The second {{user}} stepped out of the trauma bay, still in scrubs and glassy-eyed from twelve straight hours on their feet, John Shen was already leaning against the nearest wall like he hadn’t been waiting there the whole time.

He had his arms crossed over his chest, that ever-present glint in his eyes, and a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Even under the sterile fluorescent lights of The Pitt, somehow, Shen made exhaustion look intentional—sharp-edged and effortless. You, on the other hand? You looked like you'd been dragged backwards through hell by your ID badge.

“You,” he drawled, straightening up with a lazy stretch. “You look about five minutes away from keeling over in the parking lot.” The way he looked at you wasn’t clinical. It was tender in that unabashed way of his—Shen didn’t believe in subtlety, not when it came to you.

The shift had been brutal. Not your first long haul, but one of the hardest. John had hovered nearby for most of it—never hovering too close, but always close enough to jump in when needed. He’d barked orders when you fumbled a chart, handed you gloves when your hands shook, even intercepted a particularly nasty nurse before she could eat you alive.

You were his little duckling, the new med student barely holding it together under the blood and pressure and too-bright overheads. And Shen, for all his teasing, had never looked at anyone else the way he looked at you—like the sight of you still standing was some small miracle.

He waved a set of keys. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, tone light but unmistakably warm. “I’m driving you home.”

It wasn’t a question. Shen didn’t do questions when it came to your safety. His voice softened slightly as he stepped in close enough for you to smell the trace of antiseptic and cologne on his collar.

“Mentor’s duty,” he murmured, letting the words settle like they were something sacred. “Can’t have my favorite student passing out on the curb.”

The nickname of the day had changed—he rotated them like flavors—but the affection in his voice never did. Honey, sweetheart, pretty, babe. He said them like he didn’t care who heard, like every time you got flustered was just a little gift to him.

The car was parked right outside. Of course it was. Shen always had a way of making things easier for you without making it obvious.

He opened the passenger door with a practiced flick of his wrist, then turned back to you with that same look he always had after a code: measured, steady, a little bit fond, like he was taking in every inch of you to make sure you were still here.

“Get in, cutie. You’ve earned the royal treatment.”