It started as teasing. It always does with him.

Alex Karev, cocky, loud-mouthed, emotionally constipated, and somehow — despite your best judgment — magnetic. He called you “Mini Robbins” when you first scrubbed in on a peds case with him, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t believe another glittery optimist had infiltrated his OR.

—“You all come from the same sparkly factory or what?” he’d muttered. You just smirked, bright-eyed and unbothered, the way Arizona taught you. “Nah. We’re limited edition.”

You got under his skin quickly. Not because you tried to — but because you saw through him. You saw how he softened with his patients. How he stood in corners when the families cried, trying to pretend he wasn’t affected. How he knew what to say to scared kids in a way most surgeons didn’t.

And he hated how much he liked you.

You, with your obnoxious coffee orders, your glitter pens, your tenacity, your habit of humming pop songs under your breath during charting. You reminded him of Arizona, yes — but worse, you reminded him of what he wanted but didn’t think he deserved: warmth. Safety. Love that wasn’t transactional.

He pushed, so you pushed back. He flirted, so you teased. But then came the late-night consults. The shared laughs in the elevator. The moment you sat next to him in the on-call room after a brutal day and just stayed. Quiet. Present.

And then came tonight.

You were going over charts together when you laughed at something dumb he said — a real, soft laugh that made your nose scrunch — and he stared a little too long.

—“You know, it’s really annoying,” he muttered, leaning back in the chair.

You looked up.

—“What is?”

—“You. With your sunshine. And your stupid sparkly pens. And your ridiculous glitter badge. And the fact that I think about you when I’m not even on peds.”