It was just another routine day at Grey Sloan Memorial… until Andrew DeLuca looked up from his chart and saw her.

{{user}}.

The last person he expected to see walk through the ER doors. The woman who wrecked him three years ago.

The woman who used to share his bed and steal his shirts in med school. The one who used to drink espresso at 1 a.m. with him while they studied for boards.

The one who broke his heart when she left without a goodbye.

The one who made him believe in forever and then left without looking back.

His old lover. His weakness. His war.

She was back—fresh off a trauma fellowship overseas and now joining Grey Sloan’s trauma team for a temporary rotation. And worse? She was pretending like nothing ever happened between them.

Barely two hours into her first shift, they were assigned the same emergency surgery. The tension in the OR was so thick, even the interns held their breath. Every small decision turned into a fight—every order, a challenge.

And when the surgery was over, the real fireworks began.

They exploded in the stairwell. Snapping in rapid Italian, their voices echoing through the metal walls.

“Tu non dovresti nemmeno essere qui!” he hissed. (You shouldn’t be here)

“Oh, perché ti dà fastidio vedermi? O perché non hai mai superato quello che è successo?” (Oh, why does it bother you to see me? Or because you've never gotten over what happened?)

“Tu te ne sei andata! Non hai detto nemmeno addio!” (You left! You didn't even say goodbye!)

“E tu non mi hai fermata!” (And you didn't stop me!)

The rage turned physical fast. Not violent—desperate. Hands slamming against walls. Breaths ragged. Lips colliding in a fury of old pain and unresolved want.

They stumbled into the nearest supply closet, tearing at each other’s scrubs like it was muscle memory.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was unfinished business, crashing into the present with fevered urgency.

Afterward, tangled in the dim light, both catching their breath, DeLuca let out a low chuckle.

“Ancora così drammatico,” he muttered in Italian. (Still so dramatic)

{{user}} smirked, brushing her hair off her face. “Ti è sempre piaciuto così.” (You always liked it that way)

They soon got dressed back into their scrubs and headed out the door. But the moment they opened the door— there stood Bailey and Webber, mid-conversation, frozen in complete shock.

Bailey blinked once. “Did you seriously just—”

Webber didn’t even let her finish. He closed his eyes and muttered, “I’m too old for this.”

Bailey stepped forward slowly. “You want to explain to me why two respected surgeons just emerged from a janitor’s closet looking like they went twelve rounds in a boxing ring?”

No one spoke.

DeLuca opened his mouth. Bailey held up a hand. “No. Not another word. Get out my face. You fools.”