and left her raw. What the hell was she supposed to do with that?

"Yeah, well. Even having a couple is more than I ever thought I'd get." She tipped her chin toward the door. "Come on."

She opened it before Elsa could load up another sentence. She even swept an arm like she was ushering a queen, because if you were going to be ridiculous you might as well commit.

Elsa shook her head, exasperation tugging at her mouth, and stepped into the hall. Emma followed, hands buried in her pockets.

She was halfway to some dumb line to cut the tension when she saw Regina.

The universe loved a joke, and she was the punchline.

Regina stood a few feet away, attention sliding from Elsa to her and back before locking on her. Sharp. Exact. And once it landed, it stayed. Too long. Too heavy. The kind of look that drags history up into the fluorescent light.

Her throat went tight.

"Regina," Elsa said, polite, warm even.

Regina didn't return it. Her focus stayed fixed on Emma.

"I need to check on Cassie," Emma said, jerking her chin toward the hall. She didn't wait for a reply. Heat crawled under her skin with every step, certain that stare burned between her shoulders until the corner finally cut it off.

+++++

Regina

A transport cart rattled past, wheels squeaking down the corridor. Regina's gaze held on the corner where Emma had disappeared, longer than indifference would permit. She turned back to Elsa.

Elsa stood with her hands loose at her sides, posture easy, expression without a seam. If her calm could be trusted, the on-call door might have opened to nothing at all.

"Care to explain what just happened?" The words came out colder than she'd intended, though she made no effort to soften them.

"She was eager to get to Cassie."

Regina tested the answer like a suture, tugging lightly for slack, searching for a fray. None presented itself. Which left her with the problem of her own thoughts and the places they insisted on going.

If something was developing between them, it would make sense. Elsa was open, steady, kind in ways that drew people close without effort. People trusted her. Regina trusted her. If Emma chose someone like that, the world would call it sound judgment.

Reason, however, did nothing for the heaviness beneath her ribs.

"Regina."

Her name pulled her back. Elsa's voice carried its usual calm, though her glance shifted past Regina's shoulder. A few staff passed along the corridor. Elsa hesitated, then stepped aside toward a recessed alcove meant for stretchers. The movement was unhurried, discreet.

Regina followed.

Elsa folded her arms, thumb brushing along her sleeve. "When Emma first joined, I asked if the two of you had worked together before."

"I remember."

"I believed you when you said you hadn't. But you do know her. You can't tell me otherwise."

For a beat, Regina said nothing. No use pretending Elsa hadn't seen the crack yesterday in the imaging room.

No, it's you. You're doing it again—giving up, walking away. She needs you, Regina.

Just as she once had.

She lifted her chin, reclaiming the posture that had carried her through far worse conversations. "We knew each other many years ago."

Elsa nodded once, slow, considering. "It wasn't through the system." Her tone remained even. "Your upbringing couldn't have been farther from hers."

So Emma had told her about the years in foster care, a history she had once guarded like a wound. The Emma she remembered had offered nothing of herself without reason, least of all that. Sharing it now meant she trusted Elsa. It meant a kind of closeness Regina hadn't been granted in a very long time.

The knowledge slipped under her ribs and pressed.

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

"Because you both behave as though there's nothing between you. But anyone paying attention can see there is. Yesterday only made it harder to ignore."

The performance that had been keeping everything contained now felt like a costume under the wrong lights. Cheap. Ill-fitting.

If Elsa and Emma were moving closer, this reckoning had always been waiting. She wasn't even sure anymore why she and Emma had chosen to pretend. Once, it had been easier, and they had simply kept to it.

She drew a slow breath. "It isn't only my story to tell, and I wouldn't want to speak for her. But yes. We knew each other for a time during undergrad."

"So I wasn't imagining it." A brief smile ghosted across Elsa's face before it faded. "That explains a few things."

She intended to pivot, but the words did not arrive on cue. Something in her, thin from the last twenty-four hours and unwilling to keep walking the same circle, held steady instead.

"What things?"

Elsa weighed her answer, then offered it without flourish. "You're careful with her. Careful in a way I haven't seen you be with anyone else. Emma may be new here, but she isn't new to you."

In some ways, it was true. In others, it was not. Fifteen years could make strangers of anyone. She recognized the core of Emma, burning in ways that hadn't changed, but there were layers covering her now in pieces that Regina couldn't quite assemble. And she had relinquished the right to try on the day she walked away.

But none of this belonged in a hallway.

"If you're concerned about yesterday, I can assure you—"

"I'm not." Elsa's voice dropped, but her certainty held. "Emma was hurt. That was clear. But I care because it looked like it hurt you too. And I'd like to think we're friends."

The word lingered. Friends.

Too easily offered. Too rarely meant. But Elsa had never dealt in pretense, and it should not have sounded strange after all these years. By now, they had been friendly longer than they had not. Those early days when Elsa kept showing up with quiet patience and small gestures until Regina gave in to the occasional coffee, the unhurried conversations in between their respective duties.

The line between colleague and friend had blurred somewhere along the way. She couldn't place when. Only that it had.

Elsa was probably one of the few she could call a friend—a little pathetic to admit, even to herself. Which made it sting in a way she had not anticipated, seeing her step out of that on-call room with Emma.

Her Emma.

No. Emma was not hers. Had not been for far longer than she ever was. The thought settled with a cruel sort of familiarity, fitting too easily for comfort.

Her chest tightened. This was neither the place nor the moment to come apart.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine." The words came easily, smooth from use. They always did. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find the doctor who stormed off so I can give her an update on our patient."

Elsa studied her for a moment, then stepped aside. "Of course."

Regina adjusted the edge of her sleeve, a simple motion to steady her hands. The air between them felt settled again, the kind of stillness she knew how to keep.

She moved down the corridor, letting the rhythm of her steps do the rest. Each one smoothed the edges of thought until only quiet remained, familiar and contained, exactly where it belonged.

+++++

Emma

She hit the sanitizer and stepped in.

The room was too still for this hour. Most patients had someone keeping vigil, clutching bad coffee and hope. Cassie didn't. The whiteboard was blank where family names usually went, and it would stay that way.

Marcus's mom had lived in her son's room for weeks. She'd known every alarm, every nurse, every shift change by heart. Cassie got a caseworker. Paper instead of people.

Cassie lay propped toward the window, head tilted like she'd been chasing the light and gave up halfway. The lines and tubing blended into the background—the usual forest of tape and plastic. What hit harder was how small she looked in the middle of it. Shoulders narrow under the gown. Skin pale where it wasn't bruised.

The IV pole stood crowded with drips and labels. Milrinone, norepi. The kind of mix that said the heart was trying, just not enough. A bulb drain rested against her side, its chamber streaked faint red.

Emma walked up to the bed and curled her fingers around the rail.

"Hey, kid."

Cassie's eyelids fluttered. Brown eyes shifted just enough to find her voice. Awake, but barely.

"You're okay. You're safe."

Cassie's lips moved, a faint pull at the corner like she was trying to answer.

"Don't talk. Just rest. I've got you."

Cassie's gaze drifted, then found her again. It was enough.

The door slid open. Mulan stepped in, eyes going straight to the monitor, then to Cassie. She moved with the same quiet efficiency she always did, checking the IV site, the dressing at her abdomen, the drain bulb.

"Pain's controlled," she said. "Fentanyl's steady, Tylenol on time. Drain looks good."

The monitors hummed their steady rhythm. "Any ectopy?"

"None. Sinus the whole shift. Still on full support, but holding." Mulan adjusted the blanket near Cassie's arm. "Aurora thinks it helps her case for listing."

Cassie stirred at the sound of their voices. Mulan touched her shoulder, testing for a response. "Tracks to voice. Calms when you talk to her."

"Tough kid."

"She is. Whatever Mills did, it's working. People have been in and out all day for the transplant workup."

"Good." The word came out softer than she meant. "That's good."

The quiet stretched. Mulan didn't fill it. She didn't give her that look, the one that said she knew something. Aurora must have told her about yesterday, about the blow-up, but if she had, Mulan wasn't showing it.

Mulan gave the lines one last check, then straightened. "I'm handing off to the next nurse. Call if anything shifts."

Emma nodded. Mulan slipped out, the door whispering shut behind her. The quiet filled in fast—the hum of machines, hiss of oxygen, Cassie's slow, steady breaths. Emma leaned back in the chair. The tension in her shoulders gave, little by little.

Regina had lit a fire under the place. She could picture it without trying—the way Regina stood when she meant business, shoulders set, chin lifted just enough to make people fall in line. The pause before a sentence that told you she already knew how it would end. Any room she walked into would bend to her will.

The image sat close, almost tangible. Something warm threaded through the ache in her chest. Regina had always carried that kind of presence, but now it felt different. Grounded. Steady. Like she'd finally learned how to live in her own light.

Emma drew a slow breath and let it settle where the fight usually lived. Her eyes moved back to Cassie, then to the even pulse on the monitor. The rhythm held, calm and sure. For the first time in a long time, things—and people—might actually find their way back from the edge.

She must have drifted, because when she blinked again the light had shifted. Softer now, washing the floor in gold.

Regina stood across the bed. Coat off, sleeves rolled, hands resting on the rail. Watching Cassie like the world had narrowed to the rise and fall of her chest.

Emma stayed still, taking it in. It shouldn't have meant anything.

It did.

I abandoned you once. I will not do so again.

The words from yesterday echoed back, quieter now. Too late then, too heavy. But here—with Regina standing in this room after a full day of showing up—they landed different. Truer.

Something in her chest pulled tight, then eased.

Their eyes met.

Maybe an accident. Maybe not. Neither of them moved.

Emma had been still too long. Long enough for it to look like she'd been waiting.

Regina's face softened—just a flicker, easy to miss. But Emma caught it. The warmth she remembered under all that armor.

"She's resting well. I came to update you on the transplant evaluation."

Emma nodded. Her pulse kicked in her throat. "Okay."

Regina's gaze held a beat longer. Then she reached for her coat. "Come on."

Emma stood and followed her into the hall.

Regina moved ahead, heels steady against the tile. Emma kept a few steps back.

Mulan stood at the desk, handing off to the next nurse. Aurora was at a terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard, focus locked on the screen. She glanced up as they passed. Her eyes flicked between them, then back to her chart.

Regina paused at the workroom door. She looked inside, then pushed it open and held it there.

Emma stepped in. Regina followed, closing the door with that careful precision she used when everything else was chaos.

"Cassie meets the medical criteria for Status 1A. Dr. Larsen completed the transplant evaluation and submitted the documentation to the committee."

Emma waited. Good news never came without a catch.

"I spent most of the day with administration. Case management secured temporary funding for her care. Ethics agreed to hold an emergency review once the remaining requirements are met. Legal is coordinating with the state to maintain consent coverage. But there are still barriers."

She paused.

"She can't be listed yet. The state pulled her from the foster placement this morning. Until a long-term medical foster home is secured and her psychological evaluation is complete, ethics won't clear the case for UNOS submission."

Emma's hand found the counter. The solid edge grounded her. At first glance Regina looked the same as always—calm, collected. But up close the cracks showed. Her posture too rigid. Eyes shadowed in a way they hadn't been last night. Maybe Aurora was right. She hadn't slept, just kept everything moving through sheer will.

Emma had seen it before, the way Regina came alive when something mattered. It pulled at her now, same as it always had.

It reminded her why she'd trusted her once.

Emma's gaze drifted past Regina, to the blank stretch of wall behind her. Always another step. Always another reason to wait.

She exhaled slowly. "So what now?"

"The state handles placement. Social work will coordinate, but until they secure a home and complete the psych evaluation, ethics won't move forward."

Emma let it sink in. There was one clear solution. She pushed off the counter.

"Alright. Then I'll take that part."

Regina's brow lifted. "Which part?"

"The one that's stuck. You've got the medicine covered. I can deal with the rest. The caseworker, the placement, psych. I'll stay on them until it's done."

"You intend to insert yourself into the state process."

"I intend to make sure Cassie doesn't disappear into it. She doesn't have anyone. She needs someone who won't let it stall. I can do that."

Regina studied her for a long moment. Emma braced for it—the lecture, the reminder to stay in her lane. It didn't come. The edge in Regina's expression eased, leaving something steady. Almost warm.

"I know you can."

She said it with such certainty that something shifted in Emma's chest. Her pulse kicked.

Regina's eyes caught the light, dark and focused, steady on hers. A flicker passed through her face—her jaw tightening, then releasing. The air between them felt charged.

Emma stayed where she was, caught between wanting to step forward and knowing better.

Then her stomach growled, loud enough to break the moment clean in half.

Regina's gaze dropped. "When was the last time you ate?"

The question came clipped, but the care underneath it was impossible to miss.

Emma rubbed the back of her neck. "Pretty sure it was what you brought me last night."

Regina sighed. A few loose strands slipped forward as she shook her head. "Coffee and adrenaline aren't a diet. Even you have a ceiling."

The words weren't sharp. They landed somewhere closer to concern.

"You're one to talk."

Regina's mouth curved, the smallest ghost of a smile. "Perhaps. But I'm not the one about to pass out on the floor of this workroom."

Emma let out a breath that almost became a laugh. "You always did have a way of making concern sound like an insult."

Regina's eyes glinted. "And you always took better care of yourself when someone called you on it."

Her mouth twitched. "So did you."

Regina's lips parted, then closed again, as if she'd thought better of whatever wanted out. Her reply never came.

Emma's gaze caught on her—the smudge of eyeliner, the stray strands of hair, the tiredness that softened her edges. For a heartbeat, Regina looked almost touchable. Emma reached for words before she'd decided to.

"Come with me."

Regina stilled. Her brow lifted slightly. "Come with you?"

Right. Could've phrased that better.

"Dinner," Emma said, too quick to play it off as casual. "Nothing fancy. No cloth napkins, just food."

Regina seemed to weigh the offer. The space between them thickened with things still left unsaid.

"Dinner," she repeated, quieter now.

Emma nodded. "Yeah."

A breath passed. Then Regina gave a small, conceding nod. "Very well."

As Emma followed Regina out of the workroom, she couldn't tell if this was the start of something she wanted or the start of trouble she already knew all too well.

Regina

It was after nine when she opened the door to her townhouse and stepped into its swallowing silence. The air pressed close, undisturbed, leaving her too aware of her own breathing.

Fatigue should have taken her by now, but her pulse kept catching on moments that refused to fade.

She slid out of her heels and hung her coat on its hook before crossing to the kitchen. The light came on at her touch. Familiar order met her: every surface gleaming, every glass in its place. It should have soothed her. Instead, it sat there like judgment. She reached for a bottle of wine, paused, then let her hand fall away. Water would do.

The scent of oil and ginger lingered on her blouse, clung to her hair. The restaurant had been tucked down a narrow side street, its crooked neon sign casting uneven light across the wet pavement. Emma had pulled the door open, tossed her a glance that was part invitation, part dare. Regina had not hesitated.

Her mother would have had words for that. A proper woman did not walk into a place that smelled of hot oil and spice, where the light was too bright and the plates did not match.

Genevieve would have been lost among the plastic menus and paper napkins, scanning for someone to bring a wine list that did not exist.

But neither of them had been there. Only Emma, leading her to a table in the corner, settling in with her back to the wall. Just as she always had.

They had spoken little at first. The noise of the kitchen and the murmur of nearby tables filled the space between them as they studied the menu. Then, somewhere between their glasses being filled and the first bite of spring rolls, the tension that usually lived between them had thinned until she could almost forget it was there.

Emma had said something offhand, nothing remarkable, and Regina had laughed. The sound came bright and unguarded, startling in its honesty. When she looked up, Emma was watching her. Amusement softened into something that prickled at the back of her neck with familiarity.

The rest of it had unfolded easily. It had felt unreasonably ordinary, and that, more than anything, had her in the kitchen now, worrying her bottom lip and swirling water in a glass as if it were wine. The quiet pressed in again, heavier this time.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She set the glass aside and pulled it free, the screen lighting her face.

Her father's name. Late. Unusual.

She hesitated, thumb hovering for a breath before she answered.

"Hello, Father." Her voice came steady.

"Hello, sweetheart." Warmth carried through, though beneath it ran the fatigue that came at the end of a long day. She could picture him easily: seated in his study the way he always was at this hour, lamplight soft across a scatter of papers, a glass of bourbon balanced in his hand.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"You're not." She shifted the phone to her other ear. "I've only just gotten home."

"Not from work, I hope? It's late."

"No, I had dinner with a friend."

A pause. The quiet sound of ice against glass.

"That's good." Gentle approval threaded through. "You've been far too buried in that hospital of yours. It's nice to know you're finding time for a life outside of it."

"It was a change of pace."

Another pause followed, longer this time. He must be getting to the reason he'd called at this hour.

"I wanted to tell you something myself, before your mother turns it into her pageant."

Her stomach tightened at Mother and stayed that way.

"I'm listening."

"I'll be announcing at the banquet that I won't be running again. This will be my last term."

She closed her eyes, leaning against the counter. "You're retiring."

"Yes. Thirty years is enough." It carried no regret, only calm conviction. "It's time to let the next generation take the reins."

A small breath left her. "Mother must have taken that well."

That drew a quiet laugh. "She's already made a list of what I'm allowed to do next. None of them involve me on a beach, reading novels." The humor thinned halfway through. "Still, I wanted you to hear it from me first. You've endured more of her dramatics than anyone should."

She crossed into the living room and lowered herself into the armchair. The cushions gave beneath her, but she still sat straight, posture held by years of habit.

"You've earned the right to enjoy what you've worked for."

He was silent long enough that she could picture him setting the glass aside and leaning back in that old leather chair.

"I've missed too much, Regina. Always chasing the next vote. I told myself it was for something greater, that I was doing it not only for the country, but for our family. I see now that isn't the same as being there."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. "You did what you thought best." The words felt practiced, shaped by years of use.

"Perhaps." His tone turned reflective. "But I think about all those years that slipped past. All the time between us I can't get back." A faint creak followed, his chair settling. "I want to make some changes, Regina. Real ones."

The words settled over her. She said nothing, her gaze drifting to a piece of artwork a designer had chosen for her. Symmetry without life.

Somehow, she'd built her world to match it.

"I'd like that," she said, and for once, it felt like truth instead of performance.

The thought lingered, unsettling and alive. Perhaps change was possible. Perhaps it had to be. She couldn't keep letting the same inertia carry her through a life that had stopped feeling like her own.

Her eyes stayed on the artwork, but her thoughts slipped toward a time that had felt like living, before she'd learned how to make everything look right instead.

Tonight had felt a little like living again.

The words left her before she decided to speak them. "Do you remember Emma Swan?"

A pause. Then a low chuckle. "You're testing your old man's memory, aren't you?"

She didn't answer.

"Was she the one from Brown?" he asked after a moment. "The girl who played soccer."

Her lips curved, soft but distant. "That's the one."

"Yes, I remember." Fondness touched his words. "You were together for a few years, weren't you? I think that's still your longest relationship."

Her mouth tightened, but her tone stayed even. "You're recalling correctly."

"I liked her," he said after a beat. "She seemed grounded. Real."

She stared across the room. The distance between now and then folded in on itself: Emma's laugh, the smell of rain on the quad, her mother's voice cutting through both.

"There's something you never knew."

The old instinct rose—the one that had been trained into her, to hold what might break the peace. She pressed it back down.

There was no going back now.

"All right." His tone was careful, steady, as though he sensed the weight of what was coming.

"Mother was the reason Emma and I broke up." She paused, breath shallow, almost waiting for him to cut in. He didn't. "She said it had gone on long enough. That Emma was distracting me. She threatened to have her scholarship revoked. Told me she had friends on the board, that one call would be enough."

He exhaled, slow and heavy. "She told you that?"

"She did. And she didn't need to say it twice." Her voice stayed even, but her hand tightened around the arm of the chair. "I believed her."

Silence stretched between them. Then, softer than before: "Regina." He rarely said her name like that, uncertain. "She told me you ended it. Said it was your decision, and that I shouldn't bring it up. That it was too painful for you."

A quiet, humorless breath escaped her. "In a way, she wasn't wrong. It was my choice, and it was painful. Just not in the way she wanted you to think."

The line went quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice carried both sorrow and the old caution that had always lived between them. "Your mother has always been determined. It's what I loved about her. I thought I could temper her, but..."

"No one ever could."

"I should have tried harder."

"You didn't know," she said automatically. Then she stopped. "No. You did know. You just didn't want to choose. And I never told you because I didn't want to make you."

"I told myself keeping the peace would protect you."

"It didn't."

"I see that now." His voice frayed at the edge, but he didn't turn away from the truth. "I can't change what I have been, but I can be here for you now."

For a long moment, she just listened to the sound of his breathing on the line. She had said what needed saying, and the world hadn't fallen apart.

+++++

Emma

Morning came easy for once.

The ceiling looked the same when she opened her eyes. The walls too. But something in her head had gone quiet. She stretched, slow, waiting for the noise to start up again. It didn't.

She hummed in the shower. Weird. She didn't hum. But she let it ride. There were better things to do than pick apart a good morning.

Like stopping by the café near the hospital for real coffee. She was done with the hospital sludge—that should be a last resort halfway through a bad shift, not the first thing to hit your system. A girl needed standards.

She ordered her usual at places like this: flat white, hot. Then, before her brain caught up, the next words walked out on their own. "Caramel latte, extra whip."

Breakfast dessert. The kind of sugar bomb Regina used to love first thing in the morning.

By the time the barista handed both cups over, the weight of the second one felt accusatory. Like it knew something.

It was fine. Just coffee. A neutral gesture between colleagues at the tail end of a brutal week. After a dinner that had gone smoother than either of them probably expected. That was all.

Ruby stood near the elevators, halfway into her jacket and clearly ready to clock out.

"Someone splurged on the good coffee."

Emma slowed. "Finally decided to respect myself."

Ruby's gaze dropped to the second cup. "Who else are you respecting?"

Emma lifted the caramel latte slightly. "Well, I kinda stepped out of line with Dr. Mills the other day. Figured I'd say sorry. Surgeons run on caffeine, right?"

Yeah, that sounded reasonable.

Ruby arched a brow. "Brave move. Most people apologize to Dr. Mills from a safe distance."

That was the thing about Regina. People only ever saw what she let them. The clean lines, the command. They never stopped to think about how she got that way, what it took to hold it together, or what it cost her.

Emma did.

Regina's fingers tracing her face. Those big brown eyes taking her in like she still couldn't believe it. The way she yielded, unguarded and sure, trusting Emma to keep her safe.

And she had. Every single time.

The memory sat close enough to stir her pulse and tighten her throat. The cups shifted in her grip before she caught herself. Great. Standing here like a statue, daydreaming about her ex. No wonder Ruby was staring.

Emma glanced down, pretending to check the lid. "Bunch of cowards. She's not that bad."

"You sound like Elsa."

She kept her eyes on the cup. "Maybe she's right."

Ruby didn't answer right away. Emma could hear the quiet stretching between them, a little too long. Then Ruby's voice softened, low from exhaustion and maybe something else. "Yeah. Maybe she is."

A second later the spark returned. "Go on, before it gets cold. And don't skip practice tonight."

A faint huff escaped. "You wouldn't let me if I tried."

"Damn straight." Ruby winked, already heading for the exit. "See you tonight."

Emma shook her head and turned toward the elevators.

The doors slid shut. Her reflection stared back from the brushed metal—messy ponytail, two coffees, and a full load of bullshit.

Regina's office was on the fourth floor, somewhere near the CVICU. She'd never been, but it couldn't be that hard to find. Chiefs didn't exactly blend in.

Each floor the elevator climbed, the whole thing felt a little less reasonable. By the time the doors opened, the plan—if it even counted as one—seemed about as solid as ordering that caramel latte in the first place.

Completely insane.

Regina might not even be there. Chiefs were always moving—meetings, rounds, calls before sunrise. Probably in surgery already.

She should've kept her mouth shut in that coffee shop.

The caramel latte smelled like sugar and regret. She could already picture the look Regina would give her if she tried to drop it off with some awkward little note or half-assed peace offering.

She could drink both. Or toss one. Pretend it hadn't felt, for a second, like this was something she could actually do.

No.

She'd see this through like a grown woman. It was just Regina. Plenty of people might be afraid of her, but Emma wasn't. Never had been. And she wasn't about to start now.

The hallway split ahead—administration to the left, CVICU to the right. She took the quieter path, the one lined with offices.

Nameplates marked each door. Singh. Jones. Thorpe. Then she saw it—a corner office with clean black letters etched into frosted glass:

Regina Mills, MD, FACC Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery

Wow.

Regina had really done it.

Something pressed against her ribs, sharp and warm all at once. Pride, maybe. The kind that came from seeing a brilliant, determined girl become everything she'd said she would be.

She lingered there longer than made sense, staring like an idiot at a door. Anyone walking by would think she was lost. Maybe she was.

She shifted the cups, drew a breath, and knocked.

"Come in."

Regina looked up from her desk when she walked in. The pen in her hand stilled. She didn't move, didn't speak. Then she set the pen down, careful and deliberate.

"Emma."

The voice was even, but something in the way Regina said her name—quiet, almost careful—made Emma's pulse skip.

"I brought you breakfast dessert."

The words came out lighter than they felt. It was the ghost of a joke that belonged to someone she used to be. Still, she crossed the room and set the cup down on the desk. Tried not to look like it meant anything.

It was just coffee. It couldn't mean anything.

Regina's gaze dropped to the cup. Her fingers rested on the edge of the desk, close but not touching it. The pause stretched, and Emma couldn't tell if it was the line itself, carried forward from another life, or the fact that she was standing here at all.

Finally, Regina reached out. Her fingers brushed the cup before closing around it.

"You remembered."

"Hard to forget."

A ghost of a smile passed over Regina's mouth. Gone almost before Emma could be sure she'd seen it. "Thank you."

Emma shoved her empty hand into her pocket and took a sip of coffee, more for something to do than for the taste. Words felt harder than they should.

"Figured I owed you one."

It was the first thing that found its way out, clumsy and half-formed. The kind of thing she said when the real words stuck.

Regina tilted her head, that familiar, assessing tilt that made Emma's chest tighten. "For what?"

For not walking away when I snapped.

For stepping up for Cassie.

For showing up when I didn't think you would.

"I mean, you did feed me two nights in a row," she said instead.

Regina's eyes softened, and she shook her head—that tiny, elegant motion that somehow managed to say you're impossible without a single word. The corner of her mouth curved, just barely, and something in Emma's chest loosened with it.

God, she'd missed this. The quiet rhythm of it. The space between them that used to feel easy.

The thought lodged itself between her ribs.

"If that's all it takes to earn my favorite coffee," Regina said, warmth threading through her voice, "I might have to make a habit of it."

The words hung there, careful but alive.

Would that really be so bad?

Emma should've thought so. But Regina leaned back slightly, that faint trace of amusement softening her face, and the idea of more time between them didn't set off alarms. It just made her stomach catch and flicker—a small, traitorous flutter she hadn't felt in years.

She took a quiet breath. Steadied herself.

"Hey, about Cassie," she said, stepping onto safer ground. "Can you send me the contact for her caseworker? And whoever's handling the psych consult?"

Regina straightened. The ease in her expression settled into focus, like she'd summoned the Chief back into place. "Of course. I'll e-mail you that information at once."

Emma almost smiled at the shift. "Thanks."

Regina nodded. "Let me know if I can help with anything."

"Yeah." It came out fine, normal, but Emma didn't move for the door. The quiet stretched, pressing at the edges. Regina was watching her, patient, waiting.

"And… thanks for last night."

The change was instant. The Chief slipped away, and what was left was just Regina. Her expression eased again, her gaze open in a way that felt disarmingly familiar.

She looked good. Too good—the kind of good that made Emma want to close the space between them and forget every smart reason she had not to.

No. Bad idea.

Emma's fingers tightened around the cup.

"You don't need to thank me," Regina said after a beat, quiet but certain.

Emma nodded, maybe too fast, and started for the door. Regina's voice caught her just before she reached it.

"Emma."

She turned back.

"It was nice," Regina said. "Dinner."

The words hit somewhere deep, unexpected. The feeling that had lodged itself between her ribs sank in deeper.

"Yeah," Emma said, her shoulders easing. "It was."

She caught herself smiling and didn't bother to cover it up.

Regina

The door clicked shut.

Regina lifted the cup. The first sip flooded her tongue with caramel and espresso, sugar and milk. Indulgent in a way she had trained herself to refuse. Years had passed since she'd ordered something like this. She'd told herself her tastes had evolved beyond it. That had been easier than admitting she had deliberately excised the small pleasures that reminded her of softer things.

Emma's dorm at two in the morning rose unbidden. Both of them cross-legged on the floor with books spread between them. Emma's laugh when Regina admitted she liked her coffee sweet.

You're such a fraud, Mills.

She set the cup beside her desk pad and aligned it precisely at the edge.

Her phone vibrated against the wood. The sound scraped across the polished surface, too loud. She reached for it, then stopped.

Cora Mills.

Her father would have told her by now. He operated under the misguided belief that honesty could repair what it had never built. For him, it was progress. For her mother, it would register as the worst kind of betrayal.

The phone continued its insistent rhythm. Regina's gaze stayed fixed on the screen. That sound had taught her fear long before she understood why. The voice waiting on the other end was already audible in her mind. I only ever wanted what was best for you, darling.

The ringing stopped.

Silence pressed against her eardrums. Against her throat.

Her life looked exactly as it should. The title. The house. The woman she was expected to love. Applause that filled rooms and hollowed her out in equal measure. Her mother's vision of success, polished until it gleamed and reflected nothing real.

Nothing that tasted like caramel and made her pulse quicken in ways she'd spent fifteen years trying to forget.

She picked up the phone. Cleared the missed call notification. Her thumb hovered over the screen, then moved to her contacts.

Genevieve.

Emma had remembered her coffee order. Fifteen years, and she'd walked in like no time had passed at all. Like she still knew. Like some part of Emma had held onto Regina even after Regina had walked away.

Her fingers moved before she could reconsider.

Can we meet for brunch this weekend? There's something I'd like to discuss.

Direct. Honest enough. She sent it before she could soften the edges into something safer.

The reply came quickly.

Of course. Saturday morning?

Regina sent a confirmation and turned the phone facedown. The screen glowed for a moment, then went dark.

Two days from now, she would end something that had never truly begun. Something built on expectation rather than desire. On appearance rather than the way her breath had caught when Emma looked at her this morning—open, unguarded, like Regina was still someone worth remembering.

The coffee had cooled. She lifted the cup anyway. Drank.

The sweetness clung to her tongue. Familiar and forbidden in equal measure. It carried Emma's smile as she'd turned to leave. The beginning of something Regina had spent fifteen years trying to forget and six weeks realizing she never had.

+++++

Emma

Emma had half an hour before her shift started. Enough time to check on Cassie.

She knocked once—light, in case she was sleeping—then slipped through the door.

The room was dim. Curtains pulled tight against the morning light, warm air humming from the blanket unit. Cassie lay turned toward the window, half-buried in sheets, looking smaller than sixteen had any right to be.

Lines trailed from her neck and wrist to a tower of pumps and bags. A whole pharmacy keeping her alive. The monitor blinked steady. 128. High, but holding.

Emma stepped to the foot of the bed, hand bracing on the rail.

Cassie's eyes tracked her. Half-open, effort in every blink. The oxygen cannula had slipped crooked across her face. The bruise along her cheekbone had gone darker overnight, deep purple bleeding into yellow at the edges. More marks disappeared under the collar of her gown. Fingerprints, maybe.

"Hey," Emma said quietly. She gave a small smile. "You awake enough to talk?"

Cassie's gaze didn't waver, but she didn't answer right away. Just watched Emma like she was trying to decide if it was worth the effort. Finally, her lips moved. "Depends." The word scraped out dry, barely more than a whisper.

Emma pulled a chair up to the bed, legs whispering against the floor, and sat. Forearms on her knees. Level with her.

"Dr. Swan. I'm the one who patched you up in the ER a couple days ago."

Cassie's eyes closed for a beat, then opened, a little clearer. "You were here... yesterday."

"I was. I've checked in on you a few times."

Cassie's gaze stayed flat. Wary.

Emma let the silence sit. No easy way to start this.

"What happened to you was rough," she said. "You lost a lot of blood. I tried to save your spleen, but it was too far gone."

Cassie's expression didn't shift.

"The good news is, you can live without it. People do every day."

Cassie gave a small nod, then flinched. Her breath hitched, rhythm breaking. The monitor jumped. 132.

She shut her eyes, jaw tight. When she spoke again, the words came thin. "Can't live... without a heart though."

Emma's stomach dropped.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

Cassie's eyes stayed closed. "Dr. Larsen said... I need a new one."

"That's right."

"So you just... swap it out?"

"More or less." Emma kept her voice light. "It's complicated, but that's the short version."

Cassie blinked, slow. "You doing it?"

Emma shook her head. "No. I'm a trauma surgeon. I do my best to keep people alive when they come through the ER. Heart transplants are a little out of my wheelhouse."

Cassie looked at her again, really looked. "Then why... are you still here?"

Fair question.

Emma rubbed a thumb along her palm. "Look, I've been where you are. Maybe not exactly, but close enough."

Cassie didn't answer. Just watched her through lashes heavy with exhaustion.

"And nobody should have to go through something like this alone."

Something flickered behind Cassie's eyes. The monitor picked up—135, 138.

"So you... feel sorry for me?"

The words landed square in Emma's chest. Heat flashed behind her ribs, sharp and familiar. Every version of that question she'd ever thrown at someone else suddenly standing in the room with them.

Poor Emma Swan. Foster kid. No family. Let me feel good about myself by helping you.

Her shoulders wanted to pull back. Arms wanted to cross. The old armor trying to snap into place, the reflex to make some smart remark and walk it off before the burn could settle.

She forced a breath instead. Slow. Kept her hands where they were.

"No," she said. Her voice came steadier than her throat felt. "That's not what this is."

She held Cassie's gaze. "I'm here because you deserve someone who gives a damn. And I'm not going anywhere."

Cassie's eyes fluttered, fighting the weight of exhaustion. The monitor crept higher, then eased back down.

She was fading.

Emma glanced at the clock. Rounds were starting soon.

"Okay, Cassie. We need to talk about what comes next—"

"It's Ren."

Emma stopped. "What?"

"My name." The words were thin, but clear. "It's Ren. I don't... like Cassie."

Something caught inside Emma's chest. The one thing you could hold onto when everything else got taken. A name. A choice. Yours, even if nothing else was.

"Alright. Ren. I'll make sure everyone knows. I'll update your chart myself."

Ren's shoulders loosened, barely a shift, but Emma caught it.

"Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me for that."

Emma glanced at the IV bags, then back at Ren's face. "So here's where we're at. The meds, the machines, they're buying you time. But to fix this, you need a transplant."

Ren's gaze drifted toward the window.

"There's a process," Emma went on. "Before they list you, they need a few things in place. One of them's a psych eval."

Ren's face went still.

"It's standard," Emma said quickly. "They just need to know you understand what's ahead. Surgery, recovery, meds. They'll ask about your support system. Who's in your corner."

Ren's jaw flexed. A long silence. Then: "What if I don't... pass?"

Emma frowned. "What?"

"The eval." Ren's breathing hitched. "What if I don't have anyone?"

The monitor started climbing again. 140.

"After what happened... what he did... they're gonna pull me."

Emma leaned forward. "Ren—"

"So no support. No—nothing." Her voice cracked. "So what... they just don't list me?"

"That's not how—"

"So I die... because I don't have—" She broke off, breath catching hard against the cannula.

"Hey. Look at me."

Ren's eyes snapped back to her, wild and bright.

"You're not going to die because of this."

The words came out before Emma could stop them. Solid. Too sure.

Cold slid through her gut. She couldn't promise that. But Ren was staring at her like she was the last solid thing in the room, and Emma couldn't let her drown.

Ren's face crumpled. "You just—"

"I know what I said. And yeah, they'll need a plan. A placement that can support you. But that doesn't mean you're out of options."

Ren sucked in air, sharp and uneven. She turned her head fast, blinking hard at the ceiling. The monitor climbed. When she spoke again, the words barely made it past her throat. "What if... they can't?"

The fear in Ren's voice was the same one Emma had carried for years. The way the system let you slip through cracks and called it order. The way nobody caught you until it was too late.

"Then we figure it out. You're not doing this alone. I'm not going anywhere."

Ren's breathing stayed fast, but something shifted in her expression. Something fragile trying to believe her.

Emma didn't look away. Sometimes that was all you could give: your word and the refusal to move.

The monitor started to slow. 145. 140. 138.

"Okay," Ren whispered. It barely carried, but it was something.

Emma nodded. "Okay."

Ren turned her face back toward the window. The tension drained from her shoulders, leaving only the rise and fall of tired breathing.

Emma stayed where she was. She'd give it another minute, make sure the numbers stayed steady, then head to rounds. Let her rest.

But she'd be back later. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

+++++

The call came in while she was scrubbing out. Three hours in, rebar pulled from a man's abdomen, hands raw under the water. Her phone buzzed against her hip mid-rinse. Her pulse jumped.

She finished fast, shook off the water, grabbed a towel, and caught the call on the fourth ring.

"Dr. Swan."

"Hi, Dr. Swan, this is Rachel Avery from DCF. I'm the regional placement supervisor for high-acuity medical foster cases. I got a flag on Ren Walsh's file and wanted to reach out directly."

Emma grabbed her white coat from the hook by the door and slid into it one-handed, phone pinned between her shoulder and ear. "What's the status?"

A pause. Papers rustling on the other end. "I'll be straight with you—medical foster slots for kids at her care level are extremely limited. Most qualified families are already at capacity. Our standard waitlist is running six to eight months."

The words landed like lead. Emma stopped mid-step, towel still in hand. "Six to eight months."

"That's the current backlog, yes." Rachel's voice remained professional, but there was sympathy underneath. "I know that's not what you wanted to hear, especially given her transplant timeline."

Emma's jaw tightened. "She doesn't have six months."

"I understand. That's why I'm calling." Another pause, then the click of a keyboard. "I've got one family currently under annual reevaluation. They're experienced with post-transplant care. I'm reviewing their file this afternoon, and if they clear, I could potentially move Ren up for emergency provisional placement."

Emma's grip on the phone tightened. "How likely?"

"Hard to say," Rachel said. "They're good people, but there are some concerns flagged in the review that need resolution. I won't know until I finish the assessment. Could go either way."

Emma's chest constricted. Not a promise. Barely even a maybe.

"I'll know more by end of day," Rachel continued. "I wanted you to have realistic expectations—this isn't a guarantee, but it's the only option I have right now. If this family doesn't clear, we're back to the waitlist."

"I understand."

"I read through Ren's case file," Rachel said, quieter now. "This kid's been through hell. I'll do everything I can, but I wanted you to know where we stand."

"Thank you."

"I'll call you as soon as I know. Keep your phone on."

The line went dead.

Emma stood there for a second, phone warm in her palm. A gurney clattered by, pushed by an orderly who didn't look up. Somewhere down the hall a monitor chirped, then went silent.

Could go either way.

Not a guarantee. Not even close. Just one more thing hanging by a thread.

She crossed the hall to the nearest workstation and logged in, pulling up Ren's chart.

The clinical summary was mostly there. Cardiology notes, echo results, Anna's pediatric evaluation, social work assessment from yesterday. But the psych consult field remained blank.

Assigned to Dr. Lydgate.

Her teeth ground together. Emma had called psych right after leaving Ren's room this morning. Some voice at the desk promised Lydgate would be up first thing. That was hours ago.

She glanced at the clock. 12:37 p.m.

First thing, her ass.

Heat rose in her neck. Anger, frustration, the whole mess of it burning together. She'd made a promise to that kid.

And psych was making her a liar.

She pushed back from the workstation and headed for the corridor.

+++++

Emma swiped her badge. The lock clicked, and she stepped through.

A nurse sat behind the desk, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up. "Can I help you?"

"Dr. Lydgate."

The nurse checked a monitor. "He's in his office."

"Thanks."

Emma turned left. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet, lined with identical plaques. Her footsteps echoed against the tile—too loud in the stillness, like the building itself was holding its breath.

She found the right door. Knocked once. Pushed it open.

Lydgate was on the phone, reclined in his chair, voice smooth and unhurried. He looked up. Raised a finger—hold on—and kept talking.

Emma folded her arms.

When he hung up, his smile came easy. "Dr. Swan. What can I do for you?"

"Ren Walsh. Why hasn't she been evaluated?"

Recognition flickered across his face. "Ah, the cardiac case."

"She's sixteen," Emma said. "Transplant workup's in progress. Still waiting on your consult."

"Yes, well." He folded his hands together. His tone stayed mild. "I have a full roster today—two crisis holds, a trauma consult, and a suicide risk assessment. I have a three o'clock I can't move. I'll see her tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Emma kept her voice level. "She was scheduled for this morning."

He gave a small shrug. "We triage by acuity. Evaluations like hers are important, but non-urgent."

Her pulse kicked. "You think that kid's life isn't urgent?"

"I think perspective is helpful."

"Here's some perspective," she said. "She can't move forward until you finish your evaluation. Every hour she waits, her heart weakens. Every delay pushes her closer to being too sick to list. You understand what that means?"

He met her gaze. Calm. Condescending. "I understand you're advocating for your patient, and I appreciate that. But we can't bend protocol every time a doctor—"

"Stop." The word came sharp. Clean. "Don't finish that sentence."

He blinked.

"She's scared. And she's still fighting. You want to talk about triage? That's it. Clear your schedule. See her today."

Lydgate leaned back. His tone cooled. "You realize you're out of line."

"Then write me up."

The silence stretched thin. The clock ticked, steady and loud.

He sighed. Turned to his monitor. Opened the file. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Don't do what you can," she said quietly. "Do what you're supposed to."

She left before he could reply. The door closed behind her, too soft for how hard her heart was pounding.

A few steps down the hall, she slowed. Pressed a hand to her pocket where her phone rested, still warm from earlier.

It's a maybe.

Maybes didn't bleed. They didn't wait. They didn't look you in the eye and believe you when you told them it was going to be okay.

She pushed off the wall and headed for the elevators.

+++++

Regina

The patient file filled the screen.

Legal name: Walsh, Cassandra.
Preferred name: Ren.

The new entry was timestamped. Signed E. Swan.

Regina's eyes caught there. Held. Emma had entered it herself.

A smile pulled at her mouth before she scrolled down.

Overnight events: worsening pulmonary congestion; IV diuretics escalated.
04:10: sustained ventricular tachycardia, converted with amiodarone bolus.
09:30: milrinone uptitrated for low-output state.
Current: sinus tachycardia, HR 118, MAP 62, oxygen requirement six liters nasal cannula.

Regina pulled up the telemetry strip. Narrow. Rapid. Too fast, but organized. Better than this morning, which meant nothing except that this morning had been worse.

The pattern was familiar. The plateau came first, then the slow, inevitable decline. The moment when the numbers stopped cooperating and the committee started asking questions she couldn't answer with data alone.

Ren was still within listing criteria. The days had a way of stretching into weeks, though. Weeks had a way of becoming something else entirely.

Emma had found her somewhere between terrorizing a psychiatrist and heading back down to the ED. She'd torn through the room like a storm, words tumbling over each other about Ren's one last hope, then spun back out before the air could settle.

It couldn't be Ren's last hope. Regina refused to accept that.

Her phone rattled against the desk.

The caller ID glowed on the screen. Her mother. The third attempt today. If Regina didn't answer soon, Cora might decide to take the next plane out. That was a complication she could not afford.

She drew a breath. Straightened her spine. Reached for the phone.

"Mother."

"Finally. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to answer a phone."

Regina leaned back. The leather creaked softly. "I've been working."

"How industrious." The word carried its own weight. "Though I would have thought you'd be eager to explain yourself."

"Explain what, exactly?"

"Don't play coy, darling. Your father said you told him some story about me and that girl from Brown."

The phrasing landed exactly as intended. Regina's jaw tightened. "It wasn't a story."

"Well, it certainly sounded like one." A pause. Perfectly timed, as though Cora had rehearsed it. Perhaps she had. "Dredging up ancient history to vilify your mother. You always did have a flair for drama."

"I told him the truth."

"Your version of it." The warmth, what little there had been, vanished. "You were young. Emotional. You misunderstood."

Regina's grip on the phone shifted. "I misunderstood you threatening her scholarship."

"I was protecting your future."

"You were protecting your control."

The exhale crackled through the speaker. "That girl was a distraction. I did what was necessary."

"Necessary for whom?"

"Don't be petulant." The edge sharpened. "Look where it's gotten you. Chief surgeon. Respected. Powerful. Do you really think any of that would have happened if you'd let that relationship derail you?"

The office walls pressed in. Regina's throat constricted. Her heartbeat thrummed hard enough that the pulse reached her temples.

"She didn't derail me." Her voice remained low. Measured. The only thing she could still command. "She grounded me."

Cora sighed. Long-suffering. Practiced. "Happiness is fleeting, Regina. Success endures. You should thank me."

The fury rose from her chest and spread outward, burning through the careful architecture she'd built to contain it.

"You destroyed the only part of my life that wasn't about you."

"Destroyed?" Cora's laugh was soft. Dismissive. "You chose ambition, darling. I simply showed you how."

Regina stood. The chair rolled back and struck the bookshelf behind her desk with a dull thud. "You showed me how to survive in your image. Not how to live in mine."

"You're making a scene over nothing."

"I'm not having this conversation again."

"Regina—"

"I have work to do."

"Don't you dare hang up on me."

"Then stop giving me reasons to."

She ended the call.

Her chest rose and fell too quickly. The phone stayed in her hand, warm against her palm. The screen had gone dark. She stared at it until the edges blurred.

She set it facedown on the desk. The sound carried too far in the quiet.

The papers beside the chart sat crooked. She straightened them. Aligned the edges with deliberate care. Her jacket needed smoothing. She drew one slow breath, then another. The trembling in her hands eased. Her pulse began to settle into something that resembled composure.

She sat. The chart slid back toward her. Emma's initials stared up from the bottom of the page.

E. Swan.

The pressure beneath her sternum twisted. Sharpened. It became something she could not name and would not examine.

She opened her Internet browser.

+++++

Emma

The field lights threw harsh yellow-white across the turf. Emma's lungs burned—better than thinking about the phone in her pocket and the call that should've come hours ago.

She pushed harder. Her legs screamed. Didn't help. The thoughts kept circling anyway.

She stopped at midfield, yanked her phone out.

Nothing. No missed calls, no texts. Same empty lock screen she'd checked ten minutes ago.

DCF had said end of day. It was past seven now, the sky gone dark except for the stadium lights cutting through the cold.

Yeah. That couldn't be good.

"You're gonna wear a hole in that thing."

Aurora's voice carried across the field from somewhere behind her—amusement and concern blended together in a way Emma had learned to recognize.

Emma shoved the phone back in her pocket. "Checking the time."

Aurora's look said she wasn't buying it, but she let it go.

Emma ran harder. Pushed until her thighs screamed and the cold air scraped her throat raw. Until the only thing she could feel was muscle burn instead of the knot in her chest that wouldn't loosen.

Because if she stopped, she'd have to think about Ren. About the call that hadn't come. About what it meant when DCF went silent.

"Alright, that's time!" Ruby's voice cut across the field. "Good work, people."

Emma slowed, chest heaving. Around her, the others were already moving—grabbing water bottles, shrugging into jackets. Someone kicked a stray ball toward the sideline. Mulan bent to collect cones, stacking them with efficient precision.

"Bar?" someone called out.

Emma pulled her shirt up to wipe her face.

Her phone buzzed against her hip.

She had it out before the second vibration.

"Dr. Swan."

"Hi, Emma. Sorry for the late call."

Her stomach knotted. Late calls were never good news. Late calls meant something had gone wrong, someone had changed their mind, paperwork hadn't cleared. "It's fine. What's going on?"

A pause on the other end. The kind that meant bad news was coming and the caller was trying to figure out how to soften it.

Great.

"The family didn't clear. There were concerns in the assessment, enough that I can't place her there. I'm sorry."

Emma's palm pressed to her hip, squeezed hard enough to hurt. "So what now? What are the options?"

"We reopen the search, flag her case as high priority. But realistically, with the medical complexity and the age... it could be months before another family's approved and ready. And with her medical timeline…"

She didn't finish. She didn't have to.

"Yeah," Emma said. She stared at the grass. "I understand."

"I really am sorry, Emma. I know how hard you've been working on this."

The line went quiet. Emma kept her eyes on the ground, on the divots their cleats had torn in the turf.

She lowered the phone. Someone was laughing downfield. She didn't look up.

"Emma?"

Elsa. A few yards away, gym bag over her shoulder.

Emma shook her head once. Her throat had closed, words stuck somewhere behind the knot that wouldn't loosen.

Elsa didn't move closer. Didn't ask. Just stood there the way she did in the OR when a case went sideways and someone needed an anchor.

Emma pulled the elastic from her hair, worked her fingers through the tangles that had come loose during practice. Focused on that instead of the tightness in her chest, the way her ribs wouldn't let her lungs fill all the way.

Ren was out of options.

And Emma was out of moves. Out of plans. Out of everything except the sick, hollow terror curdling in her gut.

There was only one person left.

She looked up. "I need Regina's number."

Elsa's expression shifted—surprise, then something softer. She pulled out her phone without a word and held it out.

Emma typed the number in. Her fingers trembled. When she handed it back, Elsa's gaze lingered on her face, but she didn't say anything. Just squeezed Emma's shoulder once before stepping away.

Emma moved toward the fence line, away from the others. Her thumb hovered over the call button. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

She pressed it before she could stop herself.

Two rings. Her ribs squeezed too tight.

Three.

Then: "This is Dr. Mills."

That voice. Controlled and professional and so perfectly Regina it cracked something open in Emma's chest.

"Regina." Her voice broke. Damn it. She tried to breathe, couldn't. "It's Emma."

A pause. Brief, but the shift came through the line—Regina's breathing faltered. "What's wrong?"

Everything. Everything was wrong.

"The placement fell through." The words scraped out. "DCF has nothing and Ren's—" Her voice failed. She couldn't finish.

Silence stretched. Long enough Emma's heart kicked harder, long enough panic started crawling up her spine that maybe this was a mistake, maybe Regina would say no or—

"Come to my house." Regina's tone was quiet. Steady. Certain. "We'll figure this out."

Not I'll figure this out. We.

Emma's vision blurred. She pressed her palm against her eyes, nodded even though Regina couldn't see. "Okay."

+++++

Regina

Emma

Warmth against her back. Weight across her waist. Breath soft and even at her neck. Regina's body curved into hers like they'd never stopped doing this.

Regina was still here.

The takeout containers were somewhere on the floor by the couch. Thai food gone cold hours ago, eaten between kisses that tasted like basil and something sharper. They'd made it through maybe half before Regina set her fork down with a look that said she was done pretending to care about dinner.

After that it had been hands and mouths and Regina's voice breaking on her name. Emma's shoulders ached in a way she didn't mind. When Regina whispered you're so beautiful against her collarbone, Emma kissed her harder instead of answering.

What the hell were you supposed to say to that.

She'd mapped out all the places that hadn't changed. The spot just below Regina's ear that made her breath catch. The inside of her wrist where her pulse jumped under Emma's mouth. Regina had arched into her touch, pulled her close after, whispered I missed this against her temple.

Emma had given her everything but words.

They hadn't talked about what happened next. The night existed outside of everything—just them and the dark and Emma's hands remembering things her brain had tried to forget.

When they finally fell asleep, Regina had wrapped around her from behind. It used to make Emma laugh, call her a koala. Regina would swat her shoulder then burrow closer anyway. The memory sat warm and sharp in Emma's chest. Regina's arm heavy across her ribs in exactly the same way.

The weight of Regina's arm was familiar and not. The same gesture. Different body. More solid somehow.

Regina made a soft sound and shifted closer, her nose pressing into the space between Emma's shoulder blades. So unconscious Emma had to close her eyes harder against it.

She needed to move. Get some space. Figure out what happened now that morning was here and they couldn't pretend this was just one night.

She lifted Regina's wrist carefully. Slid out from under it with the kind of precision that came from years of early shifts and trying not to wake patients. Regina's hand reached after her once before curling back against her chest. Emma froze at the edge of the mattress. Waited until Regina's breathing evened out again.

She stood slowly.

Regina's face looked younger in sleep. Unguarded in a way she never was awake anymore.

Emma turned toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her.

+++++

Regina

Warmth withdrew.

The mattress shifted. Weight redistributed, then released entirely. Her hand reached before she could stop it, seeking the space where Emma's body had been. The sheets were still warm. Empty.

She drew her hand back against her chest. Her breathing stayed measured. Deliberate.

Footsteps crossed the room. Careful. The bathroom door closed with a soft click that suggested Emma had been trying not to wake her.

Regina opened her eyes.

Emma's ceiling. Unfamiliar shadows cast by morning light filtering through curtains at an angle that suggested she had slept later than intended.

She sat up slowly. The sheet pooled at her waist. Cool air raised goosebumps along her bare shoulders.

Her bra lay on the floor near the foot of the bed. She reached for it, fastened the clasp behind her back, adjusted the straps. The familiar structure settled against her ribs.

Her blouse lay crumpled beside it.

If she dressed now, she would be ready to leave the moment Emma returned. It would communicate that she understood the terms of this. That last night had been an isolated incident, a lapse they could both walk away from cleanly.

Another part of her, quieter and more insistent, wanted to wait. To see what Emma would do when she emerged. To stop managing the outcome for once and let it unfold.

She stood. The sheet fell away entirely. She reached for the blouse. The first button took longer than it should have. Her fingers felt uncertain in a way they never were in an operating room.

She paused. Her breath came shallow, insufficient.

Control. Composure. The familiar armor she had learned to wear so well it felt like skin.

It was not settling into place the way it usually did. It felt thin. Inadequate.

She did not want it back.

The understanding arrived without fanfare, but it arrived. Being composed right now—smoothing this over, pretending it had not mattered, walking out with her armor intact as though nothing had changed—all of it felt wrong.

Behind the closed door, water turned on. The pipes hummed softly through the wall.

Regina stopped at the third button.

Two minutes and she could be gone if she moved quickly enough.

She did not move.

+++++

Emma

The water came out cold. Emma jerked back, twisted the handle too far. Hot enough to sting. She left it there. Pressed both palms flat against the tile and let the heat work down her spine until her shoulders unlocked.

Her body ached in specific places. Shoulders from holding herself up, braced between Regina's thighs. Her jaw, from the angle she'd kept. Her forearm tight from the rhythm she'd found and held until Regina came apart beneath her.

Water hit her face, ran down her neck. Regina's mouth had been right there last night. The press of her lips against Emma's pulse. The scrape of teeth. The way Regina had whispered please, desperate.

Emma's hand slid down her stomach. Stopped.

She flattened it back against the tile.

The night kept replaying. Regina's skin under her palms, warm and soft in places Emma hadn't let herself imagine. The sounds—quiet at first, then louder when Emma's mouth found the right spot, the right pressure. The way Regina had looked at her after, all soft and open and wanting more.

Regina had reached for her. Had tried to return it.

Emma had caught her wrists. Held them still.

Safer that way. Less complicated. Except Regina was out there right now, probably already dressed, probably calculating the cleanest exit. And Emma had no idea what expression she was supposed to wear when she walked back out there. What words were supposed to come next.

The water went cold. Emma stood under the spray another few seconds before she reached back and shut it off.

She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself. The mirror had fogged over. She didn't wipe it clear.

She opened the door.

Regina stood near the bed, blouse on but only half-buttoned. Hair loose over bare shoulders. The hollow of her throat still carried marks from last night. Faint, but visible.

Heat rushed through Emma's chest.

Regina turned.

Their eyes met and the pull was there again, the same one that had been there since the beginning. Regina's gaze dropped, traced the line of Emma's collarbone where water still beaded, then lifted again.

Regina reached for the fourth button. Her hand fell without fastening it.

The composure wasn't quite in place. The crack was small but unmistakable.

"Morning," Regina said. Her voice was quieter than usual.

"Hey."

Regina's shoulders straightened slightly. Her expression smoothed, but not all the way.

Emma moved toward the chair where she'd left her jeans. The space between them narrowed as she passed.

"The home visit is this weekend." Regina's tone shifted toward the one she used at the hospital. "They'll call a few hours ahead."

Emma's hands stilled on her jeans. Right. The real world. "Yeah. Okay. When are they thinking?"

"Today or tomorrow."

Emma nodded. Her sweater was somewhere on the floor near the bed. She spotted it half-under the frame. The fabric was still damp when she tugged it over her head, clinging to her shoulders.

"Emma."

The word was quiet.

Emma stopped. Looked up.

Regina was watching her. Jaw set, but something uncertain beneath it.

Emma waited.

"I didn't plan for last night to happen." Each word placed with care. "I want you to know that."

Emma made herself finish pulling the sweater down. "Yeah. I know."

"But I'm not sorry it did."

The words landed somewhere behind Emma's ribs. She didn't know what to do with that. With Regina standing there saying it in the morning light. Part of her wanted to close the space between them. The rest wanted to grab her jeans and get out before this turned into something that could gut her later.

"Yeah." Her voice scraped. "Me neither."

Regina's shoulders dropped. Not much. Half an inch.

Emma turned toward the window. Morning traffic threaded through the street below. Gray light that promised rain. Behind her, fabric whispered—Regina stepping into her slacks, the soft rasp of a zipper.

Emma glanced back.

Regina's fingers worked the buttons of her blouse, each one slipping through its hole with practiced precision. Her movements were steady now. Nothing like last night when she'd first reached for Emma—shaken and wanting at once.

She finished. Lifted her gaze.

The question was there before she could smooth it away. Unspoken. Already bracing for whatever came next.

Emma's hands curled into fists inside her pockets. The room felt wider than it should've been.

Regina tucked her blouse into her slacks, then turned her face away. Not entirely. Just enough to break eye contact. Her composure hadn't quite settled back—her mouth softer than usual, jaw less certain.

"I should go."

"Yeah. Okay."

The words felt inadequate. Regina moved toward the door, and Emma followed without deciding to, feet making the call before the rest of her caught up. Her hand lifted toward Regina's back, close enough to feel warmth radiating through fabric. She let it drop.

Regina froze. Her fingers rested on the knob but didn't turn it.

"You'll be fine," Emma said. "With the visit, I mean."

Regina glanced back. Just her profile, the line of her jaw. Something softened across her face before she smoothed it away. "Thank you."

Warmer than before. Emma's chest tightened.

Regina turned forward again and opened the door.

Emma stayed where she was, one hand braced against the doorframe. Regina walked down the hallway toward the stairs. Each step precise, posture perfect, but something in the set of her shoulders looked less certain than usual.

She paused at the landing. Looked back.

Their eyes met across the distance and Emma's breath caught. Like if she moved now she could cross the space. Like if she stayed still Regina might.

Regina turned and continued down the stairs.

Emma stepped back into the apartment. Closed the door. Let her head fall back against the wood.

The quiet pressed in. Regina's perfume still clung to the sheets, something subtle and expensive that Emma had breathed in all night. The pillow held the shape of her head. Regina's hands on her skin, the way she'd looked at Emma in the dark like Emma was something worth holding onto—it was still there, just under the surface.

Emma pushed off the door. Grabbed her jacket from the hook, her keys from the bowl on the side table.

She couldn't stay here.

+++++

The highway stretched empty ahead. A handful of cars passed in the opposite lane.

Emma's hands sat loose on the wheel. She'd done this before—drive when the walls closed in, let the road eat miles until something settled. Except nothing needed settling.

That was the problem.

Her chest felt open. Like something had shifted and she'd let it, and now there was space where there hadn't been before. Space that didn't ache the way it should have.

She could pack the Bug tonight. Two weeks' notice if she was feeling generous. She'd walked off jobs with less. Her lease had a buyout clause. She always checked before signing.

Other hospitals existed. Bigger trauma centers in cities where nobody knew her name, where she could slip into a new rotation and let the work fill the gaps the way it always did.

Regina had said she wasn't sorry. Had stood there half-dressed and said it like she meant it, like the night before hadn't been something she'd need to walk back by Monday.

Emma's grip tightened on the wheel. It pressed into her palms. She forced herself to ease up, flexed her fingers against the stiffness.

The interstate was twenty minutes north. She could cross state lines by noon. Any hospital would take her—her record was clean, her references solid. She knew how to make herself useful. How to slip into gaps and not ask for more.

Her phone sat silent in her jacket pocket. Regina wouldn't call. Regina didn't chase.

And Emma had always been good at running.

The exit for the north side appeared ahead. Ruby's neighborhood.

Her foot lifted off the gas.

The turn signal clicked on. Too loud in the quiet car.

She took the exit.

+++++

The Bug ticked as it cooled outside Ruby's place. Narrow brick rowhouse wedged between two identical ones, small front garden that was mostly weeds. Three steps up to a porch barely wide enough for two people.

Emma sat with her hands still on the wheel. Her pulse beat unevenly in her throat.

She didn't have answers to whatever Ruby would ask, and Ruby would look at her with that particular brand of concern that made Emma want to bolt. But the highway had felt wrong. Packing had felt wrong. Everything felt wrong except the turn signal clicking on when she'd seen the exit.

She got out. Climbed the steps. Knocked.

The door swung open mid-knock. Ruby stood there in sleep shorts and an oversized Henley, hair pulled into a messy knot. She scanned Emma's face, then stepped back without a word.

Emma crossed the threshold. Something in her chest loosened.

The living room opened directly to the left: throw blankets tangled on the couch, magazines stacked crooked on the coffee table. Someone actually lived here. Someone stayed. The house smelled like burnt toast and something floral. One of Ruby's impulse-buy candles, probably.

Ruby was already moving toward the kitchen at the back, bare feet silent on the hardwood. "Coffee's still hot." She pulled down the chipped blue mug, Emma's mug, the one Ruby kept for her, and poured, adding cream without asking. She slid it across the counter.

Emma stopped at the counter's edge. Wrapped both hands around the ceramic. The heat steadied her palms.

Ruby leaned back against the sink with her own mug, watching. She took a sip. Waited.

"So." Another sip. "You look like shit, but like, the interesting kind." She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "What happened?"

Emma stared into the coffee. Steam curled up between her hands. She could deflect. Ruby would let her, probably. But she'd driven here instead of getting on the highway, and that had to mean something.

"I slept with Regina."

Ruby went still. Her mug stopped halfway to her mouth. Then she set it down carefully and let out a breath that was half laugh, half something else. "Okay. Wow." A pause. "Mills. Did not—wow."

Emma's throat tightened. "I thought about leaving town."

Ruby's eyebrows went up. "Shit." She pushed off the sink, took two steps toward the living room, stopped. Her hands lifted, dropped. "But you're here."

"I am."

Ruby waited, watching her steadily.

Emma took a breath. "We dated. Before. In undergrad."

"You what?"

"Regina and I. We dated for almost two years."

"Two—" Ruby's mug hit the counter. She stared. "Okay, I'm sorry, you dated Regina Mills for two years and you just, what, never mentioned it?"

Her voice had climbed, sharper than usual. Emma's stomach dropped.

"It was a long time ago. Didn't seem like it mattered."

Except she'd driven here on a Saturday morning instead of literally anywhere else, so that was a pretty thin sell.

Ruby shook her head, half laugh, half disbelief. "Right. Yeah." She looked away briefly, then back. "I mean, I get it. You don't have to tell me everything. Just would've been nice to know, you know?"

Friends were supposed to tell friends things. That was probably a rule somewhere.

"So what happened?" Ruby's voice had evened out, but there was still an edge to it.

"She left. Just—one day she was gone. Didn't see her again until I showed up here."

Ruby's hand went to her hair, fingers raking through. "Jesus." She exhaled, sharp. "Okay. Wait." Her eyes came back, narrowed slightly. "This morning. Did she leave, or did you?"

"She had something she needed to take care of. I left after."

Ruby grabbed the coffee pot and topped off her mug. "You gonna see her again?"

"I don't know."

The pot hit the burner harder than it needed to. Ruby turned, facing her across the counter. "Yeah. That tracks."

Emma looked up.

Ruby's fingers drummed once against her mug. "I'm just saying. You know staying's an option, right? Like, you're allowed to just—be somewhere."

"I know." Emma said it automatically. Then stopped. Did she? She'd lived all over the country. Never called anywhere home. "But she left me."

"Fifteen years ago." Ruby said it gently. "You were what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

Well. When you put it like that.

Ruby picked up the towel, wiped at a spot on the counter that didn't need wiping. "Look, I'm not saying it didn't suck. I'm just saying maybe people aren't the same idiots they were at twenty-two." She rinsed and dried her hands, then tossed the towel down. "God knows I'm not."

Ruby leaned against the counter, hip cocked. "You can stay. We can talk, not talk, watch terrible reality TV and feel superior to people with worse problems than us." Her mouth curved, just a little. "I've got snacks. I've got opinions. I've got all day."

She said it lightly, but she was watching, waiting to see which way Emma would go.

Emma nodded slowly. "Thanks."

Ruby's smile flickered. Small, real, gone fast.

"Good." Ruby pushed off the counter, grabbed her mug. "Come on, then."

Emma followed her into the living room. Sank onto the couch while Ruby grabbed the remote and started scrolling through options. The cushions were soft, worn in. The throw blanket smelled like Ruby's laundry detergent.

What she was going to do, she didn't know yet. But she was here. Not on the highway. Not running.

Not yet.

+++++

Ren was awake when Emma got there. Bed angled up, gaze fixed somewhere past the window. One arm crossed over her abdomen, the other worrying the edge of the blanket between her fingers.

Emma knocked twice on the doorframe.

Ren's head turned. Her focus landed on Emma and something flickered there—surprise, maybe wariness—before her expression smoothed flat.

"You're not working today."

Emma leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. "Nope."

Ren's gaze drifted back toward the window. "So what are you doing here?"

Fair question.

"Thought I'd check in. See how you're doing."

"I'm fine."

Which meant: don't look too close.

Emma pushed off the doorframe. Crossed to the wall near the foot of the bed and settled one shoulder against it.

"Yeah, you look real comfortable."

Ren glanced toward her. Sharp. Testing whether Emma was mocking her or just calling bullshit.

Emma kept her expression easy.

Something flickered across Ren's face—almost a smile, gone before it fully formed. She turned back toward the window. "They keep waking me up every two hours."

"Vitals check."

"It's stupid."

"It's annoying," Emma said. "Not the same thing."

Ren glanced up. Held for a beat, still wary. Then she looked away, but her shoulders dropped maybe half an inch. "Whatever."

Emma let the monitors beep their steady rhythm. Pushing too hard meant watching kids like Ren disappear behind walls you couldn't climb. Better to wait.

Ren's fingers found that loose thread again.

"They brought food earlier."

Emma waited.

"It was like..." Her hand stilled. "I don't know. Cardboard?"

Nausea from the meds, maybe. Reduced appetite post-op. Or just the general awfulness of hospital food. Emma didn't say any of it. "Yeah, hospital food's pretty terrible."

Ren blinked. Like she'd been braced for something else. Her expression shifted before she caught herself. "Yeah."

A beat.

Emma kept her voice easy. "I could grab you something from the cafeteria if you want. It's not great, but it's better than whatever they're serving up here."

Ren went back to the thread, her focus fixed down. "I don't care."

Well, it wasn't a no. Emma nodded, let it drop.

Ren's fingers kept moving, restless.

"Dr. Mills came by yesterday."

Emma kept her face neutral. "Yeah?"

"She said she wants to foster me." The words came out quick, like Ren needed to hear how they sounded out loud.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing." Ren paused. Her jaw worked. "I don't get why she'd even want to."

There it was.

Emma watched her. The kid's attention stayed on the blanket like if she looked up, Emma might see too much.

Preemptive rejection. I'm too much. I'm too broken. Nobody stays.

"Maybe she sees something worth showing up for," Emma said.

Raw surprise crossed Ren's face before she turned away fast. "Yeah. Sure."

Brittle.

Emma eased back, giving Ren space to retreat or stay, whichever she needed.

"What if she gets bored?"

Not what if she leaves. What if she gets bored. Like Ren had already decided she wasn't interesting enough to keep around.

Emma's chest tightened. She'd lived that logic. Every corner of it.

"I've known Regina a long time," she said, voice level. "And when she decides something matters, she doesn't quit."

Ren stared at the blanket. "You sound real sure about that."

"I am."

"Why? Because you're friends or whatever?"

"Because I know how she works."

"So I should just trust her?"

"No." Emma straightened slightly. "I'm saying she's here. She's fighting for you. That part's real."

Ren's voice dropped. "Yeah, well. Real doesn't always stick."

"You're right," Emma said quietly. "It doesn't always."

Ren's gaze snapped to hers. Wary. Waiting for the but.

"But you can spend all your time waiting for her to bail, or you can let her show you who she is."

Ren's mouth twitched. "That's a stupid plan."

"Probably." Emma's lips pulled despite herself. "But it's the only one I've got."

Ren looked away. Her hand went back to the thread. "She's gonna ask stuff. About my mom and whatever."

"Probably," Emma said.

"What if I don't wanna talk about it?"

"Then don't."

Ren glanced toward her, testing. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

She looked away again. Her hand stilled against the blanket for a moment. Her posture had shifted—less braced, more like she was considering the possibility that Emma might actually mean what she'd said.

Emma pushed off the wall. She should go. Let Ren get some rest. Stop hovering.

She moved toward the door. Paused with her hand on the frame and glanced back.

Ren was watching her. Her focus stayed steady.

Emma lifted her hand in a small wave. Started to turn.

"You coming back?"

The question stopped her mid-step. Ren's focus had shifted somewhere past Emma's shoulder, like she was already regretting asking.

"Yeah," Emma said. "I will."

Surprise flickered across Ren's face, unguarded for half a second, then her expression closed off again. "You don't have to."

"I know."

Ren nodded once, slow, like she was testing the weight of it.

Emma stepped into the hallway and pulled the door mostly closed behind her.

Three steps down the corridor. That's all she made before it hit her.

You can spend all your time waiting for her to bail, or you can let her show you who she is.

Her hand found the wall. She steadied herself against it, head down, breathing through it.

She'd just told Ren to take the risk. To stop bracing for the worst. To let Regina stay.

She pushed off and headed for the elevator, keys already in her hand.

+++++

Regina's neighborhood materialized around her. Gas lamps caught afternoon light through old glass. Every building had a historical plaque. The sidewalks probably cost more to maintain than her yearly salary.

She found a spot two houses down. Cut the engine.

Regina's townhouse was third from the corner. Brick facade, black shutters, dark green door at the top of three shallow steps. The whole thing looked like Regina—controlled, expensive, nothing out of place.

She got out before she could think better of it.

The sidewalk was uneven under her boots. Old brick, the kind that shifted with tree roots and winter frost.

She knocked. The silence stretched long enough that her stomach started to drop.

The door opened.

Regina stood there in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, barefoot. Her hair was down, still damp at the ends. Something pulled tight in Emma's chest.

Regina's lips parted. Surprise first, then something softer that she tried to smooth away. Her hand stayed on the door's edge. Knuckles white.

"Emma."

Just her name. Quiet. Like she was testing whether Emma was real.

"Hi." Her voice came out steadier than she'd expected. She shoved her hands in her pockets. "I know I just—I should've called."

Regina's gaze moved over her face. Searching. Her jaw shifted.

"Can I come in?"

Regina stepped back. The movement was careful, deliberate.

"Of course."

Emma crossed the threshold. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Regina moved deeper into the living room. Emma followed, stopping just inside the doorway. Regina reached the window and turned. Her hand came up, smoothed down the front of her sweater once before dropping.

Emma stayed where she was.

"I was at the hospital." The words came out before she'd decided whether to lead with that. "Checking in on Ren."

Regina's shoulders dropped half an inch. "Is she—"

"She's okay." Emma took a step forward. "She asked about you, actually. About the fostering."

Regina's posture eased. Then tightened again. She brought her hands together in front of her, fingers lacing. "And what did you tell her?"

"That she could spend all her time waiting for you to bail, or she could let you show her who you are."

Regina's breath caught. Audible in the quiet. She looked away briefly, then back. "That's sensible advice."

"Yeah, well." Emma's mouth pulled to one side. "Turns out I'm better at giving it than taking it."

Regina went still.

Emma made herself say it. "I let you walk out this morning without saying anything."

Regina's hands separated. Fell to her sides. "What would you have said?"

Emma closed half the distance between them. "That waking up next to you felt right."

Regina's eyes stayed on hers. Dark and open for maybe two seconds before her jaw shifted, shoulders drawing back just enough.

Emma had already seen what was underneath.

"When you left for the bathroom, I assumed you'd made your position clear."

The words came out carefully. Too carefully. Regina's voice smoothed when she was protecting herself.

"I hadn't." Emma's voice had gone softer. "I was just scared."

Regina searched her face. "Of?"

Emma held that look. "Of how much I want this."

Regina's lips parted. Something flickered there—hope trying to break through disbelief.

"I don't know what happens next." Regina's voice wavered. "I'm not sure I know how to do this well."

Emma's weight shifted forward. "Neither do I."

The admission landed easier than it should have. She'd driven halfway to the highway and turned around. That probably said enough about how well she had any of this figured out.

"But I don't want to keep pretending I don't want to find out."

Regina's hand lifted. Made it halfway before stopping, suspended between them. Then it fell back to her side.

Emma moved closer. Close enough that Regina's breath changed—shallow, uneven. She reached for Regina's wrist, gentle, and caught it before the retreat finished.

"I'm here." Her thumb found Regina's pulse. Quick and steady beneath the skin. "And I'm asking you to let me stay."

Regina's breath shuddered out. Emma watched her work through it—the way her jaw tightened, then released. Trying to believe it. Trying to let herself.

"I would like that." Barely audible. "Very much."

Emma's thumb moved once against the inside of Regina's wrist. The warmth there steadied something in her chest.

When Regina looked up again, the wariness had eased. Not gone. But softer.

Emma didn't let go.

"Okay. So we try."

Regina's free hand rose, hesitated at her own sternum, then reached out. Her fingertips grazed Emma's jaw. Light. Testing.

Emma leaned into the contact.

"We try," Regina repeated. Quieter now. Like a promise.

Emma stepped closer. Her hand slid up Regina's forearm—slow, giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

Regina closed the distance. Their foreheads touched first, then Regina's arms came around her, and Emma pulled her in. They stood there breathing together. Regina's pulse beat steady against Emma's chest. The afternoon light shifted across the floor, warm on the side of her face.

Emma's hand found the small of Regina's back. Regina's fingers curled into her jacket.

For the first time in fifteen years, staying felt easier than running.

Regina

Cora Mills: Call me today, I—

Regina dismissed the notification without reading further. Whatever her mother wanted could wait. The morning was too light to permit Cora's voice entry.

The surgical floor had begun to stir. The familiar rhythm settled pleasantly rather than pressing down. A cluster of residents gathered near the alcove, voices low. As she passed, they straightened. A few offered nods. The most eager murmured greetings.

She returned them with something warmer than usual.

Pale morning sun cut across the tile in clean lines. She allowed herself to notice it. The way the light fell. The quiet before the day turned urgent.

She turned the corner.

Movement ahead. Someone approaching from the opposite direction.

Emma.

Her pulse kicked. No warning edge this time. Only anticipation.

They both slowed. Stopped a few feet apart.

Emma's hair was pulled back beneath a scrub cap, her scrubs creased from hours of wear. Coffee cup in one hand, patient chart tucked under her arm. Her shoulders carried exhaustion, the particular weight that followed a long case, but her posture remained upright. Present.

"Well," Regina said. Her gaze traveled deliberately. "Look what the OR dragged in."

Emma's mouth curved. "That's Dr. What-the-OR-Dragged-In to you."

"Of course. My mistake." Regina kept her tone light, but her eyes did not leave Emma's. "You look..."

"Like hell?" Emma shifted her weight, angling closer. The movement brought her half a step nearer. "Got called in at four. MVA, three patients." She rubbed at the back of her neck. "Just finished the last one."

Regina closed the distance between them without deciding to. The impulse registered only after her feet had moved. "I was going to say you look like someone who saved three lives before most people had their coffee."

Emma huffed a quiet laugh. "You always this smooth before rounds?" Her voice dropped. Her gaze flicked down to Regina's mouth, then back up. Lingered.

"Only when the subject warrants it."

Emma's weight shifted forward. The chart slipped slightly under her arm and she caught it, but her focus never wavered. "Yeah?"

"Mmm." Regina tilted her head. "Though I have to say, the scrubs are not doing you any favors."

"No?" Emma took another step. Close enough now that Regina could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the faint crease between her brows. Close enough that the air between them felt charged. "What would you suggest?"

Regina's pulse hammered. "I am certain I could think of something."

"Yeah, I bet you could."

Regina's gaze dropped to Emma's mouth. Lingered.

Emma leaned in. Just slightly. Her breathing shallowed. "You know, if we weren't standing in the middle of—"

Footsteps rounded the corner behind them. Sharp against tile.

Regina straightened. The movement came before thought. Emma stepped back, adjusting the chart under her arm. Her shoulders squared. Her attention fixed suddenly on the floor.

The nurse passed without acknowledgment. The sound of her footsteps receded.

Regina's breath came shallow. She smoothed the front of her coat, buying herself the seconds required to reassemble composure. The space between them registered as loss. Something vital withdrawn.

Emma cleared her throat. When she looked up again, her expression had shifted. Steadier, more guarded. "So you're supposed to hear back today, right?"

The shift took Regina a moment. Ren. The foster approval. Right. "Ms. Avery said she would call this afternoon. That she would do what she could."

"They're gonna approve it." Emma's voice carried certainty Regina could not summon herself. No hesitation. She said it as though it were simply fact.

The part of Regina that remained perpetually braced went still. Emma believed it.

Emma's pager went off. She pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen. Her jaw tightened briefly before smoothing. "CT results are back on my post-op."

She did not move, though. Did not look away.

"I should go."

"Of course."

Emma nodded once. Started to turn, then stopped. Her weight shifted back toward Regina. "I'll see you later?"

Not casual. The answer mattered.

"I would like that."

Emma's mouth curved. Just slightly. Real. "Yeah. Good."

She turned. Walked away. Regina watched the confidence in her stride, the strength in her shoulders even through exhaustion. Heat stirred low in her stomach.

The hallway stood empty where Emma had been. Regina remained there longer than she should have. This feeling in her chest might have been hope. Or something near to it.

Warm and insistent and terrifying in equal measure.

+++++

Emma

Emma pushed through the break room door and dropped into the nearest chair. Her legs stretched out under the table, head tipping back against the wall.

A lull. She'd take it.

Ruby appeared in the doorway moments later, coffee cup in hand. She crossed to the table and settled into the chair opposite. "Okay, so." Her free hand gestured between them. "You've been doing this thing all morning."

Emma's mouth twitched. "What thing."

"This—" Ruby's fingers fluttered near her own face. "Like you're trying not to smile and it's killing you. It's weird. You're being weird."

"I'm always weird."

"Yeah, but this is good weird." Ruby leaned forward, elbows on the table. Her gaze sharpened. "So what happened?"

Emma's thumb traced the edge of the table. "I went to Regina's. Saturday night."

Ruby went still. Then her eyebrows climbed. "Okay." A beat. Her mouth opened, closed. "Are we—are we talking about this, or are you just gonna leave me hanging with that?"

"We talked." Emma kept her gaze on her hands. "We're gonna try. See what happens."

Ruby's grin came fast. Bright and unguarded. Then it softened into something quieter. She set her cup down with care. "That's really good, Em."

A beat passed. Ruby's fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled.

"You happy?"

The question sat there. Emma's thumb stopped moving. "Yeah," she said. Quieter. "Think so."

Ruby nodded. Her hand lifted, dropped back to the tabletop. "Good." She pushed her chair back and stood. "I'm getting more coffee. You want?"

Emma shook her head. "Any more and my heart's gonna explode."

"Well, that's one way to get the Cardio Queen's attention." Ruby's grin flashed again, quick and easy.

Emma's pager buzzed at her hip. She pulled it free, angled it toward her.

TRAUMA BAY 1 – ETA 2 MIN – COLLAPSE, HYPOTENSIVE, RESP DISTRESS

She stood, the chair scraping back. "Guess coffee's gonna have to wait."

Ruby was already moving toward the door. "I'm with you."

++++

The medic crew rolled in fast. Emma stepped back, gave them room.

"Unwitnessed collapse at the grocery store." The paramedic's voice came clipped, practiced. "GCS three on arrival—agonal respirations, pink frothy sputum. Initial systolic ninety, dropped to seventy en route. Bagged the whole way. Eighteen gauge left AC running wide. One milligram epi five minutes ago. No response."

Pink foam spilled at the man's lips. His breathing came shallow, irregular. The kind that meant the body was already halfway gone.

Emma snapped her gloves on. "On my count. One, two, three."

They slid him across. Ruby was already at the rail, reaching for chest leads. Her hands moved fast—practiced, efficient. No wasted motion.

Emma grabbed the yankauer, suctioned his airway. The canister filled pink immediately. Pulmonary edema.

She pressed her stethoscope to his back. Wet crackles throughout both lung fields. Bilateral. Symmetric.

The pulse ox read 82. Then 78. Then 74.

"BP seventy-two over forty-eight." Ruby's voice came steady, eyes on the monitor. "Heart rate one thirty-six."

Emma moved to the head of the bed. "Give me one milligram epi IV push. Start levophed at five mics per minute." She tilted his chin back, repositioned the airway. "Run a second line wide open in the right AC. Then drop it to TKO."

Ruby drew up the epi. The syringe emptied in two seconds. She hung the levophed, hands moving through the sequence without hesitation.

The RT squeezed the bag. "Peak pressures are high. He's not moving air."

Emma repositioned her stethoscope anteriorly. More wet crackles—dense, diffuse. Heart sounds rapid, regular. The lungs were drowning.

She looked up. "I need ultrasound."

Ruby wheeled the machine over. Emma grabbed the probe, squeezed gel onto it, positioned it parasternal long axis.

The right ventricle stretched wide on the screen. The left ventricle barely contracted; walls sluggish, moving like they'd forgotten how.

She angled to the aortic valve.

The leaflets hung in shreds. Ragged tissue where clean cusps should have been. She toggled to color Doppler. The regurgitant jet filled the entire left ventricle, chaos of red and blue with every beat.

Endocarditis. Acute valve destruction. He'd need a full replacement.

"Call CT surgery. Acute severe AR with vegetations. He's in cardiogenic shock."

The monitor alarm cut through the room—high, insistent.

Emma's eyes snapped to the screen.

Blood pressure 52/30. Heart rate 165.

Her hand was already moving. "Push the levophed to ten. Give me another milligram of epi."

Ruby pushed the syringe, adjusted the drip. The numbers held for three seconds. Then dropped.

Emma pressed two fingers to the carotid. The pulse was there—barely. Thread-thin and fast.

"Start vasopressin at point-o-four units per minute."

The third drip went up.

Ten seconds. Twenty.

The blood pressure dropped again. 46/24.

Emma's jaw tightened. "Where's CT surgery?"

"On their way," someone called from the door.

38/18.

The numbers weren't just bad. They were incompatible with consciousness. With perfusion. With time.

The valve was shredded—every beat dumping blood backward into a ventricle that couldn't eject what it was drowning in. Pressors couldn't fix mechanical failure.

She could crack the chest. Give his heart the help it couldn't give itself.

Or she could wait three more minutes and watch him arrest.

Her hand moved before the thought finished.

"Ruby, thoracotomy tray."

Ruby went still for half a second. Her eyes flicked to the monitor, then back to Emma. Then she was moving—fast, purposeful—toward the cabinet.

"Page anesthesia for airway."

The tray hit the bedside table. Emma grabbed the scalpel before Ruby had fully set it down.

One long incision—sternum to mid-axillary line, fifth intercostal space. Blood welled up immediately. She dropped the scalpel, reached for the rib spreader.

"Ruby, help me spread."

Ruby moved to the opposite side without a word. They positioned the spreader between the ribs. Emma cranked it open. The ribs gave way with a crack that traveled through her teeth.

The heart was there. Dilated. Barely contracting. More shiver than beat.

Emma slid her hand into the chest cavity. The heart was wrong under her fingers—too full, too weak, struggling against the volume loading it with every failed contraction.

She wrapped her hand around it. Squeezed. Released. Squeezed.

The heart filled and emptied under her palm.

"Give me a MAP."

"Forty-two." Ruby's voice stayed level.

Emma kept squeezing. Steady rhythm. The muscle was boggy, waterlogged.

"Forty-eight. Fifty-two."

Better. Not good. But better.

The door opened.

Emma didn't look up. "Someone get over here and take the retractor."

+++++

Regina

Regina stepped to the opposite side of the bed and closed her hands around the retractor handles.

"I have it."

Open cardiac massage in the emergency department. The incision was clean, fifth intercostal space, adequate exposure. The pericardium remained intact. No active bleeding from this angle.

Emma's hand moved inside the open chest. Squeeze. Release. Her shoulder hunched at an angle that would burn within minutes. Blood covered her glove to the wrist. The ventricle filled and emptied under her palm.

The monitors beeped steadily.

Emma looked up. Her eyes met Regina's across the open chest, direct, unflinching.

"I had to. He crashed—pressure dropped below forty even with max pressors."

The decision made sense. Brutal, but sound. Trauma surgeons didn't have bypass machines.

Regina let a beat pass before she spoke. "Well," she said. "You certainly committed to it."

Emma's mouth pulled. Almost a smile. Then her focus dropped back to the chest cavity. Her hand kept moving, steady, mechanical, unfaltering.

"What's his current MAP?"

"Fifty-four," Ruby said.

Regina glanced at the ultrasound screen. The image was still paused on the view Emma had captured, parasternal long axis. "Ruby, can you switch to the aortic valve view?"

Ruby toggled through the clips. Shredded leaflets. Mobile vegetations. Ragged tissue where clean cusps should be.

"He needs emergent valve replacement," Regina said, "but we need to stabilize him for transport first." Her gaze shifted to Emma. "How long can you sustain manual compressions?"

Emma didn't look up. "As long as I have to."

Of course she would say that. Emma had always carried that quality, the refusal to yield when it mattered. That same resolve showed here now, in the work she'd chosen.

"He needs better inotropic support." Regina kept her voice level. "Ruby, one gram calcium chloride IV push. Slowly. Then start epinephrine at five micrograms per minute, separate line from the levophed."

Ruby drew up the calcium, checked the dose against the vial, then pushed it slowly.

The heart contracted weakly between Emma's fingers. Emma adjusted her grip, subtle, practiced.

"MAP sixty… sixty-four."

Better. Not good, but better.

The door opened. Elsa stepped through, took in the scene, and moved to the head of the bed without breaking stride.

"He'll need a definitive airway before transport," Regina said.

Elsa was already reaching for the laryngoscope. "Ruby, I need etomidate twenty milligrams and rocuronium one hundred milligrams. Draw up another milligram of epinephrine while you're at it."

Ruby's hands were already moving: vials, syringes, labels. She handed the first syringe to Elsa, then the second, then moved back to prep the epinephrine.

"Respiratory, I need you to pre-oxygenate him as well as you can manage."

The saturation crept upward: 76. 79.

"Go ahead and push the induction medications."

The patient went limp. Elsa positioned the blade, suctioned, slid the bougie through. Tube placed. She secured it with quick, practiced movements.

"What's his end-tidal?"

"Thirty-four."

"Sats eighty-six. MAP sixty-eight."

Elsa stepped back, met Regina's eyes. "He's stable enough to move."

Regina's gaze moved across the open chest to Emma. Her shoulders had drawn tight. Her arm had to be burning by now.

"Can you maintain compressions during transport?"

"Yeah."

No hesitation. Emma's eyes stayed on the patient.

"OR three. Dr. Swan maintains open cardiac massage. I'll run point."

Ruby moved to the head of the bed without being asked. "I've got the IV pole."

They helped Emma onto the bed. She knelt beside the patient, bent forward to keep her hand wrapped around his heart. The angle was awkward, spine curved, weight off-center. She adjusted without breaking rhythm.

They started moving.

At the first corner, the bed turned. Emma's balance shifted, weight tilting forward, shoulder dipping. Regina's hand came up, steadying her.

Emma didn't pull away. Just exhaled—short, careful—and reset her position.

Heat bled through the scrub top. Muscle locked rigid beneath Regina's palm.

"Are you all right?"

"Never better."

Emma's voice was tight. The corner of her mouth lifted, brief, wry, entirely unconvincing.

"I've got him."

Regina pressed once, briefly, then withdrew her hand. Insufferable.

The elevator doors slid shut. Regina stood at Emma's side, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Emma's breathing had gone shallow, controlled.

"MAP seventy," Ruby said from the foot of the bed. "Sats at eighty-eight."

The elevator chimed. The doors opened.

They pushed through to OR three. The lights were already on, the room prepped. The perfusionist stood beside the bypass machine.

"Transfer on three. One, two, three."

They shifted him to the table. Emma moved with him, her hand still buried in his chest, shoulders hunched forward to maintain the angle.

"Dr. Hayes will take over compressions."

One of Regina's cardiothoracic residents stepped forward.

"Emma, on my count, withdraw your hand. Dr. Hayes takes internal compressions immediately."

Emma's gaze flicked up. Met hers. Nodded once.

"Now."

Emma pulled her hand free. Hayes's hands replaced hers immediately, wrapping around the heart. The rhythm continued without interruption.

Emma stepped back. Her arm dropped to her side. Blood covered her hand to the wrist. She flexed her fingers once, slow, testing, then again.

The OR team moved in around Hayes, prepping the field. Emma stood at the periphery for a moment, her gaze on the monitors. Then she turned toward the scrub room.

Regina followed.

+++++

Emma

The scrub room was empty when Emma pushed through the door.

She peeled off her gloves and dropped them in the trash. Blood had crept past the cuff, streaked her forearm in rust-dark lines. She crossed to the sink and turned the water on hot. Stuck her hands under. The heat stung. She flexed her fingers, slow, testing the ache that had settled deep in the muscle. Her grip was weak. Shot. Twenty minutes of compressions would do that.

The door opened behind her.

Emma didn't turn. Kept scrubbing, watching the blood thin and spiral down the drain.

Regina stepped up to the sink beside her. Close. Closer than necessary.

Water ran in the next sink over.

Emma grabbed paper towels and dried off. Her skin was raw where the gloves had been. She rolled her shoulder and the pull went all the way down to her elbow.

"That was the correct decision."

Emma's mouth pulled. "Yeah. I know."

Regina's hands stilled under the water. Just a beat. Then started up again: palms, backs, between the fingers. Thorough. Emma watched the movement from the corner of her eye. Regina's wrists turned under the stream, precise and methodical.

"Your arm will be sore tomorrow."

Emma leaned back against the counter. "Probably." The muscle was already tight. "I've had worse."

Regina looked up. Held her eyes. Her expression softened at the edges, just enough that Emma felt it in her chest. Then she went back to scrubbing.

Emma caught the corner of Regina's mouth pulling. Small. There and gone.

"Incorrigible."

"Yeah, well." Emma's pulse kicked up. She stayed where she was, hip pressed against the counter. "You don't seem to mind."

Regina rinsed. Stepped closer, not much, just enough that the space between them narrowed. Emma could smell her perfume beneath the antiseptic. Clean. Familiar. Her breath came a little shallower.

"I would not want you any other way."

Emma's chest went warm. She wasn't gonna think about that right now.

A resident appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Mills?"

Regina's hands went still. She turned her head.

"Dr. Hale paged about Ren Walsh."

Emma straightened. Cold spread through her chest.

Regina's jaw tightened. Her eyes cut to Emma.

Emma pushed off the counter. "I'll go."

"Emma—"

"You've got a patient on the table." Emma kept her voice steady even though her pulse was hammering. "I got this."

Regina held her gaze for a beat. Then nodded once.

"Text me as soon as you know."

"I will."

Emma was already moving toward the door. She hit the elevator button twice. Waited maybe three seconds before she turned for the stairs instead.

+++++

Emma took the stairs two at a time. Her lungs burned by the third flight but she didn't slow down. The stairwell door slammed open under her palm and she was through, moving down the corridor toward the CVICU.

She heard it before she saw it—monitor alarms layered over each other, the rush of oxygen, voices clipped and urgent in a way that made her stomach drop.

Ren's room.

Emma rounded the corner and pushed through the door.

Aurora was already at the bedside, stethoscope pressed to Ren's back. "Forty of Lasix IV push. Get RT in here—I want BiPAP set up now."

Her gaze flicked up. "I paged Dr. Mills."

"She's in surgery." Emma stepped past the nurse and positioned herself near Ren's head. "You got me."

Ren was sitting bolt upright, hands locked on the bed rails, every muscle straining. Her chest heaved—fast, shallow, working too hard for air that wouldn't come. The nasal cannula had been swapped for a non-rebreather, but it wasn't doing enough. Her lips had gone dusky at the edges. Her gaze was unfocused, wild, locked in the kind of panic that came when your body forgot how to do the one thing it was supposed to do automatically.

Then she saw Emma. Latched on like Emma was the only solid thing in the room.

"Hey." Emma kept her voice low. Steady. "I'm right here."

Ren shook her head, gasping. Her hand shot out and grabbed Emma's wrist—grip weak but desperate.

"I know," Emma said. "I know it feels like you can't breathe. But you gotta stop fighting. Let them help."

"Sats eighty-one," someone called from behind her. "Heart rate one-thirty-two."

Aurora glanced at the monitor, worry creasing her brow. "Where's RT?"

"Here." The respiratory therapist pushed through the doorway with the BiPAP machine, already connecting tubing to the wall oxygen.

Ren saw the mask and flinched back, pulling against the rails.

"Ren." Emma leaned in closer. The kid's fingers dug into her arm—not hard, but enough. "This is gonna push air into your lungs. It's loud and it feels weird, but I need you to trust me."

Ren's eyes welled. Her breath rattled with every failed inhale.

"I'm not going anywhere," Emma said. "Okay?"

A beat. Ren's grip loosened—just barely.

The RT moved in, fitted the mask over Ren's nose and mouth, tightened the straps. The machine cycled on, forcing pressure into waterlogged lungs.

Ren jerked at the sensation, her whole body going rigid, but she didn't rip it off.

"There we go," Aurora said softly. "Eighty-six. Eighty-nine."

The nurse charted the Lasix. Aurora ordered morphine—two milligrams IV—and Emma watched Ren's breathing start to slow. Still too fast. Still working too hard. But the wild edge was fading.

"Ninety-three," the RT reported.

Aurora let out a breath, her shoulders dropping. She looked across the bed at Emma.

Emma didn't move. Ren's hand had gone slack, but Emma kept her own there anyway.

"You did good," Emma murmured. "You did really good."

Ren's eyes closed.

Emma stayed where she was and waited for her own heartbeat to settle.

+++++

Regina

Regina stripped her surgical gown and crossed to the sink. The water ran cold at first, then warmed under her hands. She worked the soap between her fingers, over her wrists.

Five hours. The valve had seated. The heart had never regained a stable rhythm.

She had called it at 4:47. Time of death spoken aloud to a quiet room, the bypass machine cycling down, the monitors silenced one by one.

Twenty minutes of open cardiac massage. Emma's hand wrapped around a dying man's heart, keeping him alive through sheer force of will. It had not been enough.

She dried her hands and pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen lit.

Three notifications.

Cora Mills: Regina, I've left several messages now. I would hate to think you're avoiding me.

She swiped it away.

Two texts from Emma.

Flash pulmonary edema. Stabilized. On BiPAP now.

I'm with her.

She read them again. Flash pulmonary edema. Acute decompensation. The heart was failing faster than the timeline they had been managing toward.

Emma was already giving everything she had to Ren. It could not be for nothing. Not this time.

+++++

Emma

Emma sat in the chair by the window. Close enough to reach the bed if something shifted. The afternoon light had gone flat and gray, rain streaking the glass in thin lines.

Movement in the hallway pulled her attention up.

Regina. Still in scrubs, surgical cap gone, hair flattened where it had been pressed down. She moved like she had somewhere to be, but the exhaustion showed in her shoulders, the careful way she held herself upright.

Aurora intercepted her a few feet from the door. They stopped outside the glass.

Emma watched Regina's face as Aurora spoke. Watched the stillness settle in, the way her jaw tightened. Barely, but there. Regina asked something. Aurora answered, gesturing toward the room.

Emma stood. Her legs protested; she'd been sitting too long. She crossed to the door and eased it open, stepping out and pulling it nearly closed behind her.

Regina's eyes found hers immediately. Relief flickered there before smoothing away. She turned back to Aurora.

"—responded well to the diuretics," Aurora was saying. "We've pulled off about a liter so far. Sats are holding in the low nineties on the BiPAP. BNP is still climbing, but that's expected given the acute episode."

"And her mental status?" Regina's voice stayed level. Clinical. The voice she used when she was holding on tight.

"Oriented when she's awake. Anxious. Tired." Aurora's brow creased. "We'll keep a close eye on her tonight. If she stays stable, we can try weaning her off the BiPAP in the morning."

Regina inclined her head.

Emma moved to stand beside her, shoulder nearly brushing Regina's.

"We've pushed her diuretics as far as we can," Aurora continued. "But this was a significant decompensation. Her trajectory is accelerating."

"She needs to be listed," Regina said.

"Soon," Aurora agreed.

Regina's hand moved to the wall beside her. Just for a moment.

Emma caught the movement.

"I'll call Ms. Avery now," Regina said.

"Let me know as soon as you hear." Aurora shifted her weight. "I'll work with Dr. Larsen to get the transplant board moving."

Regina's mouth opened slightly—like she might argue. She'd want to handle it herself. But whatever she'd been about to say stayed behind her teeth.

"All right."

Aurora's gaze flicked between them. A small crease formed between her brows—not prying, just noticing.

Great. Ruby already knew, and now Aurora was picking up on something. Those two talked. Emma was definitely going to hear about this later.

Aurora just gave a small nod. "I'll be at the nurses' station if you need me."

She turned and headed down the corridor.

Regina's gaze shifted to the glass partition. To Ren, asleep in the bed beyond it. The mask covering her face. The monitors tracking each breath.

Her hand lifted toward the glass. Dropped.

Emma stayed where she was.

"Go make your call," Emma said. "I'll stay."

Regina didn't move.

"Hey." Emma kept her voice low. "We're gonna get her listed."

Regina turned. Met her eyes. The tension in her jaw eased.

"Yes," she said. "We will."

She pulled her phone from her pocket and walked toward the end of the corridor.

Emma watched her go.

+++++

Regina

The alcove at the end of the corridor was empty. Regina leaned against the wall and pulled up Ms. Avery's number.

It rang twice.

"Dr. Mills." Ms. Avery's voice came through brisk, professional. "I was just about to call you."

Regina's hand tightened on the phone. "Have they made a decision?"

"The placement has been approved."

Regina closed her eyes. Let the word land. Approved.

"However, I won't be able to file until tomorrow morning when the office opens. I can have everything ready to submit first thing. Signed and filed before nine."

"Ms. Avery." Regina straightened. "Ren's condition deteriorated this afternoon. Flash pulmonary edema. She's stable now, but she needs to be listed for transplant as soon as possible."

Silence. Then: "How soon?"

"Tonight."

A long pause. Regina could hear the calculation in it: what was possible, what rules could bend, what couldn't.

"I can email you the forms now," Ms. Avery said finally. "You sign electronically, send them back, and I'll submit from home. It won't be officially processed until the system updates in the morning, but the timestamp will be today's date. That should be enough for the transplant team to move forward."

"That will work."

"Check your email in ten minutes."

"Thank you."

"Dr. Mills." Ms. Avery's tone shifted. "I don't do this for everyone."

"I know."

She ended the call. Stood there with the phone pressed against her sternum.

By morning, Ren would be in the system. They could start looking for a heart.

Her throat tightened. She set her jaw and swallowed it back.

Not here. Not yet.

She walked back toward Ren's room. Through the glass, Emma sat in the chair by the window, head tipped back, eyes closed. Still there.

Regina pushed through the door. Emma looked up.

"It's done. She's sending the paperwork now. Ren will be listed first thing tomorrow."

Emma leaned forward. The tension went out of her shoulders.

"Told you."

Regina's mouth curved. "You did."

She crossed to the bed. Ren was still asleep, her breathing slow and even beneath the mask.

Regina reached out. Her fingers came to rest against the blanket near Ren's hand. Not quite touching. Close enough.

"We're going to find you a heart," she said quietly.

Ren didn't stir. The machines kept their watch.

Emma's hand settled against her back. Warm. Steady.

Regina went still. Then she exhaled, slow and careful, and let herself lean into the touch. Just slightly.

Emma's arm came around her shoulders. Not tight. Just there.

They stood like that, watching Ren breathe, as the afternoon faded toward evening.