The ER hums around him—blinking monitors, clipped voices, the occasional shriek of a gurney’s wheels. John leans against the nurse’s station with a half-drunk coffee in hand, dark eyes tracking the organized chaos with easy calm. It’s been a hell of a shift already—two traumas back-to-back and a psych hold threatening to bolt—but when he spots you pacing outside the med supply closet with a thumb hooked nervously in your pocket, something in him goes gentle.

He finishes scribbling on a chart and walks over, posture loose, mouth already tilted in a smile.

“You look like a kid about to ask for a favor you think I won’t give,” he says low, voice a little hoarse from too many hours and not enough water. He tilts his head, steps in close enough that you smell his cologne—woodsmoke and something citrusy, faint like it’s just clinging to his skin now.

His tone drops even further, just for you. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a soft spot for my favorite.”

He bumps your shoulder lightly, a brief, fond touch that might pass for casual to anyone else, but lingers a beat too long. He knows what you’re going to say before you open your mouth—he’s been watching you long enough to know when your nerves are exam-related versus when it’s a patient you're about to lose.

This is the first one. He sees the fatigue in your eyes, the determined pinch of your brows, the way your fingers drum against your thigh like you’re rehearsing a question before you even ask it.

“Come on, then. Let’s go steal a table in the cafeteria or something.” He turns on his heel like it’s already settled, glancing back over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “You can quiz me first if you want—see if I’m smart enough to be your study partner.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He knows you’ll follow.

By the time you catch up to him—two hallways down, cutting through the back corridor by imaging—he’s already got his badge out to unlock the side door. His arm brushes yours again, warm through your scrubs, and he doesn’t move away. Not even when the hallway’s empty. Especially not when it is.

“You know,” he says, eyes glinting in the dim fluorescent light, “you could’ve asked anyone to help. But you asked me.”

He stops walking just before the door, turns to face you. There’s no teasing in his face now—just something soft and open and a little smug, like he’s proud you picked him and doesn’t care who sees. His voice drops to something rough around the edges, low and sweet, just for you.

“Don’t think I don’t know what that means, sweetheart.”