Chapter Text
It started with the coffee.
Maggie noticed it first.
Every morning for two weeks straight, Dean Archer walked into the Emergency Department with two cups of coffee—one black, the other with oat milk and a cinnamon dusting that no one else dared order in front of him, the extra shot of vanilla scent wafting around him. The first cup was his usual, the one that spoke to his no-nonsense, straight-to-business attitude. The second, however, was a peculiar thing. It was almost a little too sweet, too delicate for someone with such a hardened reputation.
He never commented on it, never acknowledged the oddity of the order, nor did he mention how it seemed to be the only thing that broke his stoic silence. He simply held both cups as if they weighed the same, his expression unwavering, his footsteps as purposeful as ever. There was a ritualistic quality to it, like clockwork. He would walk past the nurses’ station with a quick nod to those who acknowledged him, and without so much as a glance, he’d hand off the second cup—always to Dr. Hannah Asher. Wordlessly, his eyes never lingering, and without fail, she’d take it from him, her fingers brushing lightly against his.
Hannah would flash him a grin, thank him like it wasn’t the fifth time that week, and keep moving like it was normal. Like they hadn’t once almost killed each other in a staff meeting six months ago.
Maggie just raised an eyebrow.
Frost caught it one night in trauma.
A multi-car accident flooded the ER, and chaos reigned like usual. The shrill sounds of the sirens and the cacophony of hurried voices blended into a tense symphony of urgency. People raced in and out, pushing gurneys, shouting names, and working in that frantic, high-speed rhythm that came only with the understanding that lives hung in the balance.
But amid the frenzy, Dean Archer remained a pillar of calm, his face a mask of unflinching concentration as he barked out vitals to the team. It was second nature for him, a practiced cadence that cut through the chaos like a sharp knife. He moved with an ease that made it clear he was in his element, orchestrating the madness around him with military precision. And in the middle of all that controlled disarray, there was Dr. Hannah Asher.
She moved before Archer even finished his sentence—her body already reacting before the words left his mouth. He called for a chest tube, his voice firm but clipped, but before the last syllable had even fallen, Hannah was already reaching for the tray, pulling on gloves with a smoothness that showed she’d done it a thousand times before. There was no hesitation in her movements, just a fluidity that made it look almost effortless. The moment the chest tube was in his hands, she was already setting up, passing him instruments without a word, her eyes locked on the task ahead. She handed him the scalpel without needing to be told, her movements so in sync with his it was like she'd read his mind, or perhaps, more accurately, that they had reached some unspoken understanding that transcended the need for verbal communication.
It wasn’t just skill they shared; it was something deeper, a connection forged from working side by side, of knowing exactly what the other needed without ever needing to ask. They didn’t speak much—barely made eye contact. Their words were kept to the bare minimum, a few clipped commands, the occasional nod. And yet, in the absence of unnecessary chatter, something remarkable happened. It was like watching a dance. A choreography perfected by the rhythm of their work, each movement a well-timed step in a performance that never faltered, never lost its beat.
Frost muttered to Maggie afterward, his voice barely above a whisper, as he watched Dean and Hannah exchange another set of moves, almost telepathically, in the wake of the procedure. “Do they rehearse this?” he asked, incredulous. His eyes followed their every coordinated step, the way they moved through the chaos like dancers in perfect sync. It was so seamless, so fluid, that it felt too polished to be the result of mere chance.
Maggie, leaning against the counter near the door, couldn’t help but smirk as she watched Frost’s awestruck expression. She had seen it all before, had witnessed the unspoken chemistry between the two for months now. To her, it was old news. “Told you,” she said with a quiet, knowing laugh, the hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.
Frost blinked, still a little stunned by what he had just witnessed. "I mean, seriously, how do they do that? It’s like they don’t even have to look at each other. Every move is timed, like they're reading each other's minds." He shook his head, the disbelief still evident in his tone. He’d been in this ER long enough to know what teamwork looked like, but this was something else—something almost unnervingly perfect.
By the third week, the nurses had a betting pool. It had started innocently enough, a whispered conversation in the break room that quickly escalated into something far more entertaining.
"Are they dating?" Nancy asked, her voice low but filled with that characteristic curiosity that always seemed to seep out when she wasn’t around patients. She leaned in slightly toward Doris, who was sitting across from her, eyes still focused on her tablet but clearly listening.
"No, no," Doris replied, her tone amused and dismissive all at once. "They’re just repressed and emotionally constipated. You know the type—too proud to admit anything, but there's something simmering underneath."
Nancy raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Uh-huh. Sure, keep telling yourself that. But I think they’re more than just ‘emotionally constipated.’ I mean, they work together, and it’s like they can’t breathe without checking in with each other first."
Doris leaned back in her chair, folding her arms as if in deep thought. "You’re not wrong. But no, trust me—they’re not dating. Ten bucks says he cracks before she does."
Nancy snorted. "Oh, please. She's the one who flirts and pretends it’s all just a joke. Classic slow burn. Watch her. Every time he walks into a room, she lights up, and he still doesn’t catch on. It’s hilarious."
"Slow burn, huh?" Doris grinned, already pulling up her phone. "Well, I’m sticking with my bet. He’s the one with the walls up. You can see it in his eyes—he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’s already hooked. It's only a matter of time before he caves and those walls crash down."
One evening, Hannah limped into the lounge, her expression a mixture of annoyance and frustration. She muttered under her breath, clearly irritated, as she carefully favoured her left leg. "Who doesn’t put a wet floor sign down when cleaning," she muttered, almost to herself, as she glanced around the room, looking for a place to sit.
Without hesitation, Dean Archer, who had been sitting at the table engrossed in a chart, stood up and walked over to her. There was no pause, no question, just instinct. He didn’t ask if she was okay, didn’t need to. He simply crouched down, moving with a fluid efficiency that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d responded like this. He reached for her ankle, his hands gentle but firm as he checked the injury, eyes narrowing slightly as he felt for swelling or signs of something more serious.
Hannah didn’t pull away or protest. Instead, she rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she glanced at him. "You gonna lecture me about proper footwear now, or…?" she asked, clearly trying to deflect, though there was a hint of something softer under her words, something that wasn't as defensive as she usually was.
Dean didn’t look up at her or engage in her banter. He just examined her ankle in silence, his brow furrowing slightly. He could tell it wasn’t a serious sprain, but it was enough to warrant concern. "You’re lucky it’s not worse," he muttered, his voice low and matter of fact.
She felt a flicker of something—relief, maybe, or just appreciation for the fact that he was treating her injury with the same seriousness he gave everything else. Still, she kept her tone light. "Well, aren't I just the luckiest?"
Dean finished his examination and stood up, his movements precise, though there was something tender about how he did it, like he was trying to respect her personal space despite the urgency of the situation. As he stepped back, the rest of the staff in the room seemed to suddenly remember they had other things to do. No one dared look directly at the pair, each person suddenly engrossed in their phones or charts, busying themselves with anything that would avoid acknowledging the quiet moment that had passed between them.
It was rare—almost impossible—to find two people so in sync, but the brief exchange, without words, without any overt acknowledgment, spoke volumes. The tension in the room thickened as if everyone could sense that there was something more than just professional teamwork going on between them.
Later, Frost cornered Hannah by the nurses' station. He leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk on his face that made Hannah immediately tense.
"You know he’s basically one sprained ankle away from knight in shining armour, right?" Frost said, his voice low and amused as he looked her over, his eyes twinkling with that mischievous glint that only appeared when he was about to drop an uncomfortably accurate observation.
Hannah blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
Frost gestured vaguely with a hand, as if the words he was trying to say were floating in mid-air between them. "You two. You’re like… this weird ER version of soulmates. You bicker, but you move together. You finish each other’s thoughts. It’s… unnerving." He tilted his head slightly, clearly enjoying watching her squirm. "Like, I’m pretty sure if one of you gets a hangnail, the other will be there with a Band-Aid before it even happens."
Hannah snorted, but it came out a little too loud, a little too defensive. "We work well together. That’s not—" she paused, realizing how weak her own explanation sounded in light of Frost’s teasing. She didn’t want to admit how true some of what he said was. They did work well together—too well, sometimes—and it made her uneasy. If she were being honest, it felt a little like he could read her better than anyone else in the room.
"Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that." Frost’s grin widened, clearly not buying it. "But I’m telling you, whatever this is," he gestured between them, his voice lowering to a more serious tone, "it’s more than just professional. You two are practically telepathic at this point."
Hannah tried to laugh it off, though there was a hint of discomfort in her voice. "You’re overthinking it, Frost. Seriously. We’re just… we’ve worked together a lot. That’s all."
Frost raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. "Yeah, okay, if you say so. But don’t be surprised when everyone in this place starts thinking you’re the next big thing." He chuckled, clearly enjoying the awkwardness he was causing.
Hannah shot him a quick glance, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes for long. Instead, she busied herself with a chart, the paper crinkling in her hands as she shifted it in an attempt to hide her growing discomfort. "Look, I have to go check on some patients," she muttered, clearly desperate for an exit from the conversation that was making her feel more exposed than she liked.
Frost’s smirk didn’t fade. "Sure, sure," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "But just remember, I'm always watching. And so is everyone else."
Dean, of course, was oblivious to it all. He was standing by the station, not looking directly at Hannah at first, his focus still on the paperwork in his hands. But there was something in the way he held himself, something that shifted in that brief moment. As the laughter reached him, his body stilled, and his gaze softened just a little. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, softened the way they only did when he thought no one was watching. He didn’t just hear her laugh; he felt it.
Maggie found herself pausing, watching him more than she probably should have. He didn’t realize it—he probably didn’t even notice how his posture changed. He subtly leaned a fraction closer, as though drawn in by the sound of her laughter, like it was something magnetic. For a moment, he looked human, not the unflappable, stoic doctor everyone relied on, but a man who had forgotten to hold back for just a second. It was a quiet thing, fleeting, but Maggie saw it. It was like the mask had slipped.
She didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to be obvious about what she had just witnessed, so she stayed silent, choosing not to draw attention to the moment. But it was hard to ignore how he looked at her, how something in him softened when Hannah wasn’t even aware.
He was so careful, so protective of his emotions. Maggie had seen it countless times, that self-imposed distance he kept from everyone around him. But in that brief moment, with Hannah laughing, he was no longer the Dean Archer who shut everything out. No, for just a second, he was someone else—a man who wanted to be closer but didn’t know how to bridge the gap.
When the moment passed, so did the softness. Dean straightened up, and just like that, the mask slid back into place. His eyes darted away from Hannah, his expression hardening again as he returned to the business at hand, the professional mask locking back into place like it always did. But Maggie didn’t miss it. She could see it clear as day—the small cracks in his carefully built walls.
She didn’t say anything then, not when she first noticed the way Dean had watched Hannah, or the way his demeanour had softened when she laughed. It was too delicate, too subtle to bring up in that moment, but Maggie knew better than to let it slide entirely. She’d seen enough of Dean and Hannah’s dynamic over the past few weeks to know something was happening between them, whether they acknowledged it or not. She wasn’t going to push him—not yet. But later, when the night shift was slowing down and the ER was a little quieter, she decided it was the perfect time to see how much he’d admit, if anything.
As she passed him in the hallway, clipboard in hand, she made a casual remark, as if it was just another piece of hospital gossip, she’d overheard. "You know, there’s a rumour going around that you and Asher are secretly married."
Dean blinked at her, clearly caught off guard by the sudden comment. His usual calm composure faltered, and for a split second, Maggie could see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he processed her words. "What?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion, though there was a hint of defensiveness hiding just under the surface.
Maggie smirked, leaning against the wall casually, not giving anything away. "Mm-hmm. Something about the way you fight like an old couple and finish each other’s sentences." She said it with a nonchalant shrug, like it was just a harmless bit of gossip, nothing more. But she could feel the tension in the air, the way Dean stiffened just a fraction.
"I don’t—" He stopped himself, clearly struggling for the right words, trying to reason it away with his usual logic. "That’s absurd."
Maggie raised an eyebrow, enjoying his flustered reaction more than she probably should have. She knew Dean. She knew how tightly he kept his emotions under wraps, how he prided himself on keeping a professional distance. And seeing him so momentarily off balance—well, it was just too good to pass up.
Without missing a beat, she patted his shoulder in that almost-too-friendly way she liked to. "Sure, Dean," she said, her voice light and teasing. She let the words hang in the air, knowing full well he’d overanalyse them later, and probably would never admit it, but something told her that deep down, he wasn’t as oblivious as he liked to pretend.
Dean straightened up, looking a little more rigid than usual, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the floor as if he was considering whether or not to say something else. He didn’t, though. Instead, he just muttered under his breath, "I’m not even sure where that rumour started," his voice slightly defensive, but his eyes never quite meeting hers.
Maggie smiled to herself, barely holding back a chuckle. It wasn’t just the rumour that interested her; it was the way Dean’s reaction had given him away. No, he wasn’t oblivious—far from it. He just liked to pretend that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. But Maggie knew better. She could see the way his eyes darted when Hannah spoke, the way his movements synced perfectly with hers when they worked together. He wasn’t fooling anyone, and least of all, he wasn’t fooling her.
"Well," Maggie said, pushing off from the wall, "I’ll leave you to your totally not married business, then." She gave him a wink before walking away, knowing full well that Dean would be overthinking this for the rest of the shift, as he did with everything else.
She wasn’t pushing him toward anything. But sometimes, a little nudge was all it took to get the ball rolling. And as she walked down the hallway, a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
It all came to a head during a chaotic Friday night, the kind of shift that made the entire emergency department hum with tension, like the air was about to snap. The ED was already at capacity, the usual rhythm disrupted by the arrival of four traumas all at once. Sirens wailed outside, barely muffled by the concrete walls, and the steady beeping of monitors filled the room as adrenaline coursed through every corner of the unit. The team was stretched thin, their movements sharp and calculated, and yet the strain was evident in every quick glance, every rushed step.
The night had already been a blur, but then, in the thick of it, a paramedic—his face flushed with urgency—called out the wrong allergy for a patient in critical condition. His voice shook, the stress of the moment clear in his words, and a ripple of tension passed through the room. Everyone froze for a split second, that awful moment of confusion hanging in the air before anyone could react.
Dean didn’t even flinch. Without so much as turning around from the patient he was working on, his voice cut through the noise, calm and commanding. “Give her 2 of epi, now!” he barked, his eyes never leaving his current task. Then, without breaking his focus, he gestured to Hannah, who was already in motion.
Hannah didn’t hesitate. Her hands were already reaching out, catching the vial mid-air with a practiced flick, as if they were a single, synchronized unit. Her eyes flickered to Dean’s, just for a moment, to confirm. “Vitals holding,” she said succinctly, her voice steady, her attention split between the patient and the chaos unfolding around them.
It was effortless. Smooth. No pause, no second-guessing. Dean’s orders, Hannah’s swift execution, it was like watching two pieces of a well-oiled machine working together seamlessly. Every movement was deliberate, every word had purpose, every decision was instinctual. In that moment, it was clear to anyone watching that they didn’t just work together—they operated together, like they were on the same wavelength.
The rest of the ER continued its frantic dance, but it was in those brief, silent exchanges between Dean and Hannah that the real magic happened. The patient stabilized. The room exhaled collectively, but only for a brief moment before they were all thrust back into the storm.
Sharon Goodwin, the ED’s chief, passed through a few minutes later, taking it all in with a practiced eye. She’d seen it all before—the chaos, the panic, the adrenaline-fueled heroics. But she couldn’t help but notice something about the way Dean and Hannah moved through the night, side by side, as if nothing could shake them. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just pure, unspoken synchronization.
She glanced over at Frost, who had been quietly observing as well. His gaze flickered from Dean to Hannah, and he gave her a knowing smile. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked, his voice low but full of amusement.
Sharon’s lips curled into a small smile, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched them, a knowing look settling in. “I’ve been in this hospital a long time,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve seen a lot of partnerships. Some good, some great. But this… this is something else.”
Frost tilted his head, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Yeah. They just don’t know it yet.”
Sharon’s gaze never wavered from Dean and Hannah as they continued to work in perfect tandem. She nodded, a quiet affirmation of something she’d suspected for a while now. “They don’t know it yet,” she repeated, her voice low and knowing. But to her, it was already obvious—there was something between them. Something undeniable.
The two of them had been circling around it for weeks, each moment more telling than the last, but neither willing to acknowledge it. Dean, ever the professional, was too focused on keeping the walls up, and Hannah wasn’t one to reveal what she truly felt unless forced. But Sharon could see it—could feel it in the way they moved, the way they communicated with barely a glance, the way they balanced each other out in the middle of the storm. It was like they had already figured out the puzzle, even if they hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet.
As she turned and walked away, Frost’s eyes lingered on the pair for a moment longer, his grin widening slightly. “Oh, they’ll figure it out soon enough,” he said, almost to himself. He couldn’t help but enjoy watching Dean and Hannah, so close, yet so oblivious to how perfectly they fit together.
Sharon didn’t respond, but the smile that played on her lips said it all. She’d seen it before—two people who fought it, ran from it, but couldn’t escape the undeniable pull of something more. It was only a matter of time.
After that night, it finally happened. It wasn’t some grand, dramatic confession, no explosive moment of realization. It was quiet. Simple, even. Just the two of them standing in the cool air after a long shift, the city lights casting a soft glow on the sidewalk. The world outside the hospital had fallen into a comfortable, familiar silence, and in that space, it was just them. Dean stood beside her, a few feet of air between them, but it might as well have been a universe. The tension had been building between them for weeks, thickening in every shared look, every word left unsaid.
And then, without a word, Dean turned toward her, his eyes meeting hers in that quiet way he always did when something was too much to ignore. The moment hung suspended in the air between them, fragile and tentative. But Dean didn’t pull away this time. Instead, he took a step closer, and without hesitation, he kissed her—softly, with no rush, no urgency. Just a kiss, full of the weight of everything unspoken.
Hannah didn’t pull back. She let it happen, just as quietly, just as naturally. It wasn’t a perfect kiss—it was a little rough around the edges, a little unsure—but it was enough. It was everything they had both been avoiding for so long, packed into that single, simple moment. No words, no declarations, just the feeling of it—uncomplicated and real.
And, of course, as if on cue, the hospital staff found out within the hour. Gossip in the ER spread like wildfire, and when it came to something as juicy as Dean Archer and Dr. Hannah Asher finally getting together, no one was going to let it slide unnoticed. Within minutes, everyone knew—well, almost everyone.
Maggie, of course, was the first to hear. But she didn’t rush over to the nurses’ station, didn’t go looking for the latest drama. She didn’t need to. She was already well aware of what had happened. She’d seen the signs. She’d watched the tension build. And as she sat at her desk, absently filing paperwork, she barely even looked up when Frost came running, his face lit up with the kind of glee only a hospital gossip could manage.
He was practically out of breath as he rounded the corner, his wide eyes betraying his excitement. "Maggie!" he said, his voice practically vibrating with amusement. "You won’t believe it—Archer and Asher! They—"
Maggie didn’t even glance up. She knew exactly where this was going. Her expression was calm, unreadable, as she tapped away at her keyboard. She let the silence stretch between them before, finally, she muttered under her breath, "Took ‘em long enough."