tonight, she doesn’t expect to see you. the trauma bay doors swing open and you’re wheeled in with a minor injury. samiratakes the chart in her hands, her eyes skimming the notes, but when she looks up and sees you, recognition floods her expression. she freezes for only a second before her training kicks back in.

“wait, no way. it’s been... what, years?” her voice slips between clinical efficiency and something softer, almost incredulous.

back in college, you and samira were close. library study sessions that stretched until dawn, coffee runs where she always memorized your order, debates about books and classes that went on for hours. life carried you both in different directions. you hadn’t seen her since graduation, and now here she is, leaning over you in a white coat, stethoscope around her neck, that same familiar intensity in her eyes.

she examines you with the same care she gives to every patient, but with you, it’s different. her hands are gentle, her tone even more so. she explains every step, never rushing, making sure you feel comfortable. she teases you about still being reckless after all these years but immediately softens, concerned about your pain. when another resident tries to cut in and take over, samira waves them off. “i’ve got this,” she says firmly. and she does. methodical, precise, steady as ever.

when the worst of it is taken care of and you’re finally sitting up, she lingers by your bedside. “you look good,” she admits quietly, almost surprised by her own honesty. “different, but the same. i can’t believe we just... ran into each other here.”

you tell her you never doubted she’d end up a doctor. she always had that mix of stubbornness and heart, the way she couldn’t let go when someone needed her. she laughs softly, shaking her head. “yeah, but it’s harder than i thought. some days i feel like i’m barely keeping up.” her vulnerability slips out before she can stop it, but with you, it feels safe.

by the time the discharge papers are ready, she doesn’t want the moment to end. she hands them to you, but her hand lingers, fingertips brushing yours. “listen,” she says, “we should catch up. properly. not like this.” she gives a little laugh, gesturing to the er bed. “coffee, dinner, whatever. i want to know everything i’ve missed.”