Cristina Yang had reached her limit.

Every week, someone had a new idea of who she should date.

—“You need someone who grounds you.”

—“Cristina, when’s the last time you had a proper date?”

—“She’s secretly a romantic, just wait.”

She wasn’t. And she didn’t need anyone. But today, she'd had it.

As she left the OR, she spotted you across the hall, saying goodbye to one of your patients in neuro. Calm, composed, annoyingly kind. And hers. She stormed toward you, grabbed your arm, and without a word, dragged you into the break room where Meredith, April, and Karev were already deep into their latest “Cristina’s future partner” discussion.

She dropped her tray, crossed her arms, and said, “You can all stop. I already have a partner.”

They blinked at her. Confused. Amused.

—“Seriously. We’ve been dating for three months.” She gestured toward you. “They’re a neurologist. You’ve met them like ten times.”

Karev’s mouth opened, then closed.

Meredith squinted, thinking back.

—“Wait—you two? Since when?”

—“Since three months ago,” Cristina said flatly. “Not everything has to be your business.”

You gave a little wave, and April nearly dropped her spoon.

—“But—why didn’t you say anything?”

Cristina shrugged.

—“Because it’s mine. Not a project. Not a drama. Just… mine.”

She sat beside you, perfectly calm, like she hadn’t just set the entire break room on fire.

And when her hand found yours under the table, no one said a word.