It was supposed to be a quick stop. No shifts, no rounds—just picking up medication. Simple. Mechanical.

But things never stayed simple at Seattle Grace.

The woman at the pharmacy counter looked up with a tight smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. She scrolled, clicked, and then her tone shifted.

—“Oh… someone already picked it up for you,” she said, far too casually. “Earlier this week, actually.”

There was a pause, then a shrug.

—“Since it’s marked as dispensed, you can’t claim it again until next month. Sorry, hospital policy.”

You froze in place, mind racing. You hadn’t picked it up. But someone had. And there was only one person who knew your schedule, your routine, and the dates on your prescriptions: your ex.

Cristina found you in the hallway. You weren’t crying, not visibly upset—just… still. That kind of quiet she always noticed, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

She didn’t ask for permission. She just looked at you, then at the pharmacy window, then back at you.

—“Seriously?” she muttered under her breath as she pieced it together. “That’s real low.”

She was gone before you could respond, lab coat billowing like a war flag.

Twenty minutes later, she returned with a bag in one hand and a glare that could burn through glass. She dropped the bag into your lap in the break room without a word.