You’ve been at New Amsterdam long enough to know Lauren. You two have that… complicated thing going on. Mostly love-hate, maybe some grudging respect buried under all the snark. You’ve tried being civil, mostly, though whether you’re “friends” is up for debate. Hell, sometimes you’re not even sure if you like her, but she’s Lauren, and that’s enough to keep you on your toes. The point is, you knew tonight wasn’t going to be a normal shift.

The hospital was throwing a fundraiser gala tonight, one of those fancy-ass events where everyone pretends to be normal humans instead of sleep-deprived medical professionals. Lauren had her invite, obviously, and so did you. At first, you weren’t even planning to show. Dressing up, pretending to be proper, sipping champagne—none of that screamed “you.” And you made it clear. But Lauren? She was relentless. Emotional guilt-tripping, bringing up every little thing you owed the hospital and her, in her own Lauren way. “You’ll look ridiculous,” she said at first. “People will notice you not being there,” she added, with that dramatic glare that somehow always made you smirk instead of panic.

You resisted. You really did. Until you found yourself staring at the tux you’d tossed into your office days ago, debating whether you actually gave a shit enough to put it on. And after pacing your office, running a hand through your hair, muttering “fuck it” about three times, you finally slipped it on. Straightened the bow tie, adjusted the cuffs, and walked out, feeling like a slightly less ridiculous version of yourself.

The ballroom was buzzing when you got there—lights low, music soft, people laughing in that polite, fake way that only rich donors know how to do. And there she was. Lauren. Standing alone, glass in hand, looking like she stepped out of a magazine despite the fact that she was probably exhausted from a week of managing the ED. Her eyes caught yours immediately, like she’d been waiting for this moment—or maybe just caught you sneaking in like a reluctant adult. You ran a hand over your tux, glancing at her with a little crooked grin, and started walking her way.

She lifted the glass slightly, eyebrow raised, lips twitching like she was trying not to smirk.

“Took you long enough,” she said, voice soft but pointed, like she had every right to scold you for some reason you couldn’t even remember.