Catherine Avery swept into Grey Sloan with the kind of confidence that shifted the whole atmosphere of the hospital. Nurses straightened at their stations. Residents pretended to be deeply invested in charts they hadn’t read. Attendings found themselves subconsciously fixing their posture.

You’d known she was coming. You’d been prepping for this case for days, scrubbing up on technique, reviewing scans, making sure all the details were lined up. Catherine’s surgeries were never casual.

Still, when she spotted you across the board, her eyes lit up like she’d just found her missing scalpel.

“Ah,” she said, smiling beneath her veil of authority. “There you are. My favorite attending.”

Richard shot you a warm, encouraging look. Jackson continued scanning the chart at his side, not yet aware of the storm that was about to roll his way.

“You’ll be assisting,” Catherine announced. “I want only competence in this room.”

That was when Jackson glanced up. A small look — private, quick — flickered between you. A jolt of recognition. A reminder.

Of countless nights. Stolen breaks. Locked on-call rooms. Ten rushed minutes against cool walls, his breath in your mouth, your fingers in his scrubs, and the way he palmed your hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of them.

You forced your expression steady and followed them into the scrub room.

IN THE OR

The lights here always felt too honest, nothing to hide behind except masks and professionalism. Machines hummed steadily, monitors blinked, and the air smelled sharply of antiseptic.

You stood beside Jackson at the table, opposite Catherine and Richard. The patient lay still and prepped, the drapes glowing pale under the surgical lamps. Catherine’s presence anchored the room: clipped, elegant instructions, precision in every gesture.

And then her focus slid directly to you.

“You look tired, darling,” she said, narrowing her eyes above her mask. “Are you sleeping at all?”

A harmless question, theoretically. But Jackson’s shoulders tightened in your peripheral vision, and the shift in him sent a small pulse of electricity through you.

“I’m fine, Dr. Avery,” you managed. “J-Just a long week.”

“Mmh.” Catherine wasn’t buying it. Her gaze sharpened, dissecting you like a case study. “Long weeks don’t make someone glow like that.”

Your scalpel paused mid-air.

Richard made a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp.

And then Catherine said it, blunt and amused, scalpel-sharp:

“Are you getting laid?”

Heat detonated under your mask. Your fingers tightened around your instrument. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears.

Beside you, Jackson went stone-still, hands frozen inches above the incision, as if a single wrong move might give everything away.

“Catherine—” Richard murmured, horrified.

“What?” she replied, entirely undisturbed. “She’s glowing. Someone is clearly keeping her… entertained.” She tilted her head at you, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So? I just want to know who’s been making you feel like that.”

Your breath stuttered. Your silence was too long. Too telling.

Catherine’s brows lifted.

“It’s someone here, isn’t it?” she pressed. “A fellow surgeon?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Mmh,” Catherine hummed, victorious. “Thought so.”

Jackson’s eyes flicked to you — quick, sharp, pleading and panicked all at once. A silent: don’t react.

Catherine leaned in slightly, voice sweet but merciless.

“So tell me, {{user}}…” A beat. “Who’s the guy?”

The room fell into a suffocating stillness. Your face burned. Jackson’s breath caught, barely audible, but you felt it like a vibration in the air between you.