“Oh?” Jo Wilson glances sideways when she notices you standing beside her at the vending machine. “You’re here too?”

The fluorescent lights hum softly above you, casting the hallway in that washed-out, end-of-shift glow Grey Sloan always gets after midnight. The hospital is quieter now—not peaceful, exactly, but subdued. Like it’s holding its breath.

You and Jo are the only ones left on duty tonight.

Two patients had come in hours apart. Two stupid, reckless kids who thought speed limits were suggestions and seatbelts optional. Nothing catastrophic. No codes. No miracles required. Just enough to keep you both here long after everyone else clocked out and went home.

She pops the tab on her can, takes a sip—and immediately grimaces.

“Oh no,” she mutters. “I grabbed Fanta.”

She looks down at it like it personally betrayed her.

Jo shifts her weight, hesitating, then sneaks a glance at you. You’re already holding your own can. Orangina. The good one. The one she clearly meant to take.

“Since you took the latter,” she says, lifting her can halfway between you, tone light but uncertain, “can we… I don’t know. Switch?”

She lets out a small, self-aware laugh, as if she already knows how ridiculous it sounds. The silence stretches—not awkward in a loud way, but in that thin, fragile way that makes people overthink every second.

Truth is, this is her excuse.

Jo doesn’t need the soda. What she needs is a reason to talk to you.

You’re always around, always helpful, always there when something needs doing—but never inside the group. You joke, you banter, you fill space when necessary… and then you fade back into the background like a shadow against the wall. Present, but never really seen.

She’s noticed. She’s just never known how to bridge that distance.

So she holds out the can, arm slightly tense, waiting.

It’s terrible, really. The excuse. The awkwardness. The painfully obvious attempt.

But at least she’s trying.

And for Jo Wilson, that actually means something.