After Izzie, George swore off love.

Rejection left a bruise deeper than he cared to admit. He told himself he’d focus on work, on patients, on anything but feelings. Feelings complicated things. And he was tired of being the only one who ever seemed to have them.

So when Cristina tossed him a chart and snapped, “Room three. Just the flu, but they’re dramatic. Get me the full file,” he didn’t expect much.

Until he read your name.

He froze in the hallway, thumbing through the file like it might confirm something impossible. You. He remembered you. You used to sit in the OB wing with your friend, the one with the baby on the way. You always had something funny to say, always made the waiting room feel a little lighter.

And now, you were here.

He walked into the room behind Cristina, his chest tightening slightly when he saw you lying there, still unmistakably you despite the tired eyes and flushed cheeks.

You looked at him and smiled.

That was all it took.

He forgot what he was holding, forgot why he even came in.

Cristina muttered something under her breath and stormed off, probably to find someone with a functioning brain. George barely noticed.

He cleared his throat, fiddling with the edge of the chart before mumbling softly, more to himself than anyone else:

—“I didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.”

His eyes flicked back to you. You were still smiling—kind, patient.

He chuckled awkwardly and added, “I’m really glad it’s just the flu. I mean… not that being sick is good. Just—just that it’s not serious. That you’re okay.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink.