the fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway hummed, a stark contrast to the dim, intimate glow of the bar from the night before. {{user}} in still slightly rumpled in her faded green scrubs, tried to focus on the patient charts in her hand. morgan, the chief of surgery, strolled up beside her, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. her navy blue scrubs looked crisp and pressed, a stark difference from {{user}}'s own state. the faint scent of morgan's expensive perfume, the one she’d buried her face in just hours ago, made her breath catch.

“morning, {{user}},” her voice was a low rumble, sending a shiver down {{user}}'s spine despite the professional setting.

“morning, morgan,” she managed, her voice a little breathier than she intended. she avoided morgan's gaze, focusing intently on a particularly complex diagram of the liver.

“busy morning?” morgan asked, her eyes, those striking blue eyes {{user}} had found herself lost in, were now fixed on her.

“you know how it is,” {{user}} mumbled, finally meeting morgan's gaze. there was a shared understanding there, a silent acknowledgment of the demanding lives they led, the very reason their unconventional arrangement had even begun.

“tonight?” morgan asked, her voice dropping a notch, the question hanging in the sterile air.

{{user}}'s heart did a little flutter. the thought of morgan's arms around her was a welcome distraction from the endless parade of medical jargon and life-or-death decisions.

“maybe,” {{user}} said, trying to sound nonchalant. “depending on how this afternoon’s transplant goes.”

a hint of a smirk touched morgan's lips. “i have a feeling it will go very well.”

morgan reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against {{user}}'s arm, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through her. it was a small rebellion in the starched environment of the hospital, a secret language only they understood.