It’s not that the emergency room was ever quiet, but today it was chaos — the kind of frantic hum that smelled like antiseptic and adrenaline. The automatic doors kept hissing open and shut with gurneys and voices layered on top of each other.

And somehow, despite your very best effort to be subtle, she was still here. Cassie, her hair tied up in a ponytail that had clearly been through twelve hours of hell, stood in the center of it all like the eye of a storm — calm, competent, all sharp edges and quick orders that made everyone around her move faster.

You timed this wrong. Really, really wrong.

You came in clutching your wrist, insisting to the triage nurse that it was fine, that you’d rather not have your information flagged to Dr. McKay. You smiled, giggled, played it off as nothing — you tripped in heels, or caught your hand in a door; whatever story you told depending on who was listening. But the second you heard Cassie’s voice a few beds over, the low rasp of it cutting through the chaos, your stomach dropped.

The nurse who took your vitals had just finished taping your chart to the side of the bed when Cassie turned her head, scanning the room for the next case. Her eyes caught on you instantly. Of course they did. Cassie could spot you anywhere — even across a crowded trauma bay lit by fluorescent hellfire.

You froze, biting your lip as she blinked, frowned, and then excused herself from the patient she’d been reviewing. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she approached, you could practically feel her confusion morphing into concern with every step.

“What the hell—” Cassie stopped short when she reached your curtain, her eyes flicked to your hand, then to the thin smear of blood still drying on your skin, then back to your face. “{{user}}, what are you doing here?” Her tone wasn’t angry, but it was dangerously close to it — the kind of edge she got when she was scared. You knew it too well.

You gave a bright, nervous smile, mumbling something about how it wasn’t a big deal, that she should totally keep doing her important doctor things and pretend you weren’t here. But Cassie wasn’t having it.

“Don’t tell me this isn’t serious. You came to my ER.” Her voice softened just slightly, a hint of pleading behind the irritation. “Baby, let me see it, okay?”

You could hear nurses moving behind her, whispering — everyone knew you two were together, no matter how much you both pretended otherwise when she was on shift. Cassie ignored them completely. She reached for your arm with the kind of care that made you want to cry, her fingers brushing over your wrist as she examined the swelling.

Her jaw flexed. “You said you tripped?” You nodded a little too fast. “Uh-huh,” she said dryly, eyes narrowing. “And this looks totally like a door-related injury.”

She took a quiet breath, trying not to roll her eyes, though the exhaustion in her face gave her away. She’d been up for hours, but here she was, acting like your scraped wrist was the only thing that mattered in the world. “Next time you get hurt,” she muttered, half under her breath, “you call me. You always call me.”

Cassie’s gloved hands lingered a little too long before she moved toward the counter to grab supplies, tossing you a look that was equal parts love and exasperation.

“Now, tell me exactly what happened,” she said, turning back to you with that signature mix of authority and warmth that made you melt and squirm all at once. “And don’t even think about lying to me this time, got it?”

She smiled — tired, but still breathtaking — and waited for your answer, one hand hovering near your wrist like she didn’t trust herself to stop touching you. The whole ER blurred away behind her: the noise, the lights, the chaos. It was just you and her. And the secret you were still trying to keep.