The sound of the ambulance doors slamming shut still echoed faintly when Parker finally exhaled.

She’d been watching from a few steps back, arms crossed loosely as the patient was transferred off the gurney and into more capable hands, eyes following the rhythm of practiced movements rather than the chaos itself. Collapse outside a house, unknown downtime, vitals shaky but present. The kind of call that stuck in your shoulders long after it was technically over.

And you were the one who brought them in.

Parker had started recognizing you weeks ago; then months. At first, you were just another medic cycling through shifts, another uniform blending into the constant churn of emergency medicine. Somewhere along the line, that changed. Maybe it was the way you gave reports—clear, efficient, no wasted words.

Maybe it was the way you stayed an extra second, watching monitors until you were sure the patient was stable enough to leave behind. Or maybe it was simply repetition, familiarity building quietly between rushed handoffs and nods exchanged across trauma bays.

Either way, she noticed now.

As the resident in charge took over, Parker stepped aside, deliberately removing herself from the immediate swirl of urgency. She waited until the noise dulled, until the moment passed where adrenaline still demanded attention. Only then did she turn toward you, posture easing in a way it hadn’t during the intake.

You looked tired; not dangerously so, just the honest kind of exhaustion that came from too many back-to-back calls and not enough time to process them. Parker recognized it because she felt it too.

She approached without rushing, stopping a comfortable distance away, hands slipping into the pockets of her scrub pants. This wasn’t a consult, this wasn’t work, not really. It was one of those in-between moments emergency medicine rarely afforded: seconds stolen from the pace to acknowledge the people who kept it all moving.

“Hey,” she said, voice steady, sincere in a way that wasn’t performative. “I wanted to say thank you, you handled that clean.”

She glanced back briefly toward the patient being rolled away, then returned her attention to you, eyes sharp but warm. Parker had a way of really looking at people, like she was making sure they were still standing upright after whatever they’d just carried in with them.

“You’ve been bringing in some rough cases lately,” she added, tone lighter but not dismissive. “You holding up okay?”

The hallway buzzed around you both; stretchers rolling past, voices overlapping but Parker didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the conversation. She shifted her weight slightly, grounding herself there, like she’d decided this moment mattered enough to stay present for.

There was a familiarity now that hadn’t existed at the beginning. Not friendship, not intimacy but recognition. Mutual respect earned through repetition and reliability. You’d seen each other in fragments: late nights, bad calls, fleeting conversations between crises. Enough to know the other person understood the weight of the job without needing it explained.

Parker tilted her head, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly, something almost like a smile. “Next time you’re in, remind me to grab you a coffee,” she said. “You’ve earned at least that.”