Chapter Text
The air outside Grey Sloan was heavy with smoke and sirens, an unrelenting chorus of chaos. The parking lot had been transformed into a makeshift triage zone with stretchers, IV poles, and oxygen tanks scattered in a hasty order, paramedics were moving quickly, firefighters were shouting over the hum of generators. The hospital’s glass façade reflected the glow of flashing lights, cracked in one place where the blast had rattled the frame.
Teddy Altman stood at the center of the cluster, her hair pulled back too tightly, her expression sharper than usual. She balanced her laptop on the hood of an ambulance, the bluish glow on her face as she pulled up the OR booking system. “Okay,” she said, voice clipped but clear. “Listen up. We need a headcount. Anyone not outside right now, anyone not accounted for, we need names and locations.” Jo stood just to her left, arms folded over the swell of her belly as if to shield her unborn twins from the world’s madness. Her knuckles were white, her jaw set. “Teddy—who’s in there? Who was scheduled?” Her voice cracked despite her attempt at control. “OR 2 had a spinal fusion, Lincoln scrubbed in.” Teddy scrolled quickly. “Still inside.” Jo let out a small, shaky breath. “Of course he is,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. Then louder, “He’s in there, and he’s their father. My husband, my kids’ father, God.” Meredith, standing on Teddy’s other side, reached out, grounding Jo with a touch to her shoulder. Meredith’s face was calm but tight around the eyes, her own brand of fear hidden beneath layers of practiced composure. “I also saw Ben run in,” she said, looking directly at Teddy. “Bailey’s going to lose it if—“ She cut herself off, unable to finish the thought. “Ben Warren?” Teddy’s eyes flicked up from te screen. “Yes. He didn’t even hesitate. The second the blast went off, he bolted inside.” Teddy nodded sharply, typing something into a notes window. Her movements were mechanical, as if efficiency could keep panic from cracking through. “OR 3,” she continued, scrolling. “Bailey was attending.” Amelia, standing half a step behind Meredith, swore softly under her breath, her arms folded tight across her chest, her foot bouncing restlessly on the asphalt. “And Monica Beltran in OR 4, abdominal case.” Teddy’s voice had gone flat now, each name heavier than the last. Amelia’s mouth twisted. She tried to hold her composure, but her eyes flicked toward the building, searching for movement in the dark windows. “And Lucas?” No one answered immediately. “Lucas Adams,” Amelia pushed. “He was—he ran up there. He ran to the OR floor to warn people.” Her voice cracked. “He didn’t come back down.” The silence after her words was broken only by the hiss of an oxygen tank venting nearby.
Winston stood at the edge of the group, just behind Meredith. He said nothing, arms folded, eyes fixed on Teddy’s screen but not seeing it. His jaw worked as he listened, his mind running faster than the rods being spoken. OR floors. Smoke. Chaos. The layout of the wing replayed in his mind automatically, surgical maps he knew by heart. And then, unbidden, a sharper thought: where was Jules? He didn’t let himself say it. Not yet. Teddy kept going, pushing past the weight in the air. “Other staff—nurses, techs. OR 2 had Patricia Nguyen circulating, OR 3 had Felix Moreno scrubbed in. OR 4 had Christine Gallagher shadowing. We’re still pulling up the scrub logs.” Jo pressed a hand against her belly, murmuring something under her breath, a mantra to keep herself from unraveling. Amelia shifted closer to her, like gravity pulling broken people together. From the edge of the cluster, a voice piped up, hesitant. “Um…Dr. Altman?” They all turned. It was Benson Kwan, standing awkwardly with his arms half-crossed, like he’d been hovering at the edge of the conversation and wasn’t sure if he was allowed in. His eyes darted toward the building, then back to the group. “What is it?” Teddy snapped, too sharp, but he didn’t flinch. “I think—“ He cleared his throat. “I think Dr. Millin’s up there too.” The name landed heavy. Winston’s head jerked up before he could stop himself. “What?” Kwan shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention. “I—I ran into her, right before. She said she was heading to find Dr. Beltran, to see if she could scrub in. She was—she was definitely on her way up.”
The words hit Winston like a physical force. Jules. On the OR floor. In the blast zone. He kept his face still, but inside, something in his chest constricted so tightly it was hard to breathe. He told himself it was professional, she was a resident, she was his responsibility, he was worried because any attending would be worried. That was the line. That was the excuse. But his heart didn’t care about excuses. Winston didn’t speak again. He only stood there, silent among the chaos, trying to keep his mask in place while the world burned and the thought looped in his head: Please, be alive.
The names hung in the air like a roll call of the damned, each one another person swallowed by the building’s silence. The group began to splinter, some talking to firefighters, others helping the paramedics with patients, voices overlapping into the kind of white noise born only from crisis. But Winston couldn’t stand still. His body wouldn’t let him. He stepped away from the huddle, away from Teddy’s laptop and the measured way Meredith was already planning contingencies. His feet started a restless path across the gravel, pacing the same ten feet of cracked asphalt between two parked ambulances. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his scrub jacket, jaw tight, he tried to regulate his breathing, but the truth was: every time he blinked, he saw Jules. Jules—head tilted, sarcasm, that relentless energy she carried into every room. Jules—standing her ground when he told her he couldn’t keep her on his service. Jules—saying without hesitation, it wasn’t blurry for her. And now Jules, somewhere in the darkened hallways above them, maybe trapped, maybe worse. His chest ached. Because this was his fault. If he hadn’t pushed her away, if he’d kept her lose, kept her under his supervision—she wouldve been on his service. With him. Not chasing opportunities elsewhere. Not on the OR floor when the explosion rippled through. Every step of his pacing ground that thought deeper. You did this. You let this happen.
”Hey,” Amelia’s voice cut through, sharp but soft at the edges. She had walked up beside him, matching his pace for a beat before forcing him to stop. “You’re going to wear a hole in the ground,” she said, her arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Winston exhaled, long and rough, running a hand over his face. “I can’t—” He broke off, shook his head. “I can’t just stand there. Not when—” He gestured vaguely toward the building, smoke still billowing from one of the top floors. Amelia followed his gaze, her expression tightening for a fraction of a second before she snapped back. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He looked at her then, saw the fear in her eyes she was trying to mask. Lucas. Link. Monica. Too many people she loved stuck inside. And still, she was steady enough to come to him. “You and Link are close,” she said, her tone gentler now, like she was giving him permission to say it out loud. “I get it. He’s family.” “Yeah,” Winston muttered. His throat felt thick. “Yeah, I’m worried about him. Of course I am. But it’s not just him.” Amelia tilted her head, waiting. Winston hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like saying it would make it too real. Then finally: “I’m worried about Millin. Jules.” Amelia didn’t flinch, didn’t tease. She just nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly, reading him the way only a Shepherd could. “Because she’s your resident?” “Because…” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Because if I hadn’t transferred her off my service, she wouldn’t have been there. She would’ve been with me. She wouldn’t have been chasing down Beltran for a scrub spot, she wouldn’t have been anywhere near that floor. I—” His voice cracked, the rare edge of rawness breaking through. “I put her there.” Amelia shook her head immediately. “No. Don’t do that.” “It’s true.” “It’s not.” Amelia stepped closer, her voice firm now, as if sheer conviction could cut through his guilt. “You didn’t put her anywhere. You made a call because you thought it was best, because you thought it would keep things professional, because that’s what attendings do. That’s not the same as—this.” She gestured toward the shattered hospital behind them. “This is not on you.” Winston let out a bitter laugh, low and short. “Feels like it is.” “I know it does.” Her voice softened again. “Trust me, I know what it feels like to blame yourself for every terrible thing that happens to the people around you. But this—” She leaned into his line of sight until he had no choice but to meet her eyes. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause that explosion. You didn’t put her in harm’s way.” Winston stared back at her, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to let the words stick. But the guilt clawed at him from the inside, insistent. “I should’ve kept her close,” he said finally, voice low. “I should’ve ignored—whatever this is. I should’ve just kept her on my service, kept it clean. Instead I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Amelia’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t unsympathetic either. “You cared enough to draw a line. That’s not weakness. That’s not failure. That’s you trying to do the right thing.” Winston looked down, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets. “And now she might be—” His voice cracked again, and he cut himself off before he could finish the sentence. Amelia laid a hand briefly on his arm, grounding. “She’s tough. You know that. Millin’s scrappy, stubborn, impossible to take down. If anyone can get through this, it’s her.” For a moment, they stood in silence, the chaos of the triage area moving around them like a storm. Winston stared at the ground, the cracked asphalt blurred in his vision. He wanted to believe Amelia. He wanted to believe Jules was still alive, still fighting her way out of the smoke and fire. He wanted to believe this wasn’t his fault. But all he could feel was the hollow ache of waiting.
The sound came first—a shout from the building’s entrance, sharp enough to cut through the overlapping noise of triage orders and sirens. Heads turned all at once. “Coming out! Make room!” Winston froze mid-step, his pulse spiking. Firefighters spilled through the smoke cloud at the double doors, two of them, flanking a figure between them. For half a breath, Winston’s stomach hollowed out, the dread dropping so heavy he could hardly breathe. Bailey. She was walking——barely—but walking. Her scrubs were streaked with ash, her hair frizzled from heat, a shallow cut traced along her cheekbone. One firefighter had a steadying grip on her arms; Ben Warren hovered on her other side, his face smeared with soot, his eyes locked on his wife as if nothing else existed. “I’m fine,” Bailey was insisting, her voice hoarse but stubborn, the same tone she used in the OR when she refused to back down. “I said I’m fine. There are others—you need to go back.” Ben ignored her words, pulling her closer, murmuring low reassurances meant only for her. A rush of relief rippled through the group outside—Jo’s hand flying to her mouth, Meredith’s shoulders lowering a fraction, Teddy whispering something under her breath. But Winston didn’t let himself breathe. Because right behind Bailey, two more firefighters emerged. Carrying a stretcher. The sheeted body on it. His throat closed. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint. His body went rigid, his legs rooted in place as the stretcher passed, every instinct telling him not to look, but he couldn’t not look. He braced for the worst, braced to see her face, pale and still. But it wasn’t Jules. The sheet was pulled back just enough for recognition: Patricia Nguyen, one of Bailey’s OR nurses. Her skin was gray with smoke inhalation, her chest still under the paramedics’ hands as they wheeled her toward the waiting trauma bay. Winston’s exhale came jagged, somewhere between relief and guilt. Relief that it wasn’t Jules. Guilt because it was still someone, still a life ending. Someone else’s family was about to get a phone call.
Another wave of figures poured out of the doors then, and Winston’s gaze snapped up. Adams. He stumbled into the open air, coughing hard, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding freely, but upright. Alive. His scrubs were torn at the knee, ash smeared across his chest, his hair matted with sweat and soot. “Lucas!” Amelia’s cry cut across the lot, sharp with both fear and relief. She sprinted toward him without hesitation, Simone right behind her, both of them colliding with him in a tangled rush of arms. Amelia grabbed his face with both hands, checking him over even as he tried to wave her off. Simone clung to his arm, eyes wet, her voice a rapid-fire stream of questions he could barely answer between coughs. Winston forced himself to look away, to give them privacy, but his chest tightened at the sight. Families, people finding each other again—it was happening all around him. Bailey in Ben’s arms. Amelia clutching Lucas like she could anchor him to earth. Jo scanning the crowd with desperate eyes, still waiting for Link. And him. Just pacing, watching, waiting. For someone who wasn’t even his to wait for. Because Jules wasn’t his. Not in any way that mattered. She was a resident, one of dozens. She was sarcastic, stubborn, infuriating at times. She was bright and ambitious, hungry to prove herself, barrelling forward with a kind of reckless energy that made him want to protect her even as he pretended not to. She was supposed to be just another name on the roster. And yet. She wasn’t. And Winston hated that he couldn’t stop it. That his chest ached in a way it hadn’t in a long time, that every second she stayed unaccounted for felt like a tightening noose. He hated that he couldn’t stop imagining her—trapped, scared, alone—and hating himself more for the small, selfish hope that she was still alive somewhere in there, waiting to be pulled out. Because what right did he have? She’d made it clear. The lines weren’t blurry for her. Maybe to her, he was just an attending who’d made a professional decision. Maybe he was nothing more than a line in her training record, a stepping stone she’d already moved past. But for him, the lines had blurred whether he wanted them to or not. Now, with each stretcher that came out of the smoke, each ash-covered figure staggered into the open, he waited for her. And with each passing second, the quiet truth pressed heavier against his ribs: he wanted her to be safe. He needed her to be safe. Even if he had no right to need that.
He was still on the fringe of the triage zone, half-listening to Amelia fuss over Lucas, when a new voice cut through the din. “Altman!” Winston turned toward it instinctively. Andy Herrera, Station 19’s captain, strode across the asphalt in her turnout gear, helmet tucked under one arm. Her face was streaked with soot, her braid damp with sweat, but her presence was all authority. Winston drifted closer, pulled by the tone more than the words at first. “My team says we’ve got someone trapped near OR 3,” Andy reported, her voice clipped. “They’re alive, but they’re not stable. Crush injury, severe bleeding. They can’t move them until they get intervention.” Teddy’s eyes widened. “They need a surgeon.” “Yeah.” Andy nodded. “They need somebody who can stabilize them enough for extraction. Otherwise, they’re not making it out.” The words settled like smoke over the group. Winston’s heart pounded, the noise of triage fading into a low thrum in his ears. A surgeon. Inside. That was what was needed. And he was standing here, breathing smoke but otherwise unharmed, while people he knew—people he cared about—were trapped in there. He stepped forward before he could second-guess it. “I’ll go.” All eyes snapped to him. Teddy blinked. “Ndugu—” “I’m fine,” he cut in, his voice firm, sharper than he usually let it be. “I’m steady. I know that floor, I know those ORs, and I can do what needs to be done. If someone’s bleeding out in there, waiting isn’t an option.” Andy sized him up in a quick, efficient sweep—the way she probably assessed every firefighter before sending them into flames. He could almost see the calculation in her eyes: the risk, the necessity, the possible gain. Finally, she nodded once, decisive. “You’re going. But not alone.” She turned her head. “Sullivan!” From a cluster of firefighters at the supply truck, Robert Sullivan stepped forward, tall and imposing in full gear. His helmet was already strapped, his mask clipped at his waist. His eyes flicked to Winston, then back to Andy, waiting for orders. “Gear him up and take him in,” Andy said. “Don’t let him out of your sight. He works, you protect.” “Yes, Cap,” Sullivan said immediately, already moving toward Winston. Winston squared his shoulders, ignoring the sting of adrenaline cutting through his nerves. His hands flexed, as though already ready for a scalpel, though all he had was the knowledge in his head and the determination in his chest. Because maybe it wasn’t Jules. Maybe the person trapped wasn’t her. But what if it was? What if this was his only chance to make sure she made it out alive? And even if it wasn’t her—if it was Link, or Monica, or someone else entirely—it didn’t matter. They were his people. They were his responsibility. Andy glanced at Teddy again, catching her hesitation. “This is the only way,” Andy said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If we wait for another surgeon, they’ll bleed out. He’s our shot.” Teddy pressed her lips together, then finally gave the faintest nod. “Bring him back alive.” Andy clapped Winston once on the shoulder, firm, grounding. “You ready, Doc?” Winston inhaled, steadying himself. His pulse raced, but his voice came out clear: “Yeah. I’m ready.” Sullivan handed him a spare turnout coat, heavier than Winston expected, the fabric stiff with layers of protection. As he shoved his arms through the sleeves, the smell of smoke and char clung to it, a promise of what waited inside. Winston’s thoughts flickered once more to Jules—her smile when she got under his skin, the way she squared her shoulders even when she was scared, her voice insisting, It’s not blurry for me He didn’t let himself linger on it. He just adjusted the coat, nodded to Sullivan, and followed him toward the smoke-choked entrance. Because this was what surgeons did. And because waiting any longer wasn’t an option.
The turnout coat weighed heavy on Winston’s shoulders, the unfamiliar bulk of it slowing his stride as he followed Sullivan into the smoke-thick corridor. His pulse thundered in his ears, each step taking him deeper into the dark belly of the hospital, where the usual sterile hum of Grey Sloan had been replaced by an eerie stillness broken only by the hiss of water lines and the occasional crash of falling debris. The deeper they went, the more the smoke clawed at Winston’s throat, dry and burning. Sullivan noticed his cough, reached back, and clipped an emergency oxygen mask over his face. The blast of filtered air felt sharp and clean compared to the grit filling his lungs. “Stay right behind me,” Sullivan ordered. His voice was muffled through his mask but clear. “You see flames, you stay low. Don’t go wandering.” “Got it,” Winston said, though his eyes were already locked ahead, searching for the OR wing. Finally, they reached the OR hall. Smoke clung to the ceiling in a dense layer, alarms still flashing red. The big double doors to OR 3 were ajar, one side half off its hinge, the glass panel spiderwebbed with cracks. Sullivan kicked it the rest of the way open, pushing inside with his flashlight sweeping across the dim room. Heads turned at the intrusion—ashen, exhausted faces snapping toward the sudden burst of light. And among them—Jules. She was crouched low near the OR table, her hair plastered to her forehead, streaks of soot smudged across her cheek. A makeshift oxygen cannula was taped under her nose, hooked up to one of the portable tanks the firefighters must’ve distributed. Her scrub top was torn at the shoulder, blood trickling down her arm where shrapnel must’ve grazed her, but otherwise, she was upright, alert, alive. For a heartbeat, Winston couldn’t breathe. Relief slammed through him so hard it nearly knocked the strength from his legs. He hadn’t realized just how tightly he’d been holding himself, how prepared he’d been to see her lifeless. But she wasn’t lifeless. She was here. She was alive. Her head snapped toward him, wide eyes catching in the beam of Sullivan’s flashlight. “Winston?” she said, disbelief and something else threading her voice. His name on her lips, in this smoke-filled ruin, it hit him harder than the choking air ever could. “Millin,” Winston said, his voice lower, steadier than he felt. She let out a shaky laugh—half relief, half adrenaline—and shook her head. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Looking for you,” nearly tumbled out of his mouth, but he bit it back, swallowing hard. “They said someone needed a surgeon,” he managed instead. Jules blinked once, then nodded toward the floor. “Dr. Beltran.” Monica lay on the floor, half her body pinned by a collapsed light fixture that had already been partially lifted by firefighters but still dug into her hip. Blood seeped steadily from a wound at her side, pooling beneath her. A nurse Winston barely recognized was pressing both hands over the bleeding, their arms trembling with fatigue. “She’s bad,” Jules said quickly, pushing to her feet and crossing toward Winston. Her movements were stiff, like every joint ached, but her determination burned through. “Pelvic crush, uncontrolled hemorrhage. We’ve been trying to tamponade but she needs more than pressure. We can’t move her like this.” Winston was already moving, his instincts taking over. He stripped off the turnout coat and rolled up his sleeves, stepping to the bedside. ”What’ve you got for supplies?” “Limited,” Jules answered, handing him the meager tray they’d scavenged. A hemostat, a couple of clamps, gauze already streaked with soot, IV tubing. Barely enough for a field stabilization. He glanced at her again, long enough to see the smudge of ash on her cheek, the sweat clinging to her brow, the stubborn steadiness in her gaze. Alive. She was alive. Then he forced his focus to Beltran. “Alright,” Winston said, his voice steady now, surgeon mode locking in. “We control the bleed as best we can, get her stable enough to move, then Sullivan gets her out.” Sullivan grunted his acknowledgment, bracing his weight against the twisted light fixture. “Tell me when.” As they worked, packing gauze, clamping what vessels they could, improvising with what little they had, Winston’s thoughts kept circling back. To the way she hadn’t panicked when he walked in, the way she said his name like it meant something. To the fact that he’d never felt relief this sharp, this visceral, just from seeing someone breathe. He tamped it down, focused on the surgery, but it pressed against the edges of every movement, every word. “Good,” Winston said as Jules adjusted the clamp exactly where he needed it. “That’s good. Hold it there.” She nodded, sweat dripping into the corner of her eye, but her grip didn’t waver. Finally, the bleeding slowed, controlled enough that Monica’s vitals steadied on the portable monitor rigged beside the bed. Not perfect. Not safe. But stable enough to move. “She’s ready,” Winston told Sullivan, stepping back, pulling his gloves off with a snap. “Get her out carefully. Pelvic stability’s compromised.” Sullivan and the firefighters moved in, lifting the debris fully and transferring Beltran onto a backboard.
Jules exhaled hard, her shoulders sagging as the tension bled from her muscles. She looked at Winston, eyes wide, a flash of raw relief in them that mirrored his own. “You came,” she said, her voice soft this time, almost swallowed by the alarms. Winston opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because what could he say? Of course I did. I couldn’t not. I was terrified it was you. Instead, he gave the smallest nod, forcing the words into something neutral. “Let’s get her out.” But his chest was still pounding with the truth he didn’t dare speak.
The chaos outside swelled as the group pushed through the smoke-stained doors. Firefighters cleared the paths, medics rushed forward, and Beltran was swept toward a waiting gurney, her monitors beeping faint but steady. Amelia darted in immediately, checking on her, while Meredith and Jo trailed close, their voice overlapping. Winston slowed his pace once Beltran was handed off, his focus shifting. He turned, scanning the triage area until his gaze found Jules. She’d walked out on her own, no stretcher, no firefighter dragging her arm, just her, stubbornly upright in torn scrubs, cannula still taped beneath her nose. But up close, she looked wrecked: ash clinging to her skin, eyes rimmed red, one sleeve soaked from the cut on her arm. “Let me see,” Winston said, voice low but firm as he caught her by the elbow and steered her out of the immediate chaos. He angled her toward the light spilling from a floodlamp, away from the surge of people swarming Beltran. “I’m fine,” Jules said, rolling her eyes even as she swayed on her feet. “Really. Nothing serious.” “Humor me,” he countered, scanning her quickly. The superficial cut on her arm, smoke irritation reddening her skin, the faint tremor in her hands. She looked like hell, but she was intact. Still, his chest only loosened by degrees. Before he could press further, a new voice cut in. “Dr. Millin.” They both turned. Maya Bishop, Station 19’s lieutenant, strode over in full gear, helmet tucked under her arm, her gaze locking on Jules. “You did good in there,” Maya said, her tone clipped but genuine. She paused, her expression tightening just enough to signal a warning. “But don’t pull that heroine crap again, understood? You were supposed to get out.” Jules’ shoulders stiffened. “I—” “Don’t.” Maya shook her head. “Next time, you let us do our jobs. You walk out when we tell you to. No exceptions.” Then she was gone, called back toward Andy with a wave of her gloved hand. Winston’s brows drew together. He turned back to Jules slowly. “What did she mean by that?” Jules pressed her lips together, avoiding his eyes. “Jules.” She let out a sigh, finally meeting his gaze. “They wanted to pull me out when they brought in the oxygen. Said it was too dangerous, that I’d done enough.” Her voice was flat, defensive. “But Beltran was bleeding out. If I’d left, it would’ve just been one nurse in there trying to hold pressure while debris was falling from the ceiling. She wouldn’t have made it.” Winston stared at her, the sharp relief he’d felt earlier curdling into something harsher. “So you stayed? In a smoke-filled OR. After an explosion. When people were trying to evacuate you?” “I had to!” Jules snapped, throwing her hands up. “I’m a doctor. I couldn’t just walk out while Beltran was bleeding to death in front of me. What would you have done?” Winston stared at her, unsure what to say, because after all, he did walk into a damn building that just exploded because somebody needed a surgeon. “Exactly!” she said, frustration flaring in her eyes. “You did the exact same thing! Don’t lecture me about risk when you literally suited up and went in after the blast.” Winston clenched his jaw, fighting for control. He wanted to yell, to tell her how reckless, how dangerous, how close she’d come. But her words landed with a weight he couldn’t dodge. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “Fair,” he muttered, his tone stripped down to resignation. The silence between them stretched, filled by the chaos around them.
Then, slowly, Jules’ posture shifted. Her shoulders sagged, her arms folding protectively across her chest. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something rawer, more fragile. “I was scared,” she admitted, her voice suddenly small, almost swallowed by the noise. “The whole time in there—I kept thinking the ceiling was gonna come down, that the oxygen was gonna run out, that—” She broke off, her throat tightening. “I kept telling myself I was fine, but I wasn’t. I was terrified.” Winston’s chest clenched. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Hey. Look at me.” She did, reluctantly, her eyes glassy now under the harsh floodlights. “You’re out,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You did what you had to do, and it mattered. But you’re here. That’s what counts.” Her lip trembled, just for a second, before she pressed it into a hard line. She nodded, but the exhaustion was written all over her—her body sagging as the adrenaline drained away. Without thinking, Winston reached out, steadying her with a hand at her elbow. She didn’t pull away. “I’ve got you,” he said, almost under his breath.
The next day, Winston sat slouched on his couch, one hand wrapped around a half-empty mug of coffee gone cold. His apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt too loud after a night of alarms and chaos. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional honk from the street below. He hadn’t slept much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw smoke, flashing lights, Jules’s soot-streaked face looking up at him in the wreckage. He told himself to let it go, to compartmentalize like he always did. But she lingered. A knock at the door jolted him upright. He frowned, setting the mug down. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Slowly, he crossed to the door and pulled it open. Jules. She stood in the hallway in jeans and a hoodie, her hair damp like she’d just showered, her skin still pale from the night before. For a beat, Winston could only blink at her, stunned. “Millin?” His voice betrayed his confusion. “What are you—shouldn’t you be at the hospital?” ”Pac-North, yeah,” she said quickly. “They cleared me.” She shrugged, shoving her hands into her hoodie pocket. “I’m fine.” “You’re fine,” he repeated, skeptical. Her eyes locked onto his. Steady, searching. Then she stepped forward, closing the space between them before he could react, and kissed him. It wasn’t tentative, but something sharper, like she’d been holding it in, waiting, and couldn’t anymore. Her lips pressed against his, warm, insistent, tasting faintly of peppermint toothpaste. Winston froze for half a second, his brain short-circuiting at the shock of it. Then instinct pulled at him and he kissed her back, the connection immediate, hot, like the air had been sucked out of the room. But just as quickly, he pulled back, breath ragged. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. Jules’s eyes searched his face. “What does it look like?” “You almost died yesterday.” His words came out sharper than he meant, laced with the panic he hadn’t allowed himself to feel at the hospital. “You think that’s why you’re here? Why you’re doing this?” Her jaw tightened. “That’s not the reason.” “Jules—” Before he could finish, she surged forward and kissed him again, harder this time. Her hands caught at the front of his t-shirt, tugging him closer, her mouth fierce against his like she was trying to prove something. He kissed her back, helpless against the force of it, but when her fingers brushed the back of his neck, he pulled back again, panting. “Are you sure?” he asked, searching her eyes, his voice low, almost desperate. “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I’m sure.” The certainty in her voice hit him like a blow. For a beat, neither moved. The silence stretched, filled only by their uneven breaths. Then Winston gave in. He cupped her face, pulling her in, and kissed her again. This time he didn’t stop. The kiss deepened quickly, tentative edges burning into something hotter, hungrier. Her fingers slid under his shirt, her nails grazing his skin, and he shivered. His hands moved down, tracing the line of her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She let out a soft sound into his mouth, half relief, half want and it unraveled him. They stumbled backward into the apartment, his hand fumbling to shove the door shut without breaking the kiss. Her hoodie was the first to go, tugged off and dropped carelessly to the floor. His shirt followed, tossed aside between them as they moved, lips never parting for long. Every kiss was hotter than the last, urgent and messy, like they were both making up for lost time. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his waist, anything she could find, as though to anchor herself. Winston backed her toward the couch, his mouth trailing from her lips to her jaw, to the curve of her neck. She arched into him, pulling at him with a need that matched his own. Clothes kept hitting the floor. Jeans. Shirts. Socks abandoned without thought.
By the time they sank onto the couch together, it wasn’t just about heat anymore. It was about everything they’d almost lost, everything they’d been holding back, everything that had been building since the lines started blurring. When Jules pulled him down to her again, breathless, eyes burning with certainty, Winston let go of the last restraint. The night before, he’d almost lost her. Now, he wasn’t letting go. The rest of the world—the smoke, the chaos, the guilt—fell away. There was only this. Only her. And for once, Winston didn’t fight it.