Chapter Text
—1—
Blair's breath was ragged, her thighs trembling from exertion as she hovered above him, hands planted on the scratchy on-call cot mattress. Frank was beneath her, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes fixed on her like he wasn't quite ready to blink and let her go.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than him. Her body was still coiled tight from release, but her expression was already shifting—eyes sharpening, armor slipping back into place.
Langdon's hands were still at her hips, fingers curling into her skin like he might anchor her there if he held tight enough.
She gently peeled his hands off her hips with the kind of casual detachment that felt more like instinct than cruelty.
Swinging her leg over him, she stood with unbothered ease, already pulling on her scrub pants like this was just another box to check off. No lingering glances. No second thoughts. Just business as usual. She scanned the floor for her bra, cool and composed, like she hadn't just come undone on top of him ten seconds ago.
He sat up, watching her in silence. The lighting was dim, the fluorescents buzzing overhead, one flickering in the corner.
"You could stay for a minute," he offered, voice low, rough. Vulnerable, if you listened too close.
She didn't.
"I'm good."
Frank flinched. She saw it. She ignored it.
Bra located. Victory. She tugged it on and adjusted her sports bra over top, like the last fifteen minutes hadn't happened. Like she hadn't just moaned his name into his neck, bitten his shoulder to keep quiet, clenched around him like she feltsomething.
She pulled her scrub top on. He was still sitting there, pants undone, gaze unreadable.
"Blair," he said carefully.
She turned her back to him. Tight ponytail. Scrub top straightened. Walls rebuilt.
"Don't," she said.
That shut him up.
He sighed, then finally moved, shuffling to get dressed while she already had her stethoscope back around her neck like the mask she wore every day. Blair Dalton. No explanations needed. You either feared her or got the hell out of her way.
She cracked open the on-call room door, peeking into the hallway. Empty.
Good.
She stepped out first.
Langdon followed a minute later, slow, careful. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked down the corridor like nothing happened.
"Dr. Dalton," he called.
She didn't stop.
Didn't turn.
Didn't even pause.
No one saw them. No one ever did.
And that's exactly how she liked it.
Blair made her way toward the nurses' station, shoes soft against the tile. The familiar hum of monitors and chatter buzzed in the background. Dana was leaning over the counter, pen stuck in her ponytail, tapping through patient charts on the computer. She looked up as Blair approached.
"You look like you fought a bear," Dana said with a smirk.
Blair raised a brow. "I always look like this."
Dana laughed under her breath, handing her a patient list. "Trauma bay got a frequent flyer again. Guy tried to staple his own cut closed with a desk stapler."
Blair glanced at the chart. "Natural selection's working overtime this week."
"He says he Googled it."
"Of course he did."
Dana leaned her chin into her palm, amused. "If I ever get that dumb, you're allowed to smother me with a pillow."
"Noted."
They shared a small grin—easy, rare. Blair didn't laugh often, but with Dana, it didn't feel like work.
Before Dana could reply, Dr. Robby rounded the corner, lab coat flaring behind him like he was on a mission.
"Rounds. Let's move."
Just like that, the moment was over. Blair straightened, grabbing the tablet off the counter. Back to it.
The air was sharp with antiseptic and freshly brewed hospital coffee, the sun barely filtering through the high, grime-streaked windows of the ER. Six black-scrubbed figures strode down the corridor, stethoscopes swinging, clipboards in hand, shoes squeaking faintly against the tile. They were a team, technically—but only a fool would mistake them for equals.
Dr. Robby led the group, all sharp elbows and speed-walking intensity, moving like he was trying to take off. His eyes were scanning his tablet as if it had personally offended him.
Blair Dalton walked just behind him, posture rigid, eyes forward. Her scrub sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her mouth was set in a tight, unreadable line. She didn't speak unless absolutely necessary. She didn't fidget. She didn't smile. But her eyes missed nothing.
"First patient," Robby barked, stopping in front of curtain three. "Peter Kilner. Twenty-eight. Came in last night after getting kicked in the abdomen by a horse."
Frank Langdon snorted softly behind Blair. "As one does."
Robby ignored him. "CT showed a splenic laceration. Grade three. He's stable, for now. Labs trending fine. We're watching and waiting."
Collins tilted his head. "Surgeons still holding off?"
"For now," Robby confirmed. He turned to Blair. "Dr. Dalton."
Blair nodded once and stepped forward. She slipped behind the curtain with confidence that never teetered into arrogance.
"Mr. Kilner," she said, her voice brisk but not unkind. "I'm Dr. Dalton. Just checking on you this morning."
The man looked up, pale but lucid. "Am I gonna explode inside or what?"
Blair's brow twitched. "We'd prefer not. That's why we're keeping you. Your spleen's still holding on. If it starts acting out, we'll intervene."
He nodded slowly. "Okay... Cool. Not panicking."
She offered the ghost of a smile—enough to calm, not enough to invite familiarity. "Good. I'll be back later."
Outside the curtain, Samira raised a brow and gave the faintest smirk, mostly to herself, then turned back to the patient board without comment.
Patient two was Martha Lin, seventy-three, in with high fever and altered mental status. "Likely urosepsis," Robby muttered. "She's on broad-spectrum antibiotics. Vitals stable overnight. Urine cultures pending."
Langdon stepped forward this time. "She was confused when I saw her earlier. Reoriented this morning. I'd like to narrow coverage once cultures come back."
Robby grunted in vague approval and moved on.
Next was a kid. Twelve years old. Caleb Ng. Came in overnight with vomiting and severe abdominal pain. Labs were messy—white count through the roof, borderline tachycardic.
"Appendicitis or intussusception," McKay offered, flipping through her notes. "Ultrasound inconclusive."
Robby raised an eyebrow. "And you did what?"
"Ordered a CT. Stat."
"And what did that show, Dr. Mohan?"
Samira glanced down at her screen. "Appendix's inflamed. No perf. Peds surgery's already been paged."
"Good. Don't wait next time. Kids go downhill fast."
They rounded on a few more—an elderly woman with uncontrolled afib, a man who'd collapsed mid-spin class from a thyroid storm, a nurse from another hospital who fainted on the job and turned out to have an insulinoma.
Each time, the residents stepped forward when called, presenting crisply, adjusting their tone to each patient, speaking like they gave a damn—some better than others. Blair was the best.
Even Robby knew it. Even Langdon, who stole glances at her when he thought no one noticed, knew it.
She was composed. Sharp. Her bedside manner was calm and confident, her voice low, not sweet. People listened to her. Patients trusted her.
Back at the nurses' station, Robby stopped and turned. "Dalton, you're covering trauma one. Langdon, trauma two. McKay, you're on admits. Collins, rounds with Dana. Mohan, you're in fast track until noon."
Everyone nodded and peeled off. Blair didn't say a word. Just pivoted, tablet in hand, ready to disappear into the noise of the Pitt.
Langdon lingered half a beat too long, but said nothing. Not here. Not now.
The shift had only just begun.
It barely took ten minutes for the chaos to hit.
"Trauma coming in! ETA two minutes!" a nurse yelled from down the hall, and everyone's heads turned.
"What've we got?" Blair called out, stepping toward the nurses' station.
"Male, mid-thirties. Found unconscious outside a bar downtown. Severe facial trauma, hypotensive, GCS six. Vitals unstable in the field."
Blair's pace didn't falter. She was already moving toward the trauma bays, gloves snapped on and jaw clenched tight.
Langdon caught up with her. "This one's mine. Trauma two."
Blair didn't even look at him. "I'm trauma one."
"Doesn't matter. I'm closer."
"I already called it."
They both walked faster, shoulder to shoulder now, not backing down.
He huffed. "Seriously? You want to fight about this?"
"Not really. You're just slow."
He opened his mouth, shut it. Then—
"Fine. We take it together."
She didn't respond. Just kept walking.
He glanced sideways at her, trying. "You think he got jumped or fell?"
Nothing.
Just the soft thud of her sneakers.
The ambulance pulled in seconds later. Paramedics flung open the doors as Blair and Langdon were already in place.
"Jason Dent. Thirty-six," one of them said quickly. "Found face-down on the sidewalk. Vitals in the field were tanking. He's got blunt trauma to the face, fractured mandible, possible skull fracture. Open tib-fib on the left. BP was 78 over 40. He's maxed on fluids."
"Let's move," Blair ordered, voice low and firm. "One, two, three."
They lifted him onto the gurney. Blood was caked down his nose and pooled in his ear canal—Battle's sign. That wasn't good.
"Get a stat head CT and pan scan. Portable chest now. Labs, type and cross, trauma panel, blood gas," Langdon snapped, falling into rhythm beside her.
Blair was already checking his pupils. "Left is blown. We need Neuro on standby."
The tech rolled in the portable X-ray, and the trauma bay swirled with motion—monitors beeping, gloves snapping, blood pressure cycling uselessly.
Langdon leaned over slightly toward her. "You think he's gonna make it?"
Still nothing.
Not a glance. Not a grunt.
Just Blair, pressing down on the man's chest as his pressure dropped, looking as calm as if she were folding laundry.
"O-neg hanging now," a nurse called out.
Blair looked up, finally. "Get Neuro in here. And call Robby."
Langdon stood back as the trauma room swarmed, watching her give orders like the devil was listening. Still no words for him. Still no change.
She never looked at him.
And somehow, that said everything.
The trauma bay was chaos but organized chaos—exactly how Blair liked it. She worked in rhythm, her movements precise and fluid as monitors beeped erratically around them. Jason Dent was barely clinging to consciousness, if that. His pressure was dropping again.
Langdon was adjusting the portable monitor when a nurse leaned in from the hallway.
"Dr. Langdon, new trauma incoming—possible GSW to the abdomen. Five minutes out. They need you in bay two."
He hesitated, eyes flicking to Blair, who didn't look up from the central line she was threading into Jason's neck.
"Go," she said simply, without glancing at him.
He paused another beat—like he wanted to say something—but then turned and disappeared through the doors.
Dr. Robby entered moments later, eyes immediately snapping to the vitals overhead.
"Pressure's crap," he muttered, snapping on gloves. "What've we got?"
"Central's going in now. Neuro's on their way. Suspected skull fracture, blown pupil on the left. BP's been tanking since arrival, currently 74/36. Massive transfusion protocol started."
"Imaging?"
"Waiting on CT. Portable chest done—lung fields look clear. Tib-fib is open and splinted. No other obvious bleeds."
Robby moved to the head of the bed, helping stabilize as Blair finished the line.
"You think he got jumped or took a header off a second-story bar balcony?"
Blair finally looked up. "Does it matter? He's broken either way."
Robby snorted. "That bedside charm. A legend."
"Patients love me."
"That's the terrifying part."
The curtain rustled and Neuro finally swept in—a tall, tired-looking resident named Dr. Tatum who already had caffeine stains on his coat.
"This the possible epidural?" he asked, taking in the monitor.
"Left pupil's blown, GCS six," Blair said, stepping back to give him space. "Non-responsive to painful stimuli. Sudden collapse, unknown downtime. He needs to go up."
Tatum gave a slow nod. "If CT confirms bleed, he's heading to the OR. I'll call upstairs to prep."
Blair handed him the chart. "He's yours after this. Don't lose him."
"I'll do my best, Dr. Dalton."
She nodded once and turned back to Robby, who was watching her with the faintest hint of amusement behind his eyes.
"Still terrifying, still effective," he said.
She shrugged. "You keep calling me terrifying like it's an insult."
"It's not. It's recruitment material."
Blair cracked the faintest smirk. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
The trauma team cleared out as the Neuro transport prepped Jason Dent for imaging, the room already resetting for the next crisis.
Blair peeled off her gloves, chucked them in the bin, and glanced at the clock.
It was still only 7:34 AM.
Blair pulled her gloves off with a snap, tossing them into the biohazard bin as she stepped out of the trauma bay. The fluorescent lights in the hallway felt too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like they were just as sleep-deprived as the staff. Robby was right behind her, rubbing a hand over his forehead as they walked side by side toward the central desk.
He opened his mouth to say something—maybe an actual compliment, maybe a snide remark—when someone shouted from down the corridor.
"Dr. Robby!"
A nurse rounded the corner, breathless. "Cardiac arrest in radiology. They need an attending now."
Robby groaned, pivoting mid-step. "Of course they do. Dalton—check on Langdon in bay two."
Blair didn't respond. Just turned on her heel and made her way toward trauma two, where muffled voices and the sharp tone of a monitor echoed faintly through the hallway.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Frank Langdon was elbow-deep in a blood-soaked trauma. His black scrubs were already stained across the chest and forearms, his jaw set tight. A teenage girl lay on the table, her abdomen torn open from what looked like a bullet entry wound just beneath the ribs. Blood pooled on the floor.
"Got it handled," Langdon said without looking up.
Blair walked over to the supply cart. "Robby told me to check on you."
"I said I'm good."
She snapped on a pair of gloves. "Well, Robby doesn't think so."
Langdon cursed under his breath as he reached for the suction. "Of course he doesn't. God forbid I handle one solo trauma without your approval."
"Don't need my approval. Just my hands."
He glanced up at her, irritation flashing in his eyes. "You're unbelievable."
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
They worked in tight sync despite the bite in their words. Blair clamped the bleeder with practiced precision, her fingers calm even as blood smeared her gloves.
"Through and through," she muttered. "No exit wound visible. Probably lodged in the liver."
"You gonna narrate the whole case to impress me or just do your job?"
"I'm already doing it."
A nurse handed Langdon a fresh set of gauze as he packed the wound. Blair adjusted the monitor settings with her free hand.
"Vitals are stabilizing," she said. "BP's coming back up."
Langdon exhaled slowly. "She's lucky."
"No. She had us."
He looked at her again—longer, this time. Something unreadable passed over his face.
Blair didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care. She was already pulling off her gloves and reaching for the next set of trauma notes.
"You're welcome," she added.
Langdon rolled his eyes. "Still unbelievable."
She was halfway out the door already. "Told you."
And just like that, she was gone.
Blair stepped out of trauma bay two, peeling off her second pair of blood-slick gloves and letting the door swing closed behind her. The air outside was cooler, quieter—but not by much. Her shoulders rolled once, trying to shake the tension, but it clung to her like static.
Langdon was a step behind her, clearly on her tail.
"Blair—"
She didn't break stride.
"I'm good," she muttered, brushing past a group of med students hovering near the central desk.
Before he could push it, Samira Mohan intercepted.
"There she is. Trauma queen," Samira said, falling into step beside Blair like she'd been waiting for her. "I heard you cracked open that last patient like a glow stick."
Blair snorted. "It was a through-and-through. Hardly cracked."
"You're no fun. Can't you exaggerate a little for the drama? I need something to make my charting less soul-crushing."
They passed the vending machines, Blair barely acknowledging them, while Samira eyed the candy selection with grim determination.
"Why does this thing only ever stock trail mix and sadness?" Samira asked.
"Maybe it thinks we're all trying to be healthy."
"Speak for yourself. I'm one lost admission away from emotionally eating six packs of stale peanut M&Ms."
Blair raised a brow. "Only six?"
Samira grinned. "That's the spirit."
Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as they walked, not quite slowly, but not rushing either. A rare lull between fires. For a moment, Blair let herself feel it—the steady, familiar cadence of walking next to someone she didn't have to perform for.
"Hey, you still doing that shift trade with Dana next week?" Samira asked.
"Yeah. Night for night."
"Bless you. I owe you, like, a dinner or a kidney."
"I'm not a fan of organ-based IOUs."
"That's fair."
Before Samira could add anything else, Dr. Robby's voice cut through the hallway like a whip.
"Dalton. Mohan. Room seven. Now."
Both women stopped mid-stride. Blair let out a sharp sigh through her nose. Samira tilted her head back like she was praying to the ceiling.
"And the peace was so short-lived," Samira murmured.
Blair gave her a flat look. "You coming or what?"
They turned as one, silent in their shared resignation, and headed down the hallway toward whatever fresh hell waited in room seven.
Room seven was dim and humming with tension when Blair and Samira stepped in. A nurse handed them each a chart before disappearing with the efficiency of someone who knew this wasn't going to be quick.
On the bed sat a man in his early forties, shirt off, chest rising and falling in tight, irregular pulls. His face was gaunt, stubble dark against pallid skin, and his eyes had that glassy, too-bright sheen of someone barely holding it together. He clutched his abdomen, one arm curled protectively around his midsection.
"Name's Marcus Bell," Samira murmured, scanning the chart. "Forty-two. Came in complaining of abdominal pain, nausea, and dizziness. Vitals are borderline—BP's dropping. Temp 102.7."
Blair crossed the room, eyes already narrowing. "History of substance use. Meth and alcohol. Looks like he's been off both for a few days."
"Possible withdrawal?" Samira asked.
"Could be. But something's wrong."
Marcus's eyes flicked between them. "Hurts like hell," he rasped. "Been getting worse for two days. Now I can't keep anything down."
"Where's the pain the worst?" Blair asked, already pulling on gloves.
He pointed to his right lower quadrant. Blair palpated gently and felt the immediate flinch.
"Rebound tenderness," she said. "Rigidity."
"Appendix?" Samira offered.
Blair shook her head. "Too far lateral. Could be peritonitis. Maybe a perfed ulcer or something nastier."
Samira pulled up his labs on the monitor. "Lactic acid's high. WBC count's a mess. Creatinine's elevated."
"How long since you've eaten?" Blair asked.
Marcus gave a weak shrug. "Couple days. Couldn't keep anything down."
Blair turned to Samira. "We need imaging now. CT with contrast, stat. Get him started on broad-spectrum antibiotics, IV fluids, pain control, and let's get a surgical consult on standby."
Samira was already typing into the system. "Got it."
Marcus moaned softly, curling tighter on the bed. Blair looked at him, expression unreadable but focused.
"You waited too long, Marcus. If something's ruptured, you're on a clock now."
He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. "Didn't have anywhere else to go."
There was a long pause.
Blair didn't offer comfort. She didn't do that.
But she did say, "You're here now. That's the only part that matters."
Samira glanced at her, surprised—but said nothing.
The door opened again as a tech wheeled in a transport gurney for imaging.
Blair stepped aside. "He's going to CT. I want to see the scan the second it uploads."
"What do you think it is?" Samira asked, once they were alone again.
Blair scrubbed a hand down her face. "Best case? An inflamed bowel and we pump him with fluids. Worst case? He's circling the drain and we've got less than an hour to cut him open."
Samira nodded grimly. "Room seven always has the fun ones."
"It's cursed," Blair muttered, already heading for the screen to prep for the incoming images.
Blair walked back toward the nurse's station, her pace steady, fingers flexing slightly as she mentally cycled through Marcus Bell's differential. The monitor glow from the central desk cast a soft halo across the surface as she approached.
She tapped her ID badge to the computer, the screen flickering to life with her login. She slipped into the chair like she owned it, fingers moving across the keyboard as she pulled up labs and started typing her note.
"You type like you're mad at the keys," Collins said, suddenly appearing on the other side of the desk with a paper cup of what barely passed for coffee in hand.
Blair didn't look up. "They deserve it."
"You ever try yoga? Or therapy? Or herbal tea?"
"You ever try shutting up?"
She chuckled and leaned her elbows on the counter. "You know, for someone who talks like a guillotine, you're surprisingly fun to be around. In a terrifying sort of way."
"That's not a compliment."
"I think it is."
She finally glanced at her—just briefly. "What do you want, Collins?"
"Honestly? I'm just loitering. My side dead. Figured I'd come steal some of your misery."
"You came to the right place."
Collins smirked, "Is this Bell guy the one who looks like he's been living in a dumpster for a week?"
"That's the one. Internal disaster, external match."
"Charming. Can't wait to write that progress note."
Before Blair could shoot another comment back, Dana appeared at the edge of the desk, holding a banana and a granola bar.
"They restocked the lounge," Dana said like it was sacred news. "I saw sandwiches. Real ones. With bread and everything."
"No way," Collins said, already standing up straighter.
Blair hit save on her note and logged off without a word.
Dana raised a brow. "That's a yes?"
"It's an 'I'm not skipping real food in case I end up elbow-deep in someone's intestines in ten minutes,'" Blair replied.
"Mood," Collins said, motioning toward the hallway. "Come on. Let's go beat the vultures."
Blair followed, quiet but steady, the smell of bleach and bad coffee trailing behind them as they headed for the lounge like it might actually hold salvation.
The lounge smelled like overused microwaves and lemon-scented floor cleaner. It was dim, quiet, and—miraculously—stocked. Blair spotted the sandwiches Dana had promised sitting in a neat row on the counter, along with a few sad bags of chips and a small, rapidly disappearing tray of brownies.
Heather Collins made a beeline for the brownies.
"Hell yes," she muttered, already unwrapping one. "It's still warm. That's a good omen."
Blair grabbed a sandwich without much inspection and sat on the edge of the couch, unwrapping it methodically. She barely had time to take a bite before Matteo strolled in, all casual swagger and barely contained charm.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite pair of badasses," he grinned, heading straight for the fridge. "What'd I miss? Did someone flatline without me?"
Heather rolled her eyes. "You wish."
Matteo grabbed a soda, popped the tab, and leaned on the counter like he belonged there. "Dalton, you look terrifying today. That's a compliment."
Blair didn't look up. "So you've said. Every day. Since last July."
"Consistency is key," he replied, completely unfazed.
Heather snorted, watching the exchange with obvious amusement.
"You ever gonna ask her out for real, or just keep hitting on her until you die of exhaustion?" Heather asked.
"Nah," Matteo said with a wink. "I like living dangerously."
Blair took another bite of her sandwich, thoroughly unimpressed.
Before the conversation could continue, a voice crackled over the intercom.
"Trauma team to bay four. Trauma team to bay four."
Blair stood without hesitation, sandwich in hand, already halfway to the door.
"Duty calls," Heather sighed, tossing her brownie wrapper into the trash. "Let's go see who's bleeding now."
They left the lounge behind as quickly as they'd entered, footsteps echoing down the hall—Blair at her usual unbothered pace, Collins trailing just behind.
Bay four was already swarming when Blair stepped in, snapping on gloves before the doors fully swung shut behind her. The trauma techs were yelling vitals, nurses were hanging fluids, and the monitor was already screaming.
The patient was a boy—eight years old, tiny and pale, clothes cut away to reveal a chest peppered with bruises, abrasions down one arm, a gaping laceration across his left side. Blood pooled under his torso, soaked into the linens.
Langdon was already at the head of the bed, bagging. Collins was at his side, checking pulses, eyes sharp. Robby stood across from Blair, throwing on a gown.
"Pedestrian struck," a paramedic shouted as they handed off. "Thrown thirty feet. Unresponsive on scene. GCS of three. Multiple long bone fractures. BP's been crashing since we loaded him."
"Let's get access—two large bore IVs," Blair said, moving fast, grabbing supplies. "Type and cross. Give O-neg now, don't wait."
"He's bradying," Langdon called. "Heart rate's dropping. 52."
"He's eight," Blair snapped. "That's not enough. Push epi."
Collins was already slapping an IO line into his tibia, the click sharp and clean. "In. Flush going."
"He's got a tension," Robby said, watching the chest rise unevenly. "Decompressing."
He slammed in the needle. A hiss of air escaped. The monitor beeped in protest.
Blair leaned over the boy, pressing down on his abdomen. "Rigid. Belly's full of blood. We need the OR—now."
"Too unstable to move," Langdon said tightly. "We'll lose him on transport."
"So we just stand here and let him bleed out?"
"We try to keep him alive long enough to give surgery a chance," Robby barked.
The next thirty minutes were a blur of compressions, suction, drugs, and chaos. Blair rotated in and out on compressions, sweat sliding down her temples. She barked orders, drew labs, suctioned blood, packed gauze, rechecked pulses—again and again.
Langdon moved like a machine—focused, skilled—but the frustration rolled off him in waves. Every time Blair reached across him, their shoulders bumped, and he flinched.
"You're crowding," he muttered, not looking at her.
"Then move faster."
"You think this is about speed?"
"I think he's dying and I don't have time for your pacing issues."
"Enough," Robby snapped. "Both of you, eyes on the kid."
But even with every line in, every med pushed, every attempt made—he didn't come back. The monitor slowed. Then flatlined.
Robby looked at Blair.
Her jaw was tight, chest still rising and falling hard from exertion.
She looked at the clock.
"Time of death, 9:46 a.m.," she said quickly.
She peeled off her gloves and turned, already walking toward the door.
Langdon moved after her. "Blair—"
She didn't turn around.
"Blair."
He caught up, grabbing her wrist.
She yanked her arm free like she'd been burned, turning to face him with sharp, shocked eyes.
"Don't."
He looked thrown. "Are you okay?"
She stared at him for half a second, expression unreadable. Then:
"Why wouldn't I be?"
And she turned again, walking fast, heading toward trauma bay one.
Langdon stood frozen in the hallway, still holding nothing.
Trauma Bay One was humming with tension when Blair pushed through the doors, still catching her breath from the last case. Her chest burned from adrenaline, but her hands were steady. No time to spiral. There never was.
The patient on the gurney was a middle-aged man, probably mid-fifties, with deep lacerations down his left arm and a jagged wound at his temple. His shirt was half cut open, soaked in blood. He groaned softly, just conscious enough to be aware of the pain.
"Motorcycle versus car," a nurse briefed her quickly. "No helmet. Laid the bike down trying to avoid the driver. Thrown about twenty feet. Witnesses say he never lost consciousness. BP's 90 over 60, sat's dipping on room air."
"Let's get him on oxygen," Blair ordered, pulling gloves on. "Draw a trauma panel, type and cross, and hang a liter of LR."
She moved to his head, checking pupils. "Equal. Reactive. No sign of skull depression."
Robby entered just behind her, snapping on a pair of gloves and stepping in beside her. "Didn't expect you to jump back in so quick."
Blair didn't look up. "Neither did I."
He didn't push it.
She turned to the nurse. "Get me a suture kit. I want to close that scalp lac before we lose more blood."
As the team moved around her, Blair cleaned the wound with swift, practiced movements. The man groaned again, flinching.
"Sir, can you tell me your name?"
"Hank," he mumbled. "Hank Reynolds."
"Alright, Hank," she said, voice calm but firm. "You took a nasty fall, but you're in a hospital now. We're going to take care of you."
He blinked at her, trying to nod.
Blair started stitching, carefully and quickly. Robby held pressure just below the site to control bleeding.
"You've got good hands," Robby muttered under his breath.
"That why you keep throwing me in these bays?"
"That and the fact that you don't scare easy."
She didn't respond.
Once the scalp was sealed, she moved to the arm. The cuts were deep—exposing muscle, one nearly through to the bone. No obvious arterial spurting, but they needed closure soon.
"He's going to need plastics for the forearm," Robby noted.
"They're not here yet. I'll start cleaning."
She began irrigating the wound, methodical and focused. Hank flinched again.
"Let's push more fentanyl," she said. "I need him still."
A nurse handed her a new syringe and she administered it herself. Hank's breathing slowed a little, pain fading from his face.
It took almost forty minutes to stabilize him. Blair cleaned and partially closed the forearm wounds, Robby assisted on vitals and pain management. Plastics finally arrived to consult and finish the repair.
"You saved this guy," Robby said as he pulled off his gloves.
Blair stepped back, flexing her fingers. "Team effort."
"You can take five if you want."
She shook her head, already turning toward the sink. "There's no five in the pit."
Robby gave her a long look, then left.
Blair stared at her reflection in the chrome faucet for half a second longer than she meant to.
Then she turned, grabbed the next chart, and kept going.
Blair stepped into the next trauma bay, still pulling on gloves. The adrenaline from the last case hadn't worn off, but her voice was cool and even as she glanced toward the patient and then at the resident across from her.
"McKay," she said. "What've you got?"
Cassie McKay looked up from her tablet. "Twenty-year-old female. Sliced her hand on a broken vodka bottle at a house party. Bleeding was controlled in the field, vitals stable. Lac across the palm, no tendon involvement."
Blair scanned the wound, nodding. "Easy fix. Close her up."
Cassie smiled. "Already prepped."
Blair stripped off her gloves, turned on her heel, and walked out without another word.
She made her way back to the nurses' station, badge-tapping into the computer again, the glow of the monitor reflecting in her eyes. Fingers flew across the keyboard as she started charting the last two patients.
She heard him before she saw him.
Langdon leaned one forearm on the counter, the other holding a cup of vending machine coffee.
"You know, most people take a break after saving someone's life. Or two."
"I'm not most people," Blair muttered, eyes still on the screen.
"Yeah, that part's painfully obvious."
She kept typing.
"You really okay?"
"Didn't I already answer that?"
"You didn't, actually."
Blair stopped, fingers pausing on the keys. "Why do you care so much?"
Langdon blinked at her, a little caught off guard. "Because I was there. And I know it was a kid."
"Kids die here all the time."
Langdon hesitated. "Doesn't mean it didn't hit different."
She sighed, hit save, and leaned back in her chair. "Stop trying to turn this into something."
He watched her for a beat, jaw ticking.
"I'm just saying, you can talk to me. I'm not the enemy."
"Could've fooled me."
"Seriously, why do you always—"
The ER doors burst open.
"Trauma incoming!" a nurse called out. "Multiple GSWs, ETA one minute!"
Blair stood before the sentence finished, already reaching for gloves.
Langdon tossed his coffee and followed her into the storm.
The bay doors burst open as EMS wheeled in two stretchers back-to-back, chaos radiating off them like heat.
"Multiple gunshot wounds—one to the chest, one to the abdomen," a medic shouted, pointing to the first patient. "Unstable. BP's been dropping en route."
"That one's mine," Blair said, already stepping forward, gloves snapped on, voice sharp and steady.
"You're with me," Langdon said to the second medic, pulling his patient toward the adjacent bay.
They split without another word, but the tension lingered like static in the air.
Blair's patient was young—maybe early twenties—eyes barely open, blood already soaking through the thin white sheet over his torso.
"Name's Isaiah," the medic called out. "Twenty-three. Took a shot to the upper left quadrant. Possible exit in the flank. Lost a lot of blood."
"Type and cross, O-neg hanging now," Blair ordered. "Get me a portable chest and abdominal series."
Robby ducked into the room just as she began her assessment.
"Vitals?"
"BP 78/40. Tachycardic. Breathing shallow," a nurse answered.
"Chest sounds?"
"Diminished on the left."
"Needle decompress," Blair said, already prepping the site. Robby handed her the syringe.
The rush of air hissed out. The vitals steadied—but only slightly.
"We're gonna lose him if we don't move fast," Robby muttered.
Blair was already inserting a central line, blood splattering her glove as she worked.
Time blurred. An hour passed in a haze of suction, pressure, and blood-streaked gloves. Every time the monitor screamed, Blair answered. She adjusted meds, barked orders, manually bagged when the ventilator paused. They placed a chest tube, controlled the external bleeding, managed his airway, and kept him from coding more times than she could count. Surgery was on standby, but they were buying time.
Langdon eventually walked in, peeling off a pair of clean gloves.
"Let me guess," he said, stepping in next to her. "Yours decided to be dramatic."
"At least mine's still here."
"Yeah, you're welcome for stabilizing my guy in half the time."
"Pretty sure yours had a graze."
"Jealousy looks terrible on you."
Blair didn't respond, too busy applying pressure and monitoring the transfusion rate.
Langdon leaned over the opposite side of the bed, eyeing the rapidly filling output on the chest tube. "Saturation's still dropping. You missed the second entry site."
"No, I didn't."
He pointed. "There."
She gave him a hard look, then adjusted the dressing. "I need a clean pressure bandage."
Robby stepped back in, glancing between the two of them. "You two done flirting or do I need to separate you?"
"This is foreplay for them," a nurse muttered under her breath.
They kept going—the two in a relentless rhythm, matching each other's pace, even if half of it was laced with sarcasm.
Eventually, the bleeding slowed. The vitals stabilized. The monitor's angry alarms faded into a steady beep.
Blair stepped back first, breathing hard, her hands covered in dried blood.
"He'll make it," she said flatly.
Langdon peeled off his gloves. "No thanks to your technique."
"Please. My technique bought us the time."
"Your ego's unbelievable."
"So's your hair product."
Robby sighed, tossing his gloves in the bin. "Remind me why I let you both in the same room?"
Neither answered.
Blair turned on her heel and left before anyone else could speak. Langdon watched her go, chest still rising and falling like he hadn't quite caught his breath either.
The monitor let out a shrill, continuous alarm.
"He's crashing," Langdon said, voice sharp.
Blair was already on the chest. "Starting compressions."
The rhythm under her hands was off—too soft, too far gone—but she pressed harder, counting silently, sweat sliding down her back. Blood still seeped from the wounds, soaked into the sheets.
"Surgery's en route," Robby called from the hallway. "ETA two minutes."
Langdon pushed meds. The nurse called out vitals. There was too much movement, too much heat, and still not enough air moving in the room.
The door burst open.
"Move," Dr. Garcia said, already snapping on gloves. "He needs the OR now. Let's go. Dalton, stay on the chest."
Blair didn't hesitate. She climbed up, straddling the patient on the gurney, locking her elbows as they rolled through the hallway.
The wheels squeaked, the gurney bounced over every tile seam, and Blair kept going. One, two, three, four—counting under her breath. Her knees ached. Her arms burned. But she didn't stop.
The OR doors blew open. The team was already prepped, scrubbed, masked.
A nurse stepped in and tapped her shoulder. "We've got it."
Blair nodded, breathless, and jumped down. Her scrubs were soaked in sweat and blood. Her hands shook.
She didn't speak. Just turned, shoved through the OR doors, and walked to the stairwell.
She rode the elevator in silence, alone.
When the doors opened back to the first floor, the sound was different. Quieter. Like the ER had finally exhaled.
Blair stepped forward—
—and saw Langdon waiting just outside the elevator.
Waiting for her.
Waiting, with that look on his face.
Waiting like he wasn't going to let her walk past this time.
Langdon didn't say anything right away. Just looked at her—sweaty, blood-streaked, jaw tight—and nodded toward the hallway without a word.
Blair followed.
They walked in silence past the break room, past the nurses' station, past anyone who might've asked a question if they walked too close together. A careful distance. A practiced space.
At the ambulance bay doors, he finally spoke.
"You heading out?"
"Obviously."
He nodded once, then, casual as anything: "You coming with me?"
She didn't look at him, just kept walking toward the parking lot. "Yeah."
No smirk. No blush. No theatrics. Just routine.
He unlocked his car from across the lot. She got in without waiting for him to open the door.
Inside, the silence was familiar. Easy.
"I don't know how you stayed on compressions that long," he said after a minute.
"Adrenaline."
He glanced at her, something close to a grin flickering at the corner of his mouth. "You gonna pass out before we even get upstairs?"
"Not a chance."
"Good."
The streetlights streaked across the windshield as they pulled out of the lot. The hospital fell behind them. No one saw. No one ever did.
When he parked in front of his building, she opened her door immediately, but he didn't move.
"Blair."
She turned back, halfway out.
"What?" she snapped.
He blinked, caught off guard. "Never mind."
She stared at him for a beat, then shut the door again, quieter this time, and they headed inside.