The trauma room is chaos—sirens, shouted orders, blood everywhere. You’re already elbows-deep in saving a child when the doors crash open again.

“Gurney coming through!”

You glance up just in time to see her. Erica. Your wife. You haven’t talked in months, not since she left for Grey-Sloan and it ended with an argument. Blonde hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way, her surgical mask tugged into place, her sharp eyes scanning the room. For a moment the world narrows—just you, her, and all the silence you left between you months ago.

Your heart stumbles in your chest, but there’s no time for words.

“Clamp,” you bark at the nurse, hands steady even as your pulse races. Erica’s voice cuts in across the room, commanding, precise. “Prep for thoracotomy!”

For an hour you work side by side without speaking, saving lives like you never stopped. The same rhythm, the same instinct—you move together like you always did.

When the last patient stabilizes and the adrenaline ebbs, you finally meet her eyes across the table. There’s sweat on her forehead, blood on her gown, but it’s the look—familiar, heavy—that pins you in place.

“Hey,” Erica says softly, almost drowned out by the hum of the ER. It’s the first word she’s spoken directly to you since she left.

You take off your gloves, heart hammering, words sharp on your tongue. The argument you had before she transferred still hangs between you, unsaid but felt.

“Hey,” you answer, cautiously.

She hesitates, lips parting like she wants to say more—but instead she just looks at you, as if searching your face for something. Forgiveness? Anger? She doesn’t know.

It feels like the beginning of another storm.