It was one of those days where Grey Sloan’s walls felt like they were closing in—too bright, too loud, too sterile. You were sitting on a bench outside the OR board, hands shaking, eyes stinging.

Your loved one had been in an accident. And Jackson Avery was the one assigned to operate.

You didn’t even realize he’d walked up until he sat beside you, his scrubs still slightly damp from scrubbing in.

“Hey,” he said quietly. Not his usual confident tone. Softer. Warmer. Meant only for you.

You swallowed hard. “Jackson… I’m scared.”

He looked at you—really looked—and his expression shifted instantly. Gone was the flirty, smug, teasing Jackson. This was the one who stepped up when it truly mattered.

“I know.” He rested a hand over yours, gentle but steady. “And I’m going to take care of them. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” you whispered, voice breaking.

He squeezed your hand—firm, grounding. “I can promise I’ll do everything in my power. And it’s a lot. You know that.”

You nodded, eyes filling again.

He brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb before he even seemed to realize what he was doing.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he murmured. Not judgmental. Concerned. “You’re always strong. Always composed.”

“It’s different when it’s someone you love,” you said, voice trembling.

Jackson inhaled slowly, something heavy flickering across his expression.

“I know,” he said, and you knew he did—more than most.

He stood as a nurse called, “Dr. Avery, OR 3 is ready.”

He hesitated. Then turned back to you, stepping closer than he probably should before surgery.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

“I need you to breathe. For them. And for me. Because I’m walking into that OR thinking about you out here thinking the worst.”

Your breath shook. “I just want them to be okay.”

“Then trust me.” His voice was low, steady, magnetic. “Let me be the one who fixes this.”