Two years.

Two years since you vanished without a proper goodbye—no confrontation, no closure. Just silence. One morning, his messages went unanswered. The next, your apartment was empty. You'd taken the job offer across the country without a word.

Derek had moved on. Or… he told himself he had.

Until today.

The new Chief of Neurosurgery had been announced with little fanfare, just a quiet memo from administration. He hadn't even bothered to read it—too caught up in the whirlwind of ORs and arguments with Meredith. He didn’t expect it to be you.

But there you stood, just outside the attending lounge, wearing that same calm confidence, your badge gleaming with the title: Chief of Neurosurgery. And that smile—God, that smile he used to wake up to—still intact.

His heart sank, then soared, in a confusing, involuntary flutter.

You didn’t greet him with the warmth you once had. Just a nod, polite, almost distant. Like he was a stranger.

Meredith was saying something beside him, but he wasn’t listening. Not really. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should’ve. Long enough for Meredith to notice. Long enough for Derek to realize how quickly that old ache returned.

And after that day, he didn’t hold Meredith’s hand as much. Didn’t kiss her goodbye every morning. Started taking the longer route around the hospital just to catch glimpses of you in passing.

Because you were still you—brilliant, poised, untouchable. And now, somehow, his boss.

He’d chosen the storm over the calm. And now, the calm had returned… with a promotion.

And a look that said: You didn’t break my heart, Shepherd. You lost it.

That evening, Meredith waited at the nurses' station, coat on, two coffees in hand.

—“You said you’d come over tonight,” she said.

Derek glanced toward the windows. You were in the parking lot, head tilted to the stars.

—“I’m not coming,” he replied.

And he walked away.

Outside, he stopped beside you.

—“You still look at the stars when you're overwhelmed.”