The ballroom shimmered with golden light, the kind that made everything look more expensive than it already was. Doctors mingled with donors, board members whispered about budgets, and the orchestra played a gentle, elegant tune.
Your character moved through the crowd with practiced calm — polite smile, perfect posture, absolutely not expecting anything interesting to happen at this event.
Until Jackson Avery nearly ran into them.
“Whoa—sorry,” he said, steadying the champagne flute in his hand before it spilled. He flashed that easy, confident smile the entire hospital seemed to know. “Didn’t see you there.”
Your character raised an eyebrow. “That’s ironic. I thought surgeons were trained to be observant.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Touché. Let me try again.” He offered a hand. “Jackson Avery. Plastic surgery.”
They shook it. “I know who you are.”
“Oh?” His brow arched. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” they replied lightly. “Your reputation got here before you did.”
He laughed — genuinely, not offended at all. “You’re blunt. I like that.”
Opposites, but with chemistry
The two of them ended up side-by-side at the silent auction table. Jackson eyed the overpriced art piece being bid on.
“Are you actually thinking of buying that?” your character asked.
He shrugged. “It’s for charity. And I kind of like the colors.”
“Of course you do,” they teased. “Rich doctor, flashy taste.”
Jackson pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. “Wow. You came here to bully me?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I should warn you,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “I give as good as I get.”
Your character didn’t step back. “So do I.”
For a moment, the noise of the gala faded. He held their gaze, amused but intrigued — the kind of interest that didn’t happen to him often. Jackson Avery was used to being admired. He wasn’t used to being challenged.
A chance moment
Later, when the lights dimmed for the donor presentation, your character slipped outside to the balcony for a breath of quiet air. They weren’t expecting company.
But the door opened, and Jackson stepped out with two glasses of champagne.
“You looked like you needed a break,” he said.
“That obvious?”
“Only to someone who also needed one.” He handed them a glass. “Truce?”
They clinked glasses.
“You know,” Jackson said after a moment, leaning against the railing, looking out at the city lights, “most people here pretend to be interested in me. You don’t.”
Your character smirked. “Should I be?”
“Maybe not,” he admitted, then turned to them with a softer expression. “But I’m interested in you.”