It had been one of those days at Grey Sloan—the kind that seemed designed to break new residents.

Dr. Rowan Hart, the newest surgical resident on the team, had been running nonstop since 5 a.m.: a crashing patient, a difficult family meeting, a consult mix-up, and then a suture tray that Jackson witnessed falling directly off their hands.

By evening, Rowan’s shoulders felt like bricks.

They were reviewing charts in the residents’ lounge when someone knocked lightly on the doorframe.

Jackson Avery stood there, still in scrubs, hair slightly messy from the day’s chaos.

“You look like you’ve fought a war,” he said gently.

Rowan tried to laugh. “Feels like it.”

Jackson stepped inside, hiding something behind his back. “Well… I figured you could use this.”

He held out a small bouquet—simple, bright, and unexpectedly beautiful. Blue hyacinths, soft white blooms, a sprig of eucalyptus.

Rowan blinked. “Wait—are those… for me?”

Jackson shrugged, suddenly a little sheepish. “Long day. Thought something nice wouldn’t hurt.”

Rowan stared at the flowers, stunned. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Jackson replied. “But I wanted to. You’ve been working hard. You deserve someone noticing that.”

His voice carried a warmth that made Rowan’s chest flutter—nothing dramatic, just a quiet, growing admiration.

Jackson leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Also, I happen to know these are your favorite.”

Rowan looked up sharply. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it once,” Jackson said with a small smile. “In passing. I listen.”

The room felt softer for a moment. Not romantic—just something gentle, kind, unexpectedly meaningful.