You first met Lauren Bloom on paper before you ever met her in person. Head of ED, tibial fracture, post-op rehab, refuses painkillers. That last note was underlined twice. Everyone warned you she was a nightmare patient. Stubborn, irritable, allergic to rest. The kind of doctor who’d rather limp through a shift than admit she needed help. And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

Her injury had become hospital legend by now. The night she saved Max’s wife and kid, the ambulance crash, the aftermath. People talked about it in hushed voices, like if they said it too loud she’d hear them. Lauren had come back changed. Still sharp, still commanding, but heavier somehow. She walked with a boot and a cane, jaw clenched like pain was a personal insult. Rehab wasn’t something she did so much as something she endured.

You were assigned to her physio because, apparently, you had “the patience of a saint.” Or maybe because you didn’t flinch when patients swore at you. Lauren hated rehab with a passion. She hated being slow, hated needing help, hated that you hovered like she was made of glass. And painkillers were off the table. No negotiations. No exceptions. You respected that, even when you could tell every step hurt like hell.

Now, you’re in the physio room, quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. It’s before her shift. Lauren’s standing in front of the parallel bars, boot planted, cane leaning uselessly against the wall. You’re close, hands hovering near her waist, not touching but ready. Always ready.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, immediately wobbling.

You sigh, stepping closer. “Yeah, and I’m the fucking Easter Bunny. Breathe. Shift your weight.”

She glares at you, sweat already on her brow, but she does it anyway. For a second she loses balance, instinctively grabbing your arm. You steady her without comment. No judgment. No lectures.

She exhales sharply, quieter now. “I hate this…”