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Coffee cups on a park bench. She doesn’t know his order, only guesses he’d take it hot and black. She prefers iced. Seven a.m. sun crawls across her shoulders, presses into her neck, hanging desire. Hazy golden against blue, the oppressive bloom of June. Condensation drips on her scrubs.
She’s running late, but she dares to catch him first. Let their eyes meet without the lingering of others. Between the blur of patients, his hands pass over her back in unknown familiarity, a surgeon’s precision. He leaves behind case reports like love letters, smudged pen filling in the margins, his best secrets laid bare between battlefield stories and unconventional ER tactics. Another attending tells him to move aside, but he pushes the blade into her hand.
“The smartest in the room,” he whispers between shift changes. She leans against the wall, regaining balance.
She checks her watch now. He has two more minutes to show his face before she marches in and gives his coffee to Mel.
There’s this, their thing. A change without a word. Perhaps a paradox. They never really were friends. Nor were they colleagues outside of its true definition. They were passing hours; one leaving at 6:59 and another stepping in at 7:00. She knew of his bullish tendencies and divisive ways. She knew of his time in the army and why he rubbed at his knee. She also knew he was reliable, like the cast of a shadow.
And she knows as he walks towards her, the wave of his curls and silver slight in the morning glow, that she wants to figure him out. Pry him apart. Let her curiosities get the best of her. Learn about his favorite movie and early resident days and how he likes his coffee.
Their fingers brush when she hands him his cup. “Dr. Abbot.”
He hums. “No milk, no sugar. Perfect.”
She mentally tallies that.
He leaves inches between them, his face open, looking, and she thinks if she were older, braver, she’d lean in. There is a chasm in their fifteen year gap (she, of course, had delved into the databases after Pitt Fest), toeing lines she had never fathomed. Her previous boyfriends had always been boyish and easy, never pushing, never sharp. She takes in the breadth on his face, stories and scars, and wants to crawl into its worrying depths.
“How was the shift?” she asks when the silence becomes too knowing.
“Fine. Terrible for those who had to be there, of course,” he says. “But no deaths.”
She raises her coffee, cheers. “No deaths.”
“Can I ever convince you to join the dark side?” he smirks.
“Only when I pull doubles.”
“As you did last week.”
She smiles, teasing. “Maybe again tonight.”
“You should be going out,” he says plainly. “You’re young, you have a life.”
“It’s not that important—not for now.” She looks down. Daring: “Dana tells me this stuff. McKay and Mel. They nag me. Are you really the right person?”
He laughs wryly. “I’m old. My better days are gone.”
“You’re not that old—”
“See, you say that. And my hair—”
“It’s distinguishing.” Is she blushing?
And is he? “You’re just kind. Bringing a old guy some coffee. Might as well put me out to pasture.”
“But who will teach me techniques that will definitely get me thrown out of the ER otherwise?”
He grins, “Ah, so that’s why you keep me around.”
“Among other things.”
Jack Abbot has the type of eyes you can’t look away from: dark and vast. She’s looking, she’s drowning. “Tell me them,” he says. “I want to know, Samira.”
She thinks of the time he drove her home, her head slumped against the window, puffs of air against glass. She thinks of finding him on the roof, not close enough to the edge, but still catching her breath and wanting to grab him. She thinks of him in the break room after a bad shift and a lost child and his pinky linking with hers.
Days and weeks; minutes feeling like months. Drinking him in: his knowledge and guidance and attractive confidence. Him in her dreams, with his wandering hands and bared neck. Behind closed eyes, she pulls him closer, into her, into the light.
Samira glances at him. The sun is blinding behind his shoulders, his hair ablaze. “You know the effect you have on people.”
“People,” he leans in, the hypnotic heat of salt and sandalwood, “or you?”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“It’s Jack.”
She swallows. “I don’t want to say too much.”
“I’m not your boss,” he says lowly, “if that’s what your worried about.”
“I’m worried about a lot of things.”
“Robby. Robby won’t know.”
“Jack,” she runs her tongue over her teeth, tasting, “what is this?”
His hand finds her thigh, tightening, secured. He looks at the sky; she looks at him. The line of his jaw, the column of his neck. Watching him swallow, wanting simmers. He says, “I’ll let it be anything.”
“The hospital talks. People will see.”
“We’ll work opposite shifts.”
Her eyes cast away. “We haven’t even gone on a date.”
“I’m asking you now.”
“Haven’t kissed.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“I don’t have a life.”
“Neither do I.”
It makes her laugh, smiling around her straw. “We’d never see each other.”
He tilts his head, lips falling with its slant. “I’d find time. If you can look past it all.”
“You’ve seen me break down in the men’s bathroom,” she laments with a shudder.
There’s a sudden seriousness to him. “Find me next time. I’ve spent enough hours in a therapist office. I’ve learned things.”
“Jack,” hanging, heavy, “I’m going to be late.”
Yet, she finds herself unable to move, trapped in his gaze. Longing for a dangerous unknown.
“Samira,” he swallows, “let us try. Just one night. Until we know.”
Honesty slices through her, scalpel to the chest. “I already know.”
Samira knows why he does not work the Fourth of July shift. Why he still keeps a ring on his left ring finger. The nights he stands on the roof and waits for answers within the quiet. She knows she likes his encouragement and decisive belief in her. And she knows if she stays on this bench, she will kiss him, and she will never be the same.
He breaks into a grin; she burns in his glow. He says, “I’ll find you after your shift. I know the place to go.”
It’s brave, her worries fading into a hum on the horizon. She leans over, her lips pressed to his cheekbone. “Until tomorrow morning.”
When she pulls away, his hand reaches for her wrist. “Shen is on call.” Guides her back, mouths close and promising. He breathes: “Until tonight.”