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Monica stares at the ceiling.
It’s the third time she’s counted the little perforations on the ceiling tile above her bed. She’s not sure if the number’s the same each time because her head is still foggy, the ringing in her ears is relentless and high-pitched, like it’s boring into her skull. Her hearing comes and goes in waves, muffled one second, sharp the next, like a broken speaker crackling in static. She can hear her own breath though. It’s too loud. Too fast.
She presses a hand against her ribs. The doctor said no internal damage, just cracked ‘only cracked’, as if that wasn’t supposed to hurt. The burns on her shoulder sting less now, dulled by the medication, but every shift of her body feels like her skin’s being peeled off, fresh and raw.
Twenty-four hours for observation, they said. Routine.
Routine.
God, if only.
One minute she was walking alongside Millin in the hallway, discussing the simple steps of her surgery before the intern went to grab her patient. The next… the floor shook. The lights burst. It was hell. The noise was impossible. Like the air itself had been ripped apart. She didn’t even see it coming. No warning. No nothing. Just sound, then dust, then the world fell sideways.
She remembers the taste of concrete in her mouth. The burn of it in her lungs. She ouldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. The fire alarms didn’t even sound. It was like they were gone, too. Or maybe her ears had just given up by then. She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know what happened.
But she knows. Deep down, she knows.
That tank. They said it was empty but something went wrong. She doesn’t know if it was in the ORs, the ventilation, or somewhere near, but it doesn’t matter. The walls fell, and people were there. Millin was there. Dr. Bailey. Nurses. Residents and…
Monica’s stomach twists, a cold, sick knot.
Amelia wasn’t on the OR floor, right?
She keeps telling herself that. Amelia wasn’t there. She had a hellish day and she went home. She had to. She had to be okay.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she’d stayed longer? What if she was walking those same corridors when the world caved in?
Her heart is pounding again, slamming so hard against her chest she thinks it’ll rip through her stitches. Her body knows she’s safe, but her mind won’t accept it. Not when her last memory is flames licking the ceiling. Not when she still smells the smoke on her skin.
Monica swallows.
She could’ve died.
Amelia could’ve died.
She presses her fist against her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. She never told her. Never said it out loud. She almost died, and Amelia doesn’t even know-
The door slams open.
No knock. No warning. Just a blur of dark scrubs and a gasp “Oh god, thank god”
Monica’s eyes snap open, and there she is. Amelia. As if she manifested her somehow. Her hair is pulled up in a half-messy bun. She’s still wearing Grey Sloan scrubs wven though it’s 2 in the morning.
Neither of them says anything.
Amelia crosses the room in a heartbeat, not thinking, not hesitating. Her arms are around Monica before Monica even breathes.
It hurts. Everything hurts. But Monica wraps her arms around Amelia anyway. She holds her as tight as her broken ribs allow because it’s Amelia. Because Amelia is here, alive, and shaking in her arms, and Monica realizes, for the first time, that she’s not dying herself.
They’ve never been this close before. Not physically. Not like this. Monica can feel the heat of Amelia’s skin against hers, the way their shoulders brush when Amelia leans in, shuddering with each breath. It should feel awkward. But It doesn’t. It feels like it was supposed to happen a long time ago.
She’s here. She’s okay. They both are.
Monica’s throat tightens, and she doesn’t notice the tears prickling in her eyes until Amelia pulls back, hands still on her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry” Amelia says, and her voice breaks. “I just- I just heard you were on the OR floor, and I couldn’t- I’m so sorry”
Then she crumbles.
It’s not a graceful cry. It takes over her body and it’s raw and uncontrollable even though it looks like she’s trying to fight it. Amelia hides her face in her hands, but her shoulders are trembling so hard, Monica feels it echo in her own bones.
Monica grabs her hand. “It’s okay” she says hoarsely, not sure if Amelia can hear her over her own sobs. “Shepherd, I’m okay. Look at me” She tries to sit up, grimacing, but manages to scoot over enough for Amelia to sit on the edge of the bed.
Their hands stay linked.
“I’m sorry” Amelia says again as her voice cracks and her words stumble over each other. “Link- Link is here. He’s not okay. He- he’s bad”
Monica’s hand tightens around hers, thumb tracing gentle circles, encouraging her to keep talking.
Amelia’s breath catches. She stares down at their joined hands like she’s not sure if they’re real. She also can’t really look at Monica’s eyes with what she’s about to say.
“I lost my dad when I was five” Amelia says, and the words are small “Right in front of me and my brother. One second he was there and the next he was taken away from us. And that was it. That was the start of everything that went wrong in my life”
Monica feels the weight of it settle between them.
“I don’t want that for Scout” Amelia continues, her voice trembling as she shakes her head “This can’t happen. He can’t lose his dad like that. I don’t want him to grow up without him. I don’t want to watch that happen again. I can’t-”
Her words fracture, breath hitching, and she tries to wipe her tears, shaking her head again “I’m sorry. I know you got hurt. I shouldn’t even be here, I just- I just heard that you were here and I had to make sure you were okay and this is a lot, I know-”
Monica squeezes her hand again. “It’s okay” she says, firmer now. “I’m okay. Thank you. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay.”
“But I do” Amelia’s voice is a whisper, but her grip is fierce. “If Link-” She can’t say it. The word lodges in her throat. She looks at Monica, and her eyes are glassy but sharp, like she needs her to understand the meaning of the things she can’t say right now “I can’t keep losing people…”
People that I…
The rest hangs in the air. Unspoken but heavy.
Her hands start moving before she knows it. Checking Monica’s bandages. Her face. Her pupils. Assessing. Panicking. “How are you feeling? Did they do a neuro check? Look at my finger-” Amelia says and she raises her finger in front of Monica’s face.
Monica’s heart softens. She grabs Amelia’s hand, the one with the finger, and holds it still. “Amelia. I’m okay. I got checked. I swear. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not”
Amelia’s eyes drift down Monica’s body, lingering on the bruises blooming across her collarbone, the gauze wrapping her shoulder, the burns peeking from the edge of her gown. It’s not an accusation. It’s just a fact.
Monica almost laughs. It comes out as a breathy huff, but the sharp pull against her ribs wipes the smile from her face. “No, I’m not” she concedes, wincing. “But you know what I mean. I’ll be okay” she tries to offer a genuine smile “You need to focus on Lincoln”
Amelia’s head shakes before the words even finish leaving Monica’s lips. “Jo’s there. Everyone’s there. There’s nothing we can do until he’s out of surgery” Her voice is raw, like the words taste bitter. “We’re just… waiting”
Monica can feel Amelia’s helplessness in the way her fingers curl into the sheet, and her foot taps against the floor like she’s ready to sprint but doesn’t know where.
“If you want to talk about it…” Monica offers softly. It’s deliberate and it’s warm. She wants to offer some comfort, but she also doesn’t want Amelia to go.
Amelia looks at her for a second.
It’s unfair that someone covered in bruises can still have eyes that glow like that. She’s so alive. Like she’s here for her, even when her own body is wrecked.
And Amelia hadn’t fully realized how fragile this is until this moment. How easily she could have lost her too. It’s not just a silly crush. It hasn’t been for a while. But god, she didn’t know what that meant until she stood in this doorway and Monica was still here. Breathing and talking and smiling through the pain.
Amelia swallows. Her throat feels like snadpaper “You’re hurt” she says, though it feels like an excuse. “You need to rest”
“I can’t” Monica admits, and there’s no fight in her voice. “I can’t close my eyes. Every time I try, it’s back. The sound and the smoke” she sighs “I know I’m safe, but my brain… it’s not convinced” She shifts, barely an inch, but her hand brushes Amelia’s again. “But I feel better now. I think the company helps”
Amelia looks around, searching for a chair. The idea of leaving Monica’s side feels unbearable for her too. She can’t find one. Or maybe she’s not really looking.
Monica scoots over slowly and and careful, but her face scrunches a little as she makes space on the bed. She pats the empty spot beside her.
“There’s enough space”
Amelia opens her mouth, ready to protest. She shouldn’t. Monica needs space to rest. But the words don’t come. She just moves, instinctively, as if there’s no other option. She lets herself lean back into the pillows, into Monica’s warmth and scent and the steady rhythm of of her breathing.
It feels like a safety net snapping into place.
Her throat tightens again.
Monica turns her head with barely a few inches between them now. “Do you want to talk?” she asks “Or not talk?”
Amelia’s lips twist into a small smile but she’s staring at the ceiling “I already told you about Link. And we don’t know much yet”
“I’m not asking about Link”
That makes Amelia glance at her. Monica’s eyes are steady, even through the haze of pain. “You were there for hours, Amelia. With a woman that had a bomb and made you operate on a child. You went through that. And now you’re sitting here, telling me you’re worried about others. Who’s worrying about you?”
Amelia’s gaze returns to the ceiling. She can’t meet Monica’s eyes.
“I’m okay” she says. It’s robotic. Automatic. “I wasn’t even on the OR floor”
“Maybe physically okay” Monica’s voice doesn’t flinch. “But you can’t be okay. I walked in there when you were there. I saw you. I saw Jenna and Griffith and Adams. I saw the tank. I told Dr. Webber and Dr. Grey”
Amelia turns her head, her eyes locking onto Monica’s. The words come out almost like a whisper “You saved us”
Monica looks back up at the ceiling. “Did I?” Her chest rises, slowly and pianfully “Because look what happened”
Amelia’s hand moves, reaching for Monica’s. She laces their fingers together. “You did. You saved Dylan. Mer ran in with the FFP and I know she wasn’t the one looking at Dylan’s labs. Dylan’s okay, by the way. She’s stable”
Monica’s lips part in a shaky exhale. “I knew you could do it,” she starts but it sounds sad “But I don’t know how okay she’ll be. She’s going to wake up without her mom. And now it’s worse because that thing blew up, and people got hurt. She lost her mom who loved her so much that she- she did that. And now there’s even more damage”
Amelia watches her, the guilt and the empathy folding into each other. “So you don’t blame her?”
Monica shakes her head “Not that I excuse her. People got hurt. But… it’s hard”
Amelia’s fingers tighten. “I know”
The silence between them isn’t empty. It hums with breaths and shared exhaustion and with the heaviness of everything left unsaid.
“Maybe I’m not okay” Amelia admits “I shouldn’t have let this happen,” she adds with a raw voice.
Monica’s head snaps to the side. “Amelia, this isn’t on you. If anything, I brought you into this case”
Amelia’s jaw tightens “But I failed the first time. I let this get this bad. And Jenna… Jenna did this. because-”
“Exactly,” Monica replies “It was Jenna. You did everything right. You pulled a miracle. Twice. She only had to wait a little longer. We wouldn’t be here. You would have saved Dylan anyway. Because that’s what you do”
Amelia’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s a lot of faith to put in one person”
“It’s not a lot of faith to put in you”
Amelia’s chest caves with a breath she didn’t know she was holding. The air between them feels charged and fragile, like if she moves too fast, the whole world will tilt again. But Monica’s hand is still in hers. Steady. Present. Grounding.
Monica wants to say it.
It’s so clear now, it feels ridiculous that she never saw it before. Her feelings are as clear as Amelia’s eyes. Like they’ve always been there, waiting for her to just open her damn mouth. It’s so obvious. So stupid that she’s done nothing about it. So stupid that she let fear box her in, and let pride convince her to keep it all buried.
But now’s not the time.
Link is in surgery. His life is hanging in the balance, and Monica knows what he means to Amelia and her son.
It’s complicated. It’s delicate.
She swallows the lump in her throat.
“None if this is your fault” Monica says insists “Amelia, you can’t carry this. You did everything right. You’re good. You’re brave. You care so much. Jenna knew that” Her tone sharpens, anger slipping through. “Jenna usedthat. She made her choices”
Her words hang in the air. And it feels intense, almost too much. But Monica’s not sorry for it. She meets Amelia’s eyes, and the conviction there is enough for Amelia to believe it. Maybe for the first time all night.
Amelia’s lips press together, trembling, but she nods. The weight lifts just a little. Just enough to breathe.
Monica exhales and shifts slightly, softening her tone. “Do you know if… if anyone else got hurt?”
Amelia’s jaw clenches. “They’re still pulling people out” Her voice cracks again “Link and Bailey are in surgery. Millin- Millin’s hurt, but she’s okay. That’s all I know. I came here with Link, but…” she cuts herself off, the unspoken words dangling because It’s probably worse than that. The explosion was huge. People were there. People they know.
Monica’s chest aches, not from the bruises, but from the helplessness. They could both cry again. They feel it bubbling up. How did it get this bad? How did everything fall apart so fast?
Monica squeezes Amelia’s hand. No hesitation. Their fingers intertwine, and it’s not just to steady Amelia. It’s for her, too. Just the solid, grounding feeling of Amelia’s skin, of her presence, is enough to keep them both anchored.
“Are you tired?” Amelia asks after a while, voice gentler now.
“Yes” Monica doesn’t hesitate. “But I can’t sleep” She says and it almost sounds like a whisper “I can’t…” she shakes her head, but the sentence doesn’t need to finish.
Amelia’s thumb brushes over her hand. “Tell me about your injuries…” she asks like she needs Monica to talk. Like words can keep the ghosts at bay and make her brain calm down. Science is simple. She can process and asses it. She can understand those terms and reassure herself that Monica is okay, and not think about the chaos waiting outside.
Monica lists them. Cracked ribs. Burns. A small concussion. She doesn’t downplay it, but she doesn’t dwell on it either. Amelia’s eyes shimmer with guilt again, but Monica leans into her hand and says: “I’m okay. I swear”
“I’m so sorry” Amelia whispers. “But I’m so glad you’re okay.” She looks down at their hands, her breath hitching as if she’s choosing her next words carefully. “When I got here… they were going through the list… the list of doctors in the OR floor who were being transferred here. I heard your name and I-” She stops and her mouth is trembling a little “I couldn’t breathe… I thought that you- I had to see you”
Monica squeezes her hand, her heart thrumming in her chest. She turns her body a little and their faces are closer now, breaths mingling. “I was scared too” she confesses. “Not knowing if you were okay. What happened to you today… I’ve never been in a situation like this. It- it really puts things in perspective”
Amelia’s breath is warm against her cheek. “It does”
They stay there, suspended in that shared breath and that unspoken closeness that neither dares to cross. It’s so fragile. So intense. And yet comforting. Like they’ve both finally found solid ground.
But the heaviness lingers, and Monica feels it. She shifts the conversation, needing air. “You know, I still have boxes in my apartment I haven’t unpacked” she says, lips quirking.
Amelia blinks, surprised, then amused. “You’ve been here almost a year”
“I know” Monica chuckles “The box with my kitchen stuff is still sealed. I’ve been living off takeout and hospital coffee”
“That’s not good but I can’t judge you because I’m basically the same. And I’ve been here for longer”
They both laugh and the tension eases. Their foreheads brush, gently, as if by accident, but neither pulls away. Their hands remain laced, a lifeline neither wants to let go of.
Monica’s eyelids begin to flutter. She fights it, stubborn as always, but her body is heavy, and Amelia’s presence is like a balm. Soothing. Safe. For the first time all night, Monica feels her body surrender. She allows herself to drift off, with their foreheads still touching, their breaths syncing, the world outside fading into something distant and soft.
The light in the room is faint when Monica’s eyes crack open.
She feels sore. Every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out, but it’s a different kind of ache now. It’s manageable. She blinks, adjusting to the stillness, and feels the absence of Amelia’s warmth immediately.
But when she turns her head, she finds it…
On the nightstand: a paper bag with a neatly folded top and a cup of coffee. The faint scent of almond and butter invades the air.
She doesn’t need a note to know who left it.
Amelia.
A smile tugs at Monica’s lips as she reaches for the croissant, fingers trembling but steady enough to unwrap the flaky layers. She leans back into the pillows, the coffee warming her hands, the taste of almond and sugar grounding her.
The world might have exploded around them, but Monica feels hope. She almost saw her whole life flash before her eyes, and she’s not willing to waste more time without the woman that she loves.