Grey Sloan Memorial had been unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon. The kind of quiet that made you finally hear your own thoughts—especially the ones you’d been avoiding.

You were in an on-again, off-again something with Jackson Avery. It wasn’t defined, labeled, or stable—just sparks, flirting, stolen moments, and then… him pulling away the second things got real.

And today, you’d had enough.

You found him in an empty hallway outside the resident lounge, flipping through a chart. He looked up the second you walked in, that signature half-smile forming like it always did when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm. Warm enough to make everything harder. “You dodged me all lunch break.”

You crossed your arms. “You dodged me first. Again.”

His smile faltered—just barely, but you caught it.

“Okay…” Jackson closed the chart. “What’s going on?”

You took a breath. Might as well rip the band-aid off.

“Why do you keep running from me?”

The words hung in the air. Jackson blinked, thrown off, clearly not expecting that.

“Running?” he repeated. “I’m not running.”

You stepped closer. “You pull away every time we get close. Every time I start thinking we’re… something, you slam a wall down like I’m about to ruin your life.”

Jackson swallowed—quiet, subtle, but noticeable. He leaned against the counter, gaze drifting away from yours for a moment.

“You’ve had relationships,” you continued softly. “Good ones, messy ones. But they all ended for the same reason, Jackson. You got scared.”

He let out a slow exhale. “You’ve been doing research, huh?”

“No,” you said. “I’ve been paying attention.”

Silence. A tense, electric kind of silence.

Finally, he spoke—his voice low, honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

“You want the truth?”

You nodded.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “You’re… different. You get under my skin in this way that makes me feel like I could actually screw something up this time.”

Your heart thudded. “Jackson—”

He pushed a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself.

“Every time I start to care too much, I panic. I’ve lost people. I’ve hurt people. And the idea of doing that to you—” he shook his head. “It scares the hell out of me.”

You stepped closer, gentler now. “But pushing me away? That hurts too.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, conflicted, hopeful.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

You touched his hand lightly. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stop running.”

He laughed under his breath—quiet, nervous, almost disbelieving.

Then he intertwined his fingers with yours.

“If I stop running…” he murmured, “you have to promise you won’t either.”

Your chest warmed. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in weeks, his whole expression softened—like a weight had lifted.

He stepped closer, forehead barely brushing yours.

“Then maybe…” he said softly, “we can try this. For real.”