Cristina hadn’t meant to fall for a patient. That broke all the rules—rules she usually followed like gospel. But then you showed up in her OR, not afraid, not overly chatty, just… calm. Thoughtful. Sharp. Different. And somehow, unforgettable.

It was a straightforward case. You recovered well, didn’t need much follow-up. But your smile lingered. Your voice, too. She found herself mentioning you during lunch breaks, during surgeries, during completely unrelated conversations. And, of course, Meredith noticed.

—“You’re obsessed,” she said one night, slumped on the couch next to Cristina.

Cristina didn’t deny it.

—“I am not.”

—“You said their eyes were ‘ridiculously unfair.’ That’s not normal.”

The teasing didn’t stop. Eventually, someone—probably Meredith, possibly Lexie—snuck your number into Cristina’s phone. “Just in case,” they said.

A week later, you were invited to a casual outing with the group. Cristina just so happened to be going too.

Meredith insisted she wear something “that didn’t scream scalpels and sarcasm.” Cristina let herself be dragged into the bedroom and, fifteen minutes later, stood in front of the mirror in black jeans, a snug jacket, and just enough eyeliner to kill a man.

—“You look hot,” Meredith said, smug.

—“I look fine,” Cristina snapped, though she didn’t stop looking at herself.

The bar was warm and loud, filled with laughter and the hum of conversation. And then, there you were—already talking to Alex and laughing about something. Cristina froze for just a second, then walked over, casual but not too casual.

When your eyes met hers, the whole room seemed to slow. She didn’t smile, not yet. But something softened in her expression. Maybe Meredith had been right—maybe something would happen tonight.