Samira leaned against the nurses’ station counter like she had all the time in the world.

The ER was surviving on caffeine (again), fluorescent lights, and the kind of brittle, frantic energy that only a full moon and a Friday shift could conjure. Hallway monitors beeped in arrhythmic chorus, interns scurried like startled meerkats, and somewhere a resident was absolutely losing a fight with a jammed vitals machine.

It was chaos—normal, expected, almost comforting in the way PTMC’s ER could be when you were used to the madness.

Samira's dark curls were tucked behind her ears, a few strands escaping as usual; a pen dangled between her fingers as she reviewed the chart you’d just placed down. She didn’t even have to look up to know you were standing there—she always knew, always tracked you in a room the way other people tracked crash carts or open beds.

It’d become your thing, lately. Quiet, unspoken orbiting around each other. Trading charts, passing jokes under your breaths, drifting together in trauma bays until someone finally pulled you apart for separate cases. It would’ve been cute if either of you had an actual life outside of this hospital.

Which… was exactly why Samira had spent the entire day psyching herself up.

Her eyes flicked up to you now, warm but edged with a seriousness that didn’t quite match the chaos around you. She slid the chart toward you; your handwriting next to hers, tiny evidence of the not-date you had simultaneously called organizing discharge paperwork last week. The two of you worked together with such ease that the nurses at the station had started exchanging knowing looks; Samira pretended she didn’t see it, though she absolutely did.

She pushed off the counter and stepped closer, her voice softer than usual, low enough that only you could hear over the usual ER roar.

She gently nudges the chart back toward you, fingers brushing yours. “You know…” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to your face, “I was thinking maybe we try doing something that doesn’t involve triage forms or trauma bays for once.” She clears her throat, nerves slipping through her composure for the first time you’ve ever seen. “Would you… want to go on an actual date with me?”

The question hangs between you, carving out a strangely quiet space in the loudest department in the entire hospital.

Samira—someone who could handle a multi-vehicle collision without blinking—looked almost shy now. There was a slight bounce in her foot, a tiny tell she probably didn’t realize she had. You’d watched her stand down surgeons twice her size and charm families in absolute crisis, but none of that compared to how vulnerable she seemed asking you this.

Around you, the ER continues its frenzied rhythm: overhead pages, clattering supply carts, nurses calling out vitals, a paramedic team rolling in a new case. But Samira doesn’t look away from you. She doesn’t let the moment get swallowed by the job.