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For Samira, winter spells loneliness. The days get shorter, the nights darker, the wind colder, and Samira feels it sink into her bones, a chill she can't shake. It's heavy, the emotion that is usually a subtle backdrop to her days suddenly taking center stage among reminders of happy families gathering for the holidays, light and laughter spilling out of the bar she passes on her walk to the bus station, couples huddled together for warmth as they walk down the street.
She hates how much it bothers her. Being alone has been her default for a long time, not something to be ashamed of. She always hated the idea that she would need a partner and children and a huge social circle to somehow be complete. After the introduction to gender studies class she took to fill a general education requirement in college, she considered her stance to be feminist. She is an intelligent woman, carving out space for herself in a career dominated by men who do not look like her, striving to right the wrongs of a system that leaves too many people behind. She does not have time to care about dates or choosing place settings for dinner or the fact that she goes home alone to a dark and sparsely furnished apartment every night with only the glow of her laptop screen keeping her company. Samira Mohan is just fine with being alone.
For most of the year, that's true. But something about winter sharpens the points of her loneliness until it is something she can't ignore, can't pretend not to feel. Maybe it's some holdover from the hunter-gatherer days, when the changing seasons would mean needing to huddle with others for warmth, to rely on them for survival. That base instinct in her brain feels the temperature drop and tells her she needs to find someone to help her survive the season. Or, more likely, it's that winter was her dad's favorite season, and the first flakes of snow always make her think of his face split wide in a grin, pulling her on a blue plastic sled through the backyard of their house in New Jersey.
Samira doesn't like to think about that part.
At the hospital, it's easier to distract herself from the melancholy of the season. Everyone in the emergency department is in their own personal state of misery, living the worst day of their life while for Samira it's a regular Tuesday. She sutures wounds from kitchen knives and Christmas tree-chopping axes, treats alcohol poisoning after holiday parties get too rowdy, stabilizes broken bones from rickety ladders giving way under the pressure of installing Christmas lights. Listens with care and empathy as patients describe their holiday plans, complain about visiting relatives, gush about the wrapped gift that's the size and shape of a jewelry box nestled under their tree.
Work should be enough to distract her. Should be, if not for the reminder of what could have been that walks purposefully through the emergency department, treating her with carefully maintained professional courtesy that stings almost as much as the winter wind. There was a time when stolen glances and gentle words of praise were just as much a part of her routine as charting and ordering bloodwork—something she didn't realize she had come to expect until it was gone.
Now, Dr. Jack Abbot is just another colleague. When their shifts overlap, they consult on cases with professional detachment. They don't discuss journal articles they've read, don't break down complex procedures during lulls in a night shift, don't smile at each other over the rims of their coffee cups like they're sharing a secret out in the middle of the ED. When her eyes meet his hazel ones, there is no flutter in her chest, no split second thought of those eyes looking at her from the pillow beside her, groggy with sleep. There is only the work, nothing else.
The first time it happens, she doesn't stay, and he doesn't ask her to.
She pulls her scrubs back on and tosses an awkward goodbye over her shoulder as she all but bolts out of his house, her heart thrumming with adrenaline. On the drive home, she tells herself it was a one time thing. It felt good and they got it out of their systems. They can go back to normal now without tension fizzling between them like fireworks waiting for a spark.
A week later, he asks her out for a drink after a rare (for him) day shift, and she once again follows him home, bringing her lips to his before the door is even closed behind them, burning with a hunger she hasn't allowed herself to feel in years. This time, she lingers. They lay in bed together, catching their breath, the frenzied high of their connection settling into something else. She turns to find him looking at her like she's something precious and feels a weight drop in her chest. She is out the door within five minutes.
It keeps happening. Eventually, she stops pretending each time is the last time. The last time will come, she is sure of it. She can count on one hand the number of relationships she's had that lasted long enough to even be called relationships, and makes it clear she isn't looking to add to that tally. She follows her rules. Keeps it physical, nothing more. She doesn't stay over, doesn't invite him to her place, doesn't let anything else between them change. Her focus, as always, is her work. Everything else is secondary.
Until a grueling night shift in the dead of summer, when she drags herself to the parking lot to find one of her tires flattened, the memory of her illuminated tire pressure light searing across her memory as she stares at it. A bead of sweat creeps down her neck as she closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the top of the car, trying to gather the energy to drag herself back inside to wait in the air conditioning for an Uber. Before she can, a familiar hatchback pulls up, the door already opening and Jack stepping out.
"You have a spare?" he asks, gesturing to the tire.
Samira shakes her head. "I've been meaning to replace it, but…" She trails off.
He nods, arms crossed over his chest and that expression like he's making silent calculations in his head. He gestures to his car with a jerk of his head. "Get in, I'll give you a ride."
She wonders if she should hesitate, but the heat of the day is already reaching unbearable, sweat pooling at her back and her feet aching. So she picks up her bag and moves to the passenger door and climbs in. He looks at her expectantly, one hand on the steering wheel, and she realizes she's never told him where she lives. It's a line she's drawn, one she used to think meant something, but as she takes in his careful expression she can't find it in herself to care.
When they reach her building, she directs him to one of the spots for overnight visitors and holds his gaze as he kills the engine. She gets out of the car, waiting for the sound of his door opening and closing, the click of the lock behind them. As she reaches for her keys, she feels a stutter in her chest, her heart speeding up in anticipation or fear, she isn't sure. Into the building, up the stairs, to the door of her apartment. At the threshold, she hesitates, feeling his presence beside her, the warmth from his body mixing with the tepid air of the weakly air conditioned hallway. She looks up at him, sees him watching her with caution in his eyes, like he's trying not to think too much about it. With a deep inhale, she turns the key in the lock and steps over the threshold, letting him follow her inside.
When she wakes in the morning, his arm slung low over her waist, she finds herself sinking into it, closing her eyes again to linger instead of rushing to get up and out the door. His breath is warm against her neck and she can feel his heart beating steadily against her back, lulling her back into a comfortable sleep.
The second time she wakes, she is alone. The scent of coffee wafts down the hall and she stretches before pulling her clothes on and following, feeling oddly off kilter in her own apartment. The only other person who has been here is her mother, for short visits where her disapproval about the way Samira lives sinks into the very walls of the place. As she rounds the corner into the kitchen and sees Jack pouring coffee into her old chipped Columbia mug, she is struck with a warmth in her chest she doesn't ever remember feeling in this space, like she's suddenly found herself at home.
Almost immediately, the warmth shifts, clawing up at her throat, her heart racing as Jack hands her the mug with a smile too soft, too intimate. The words tumble out, too fast for her to stop them. "You should probably get going." The coffee burns through the mug to her hands and everything feels too hot, too close, the space between them not enough to hold the sudden panic bursting through her veins.
She doesn't catalog the way his face falls, almost imperceptible. Doesn't take into account the shift in his posture, the closing off in his eyes, the tension in his voice when he speaks. "Right."
She doesn't move as he goes to gather his things, quick and efficient. As he lingers before leaving, like he knows she won't change her mind but wants to give her the chance anyway. As the door closes, taking the warmth with him.
Dana insists the Christmas tree in the waiting room is festive, something to brighten up the space. The numerous grumbling patients and fights that break out seem to disagree, but Samira isn't one to begrudge people their happiness where they can get it. She does overhear Dana drawing a line at Princess putting up mistletoe in the break room, dismissing the idea firmly with a laugh and an eye roll.
"Samira." Dana's voice rings out loud and clear across the room before Samira has even had the chance to unwrap the scarf from around her neck. She removes it and the hat from her head as she makes her way to the hub, already pinned under Dana's gaze. "I took a look at next week's schedule. Care to tell me why you're doing a double Christmas Eve into Christmas Day?"
Samira stares blankly at her. "Because the shifts were open?"
"Policy is no one can be required to work both days." Dana raises her eyebrows. "And you already did your holidays this year."
"I know it's not required. I volunteered." Samira's skin feels heated, uncomfortably so. She fidgets with her hat and scarf, folding and unfolding them as Dana keeps her locked in her stare.
Finally, Dana relents, throwing her hands up and shaking her head with an exasperated sigh. "Well, I'm on Christmas Eve so my family is doing dinner the night before. I'll bring you a plate and leave it in the fridge."
"Oh, you don't have to—"
Dana waves her off. "Nonsense. I'm already bringing one for Abbot. For you, though, I'll throw in some dessert." She gives a conspiratorial wink and Samira tries to pretend her heart isn't racing.
"Is Dr. Abbot working a double too?" She hopes she doesn't sound too interested and tracks Dana's expression for any hint she's been found out, but Dana already seems distracted by a chart in front of her.
"Sure is," she replies. "Birds of a feather, I tell you."
Samira swallows hard and nods, considering that the end of it. She walks to the locker room to stash her winter gear and tries to ignore the pang in her chest at the thought of spending those twenty-four hours with Abbot, surrounded by all the trappings of the holiday and patients who are either avoiding their families or desperately trying to get home to them.
She distracts herself with patients, letting the first half of her shift pass in a blur. Robby only gets on her case about her speed once, which she considers a record. She is thorough and efficient, kind and firm, running tests and keeping herself moving while waiting for results. There's Mrs. Linton, worried about missing her grandson's Christmas play in the time it takes to stitch up the cut she'd given herself with a slippery kitchen knife. Mr. Morris, who explains with chagrin how he fell from the ladder his wife had told him not to use to fix their Christmas lights. And Sophia, a five year old with what Samira suspects is a case of strep that caused a panic in her parents, who tells Samira she expects Santa will bring her a unicorn.
"Have you been good this year?" Samira asks teasingly as she takes Sophia's vitals. The little girl nods with her entire body, making Samira laugh as she repositions her stethoscope. When the tests confirm strep and nothing more, Sophia's parents heave a joint sigh of relief.
"Sorry, you must think we're crazy," the mom says, dabbing at her eyes. "Taking her to the ER for strep—"
"You're not crazy," Samira interjects gently. "Strep throat can develop into other illnesses. Better to be safe, and now we can set you up with antibiotics and have you right as rain for Christmas." She directs the last bit to Sophia, who grins.
"Do you have plans for the holidays, Dr. Mohan?" the dad asks, his hand stroking his daughter's hair back from her forehead. Samira feels a pang in her chest at the sight and carefully looks away, meeting his eyes with what she hopes is a genuine smile.
"I'll be here for Christmas," she replies. "Lots of sick people to help."
They both look at her with sympathy in their eyes and Samira suddenly feels overheated, the walls of the exam room closer than before. She picks up her tablet and lets the family know she'll put in the order for Sophia's medicine right away, then blindly reaches behind her for the door handle and stumbles out into the swirl of activity beyond.
She glances back when the door swings closed behind her, the window framing the two parents leaning into their daughter cuddled between them, soft smiles on all three of their faces. Add some fake snow and twinkle lights and it may as well be a Christmas card photo, a stock image of a happy family at the holidays. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Samira forces herself into motion and heads for her next patient.
Her parents didn't raise her with any sort of religion. Her mom is a paralegal, her dad was a biology teacher. Logic and reason reigned supreme in their home, but Samira's dad seemed to throw that all aside when Christmas was concerned. Since coming to the United States shortly before Samira was born, he'd adopted the winter season and all the traditions of his new home with aplomb, despite having never really celebrated in his own childhood. Samira grew up with a tree that brushed the ceiling of their living room and dripped with sparkling ornaments and tinsel, the glow of the lights dancing around their modest house as she tried to guess what waited for her in the neatly wrapped boxes underneath.
One year he let her open a gift early—watching with a proud expression as she tore off the paper and squealed with delight when it revealed a bright blue sled, ready for the fresh layer of snow that had fallen that morning. Samira remembers spending hours outside, alternating between being pulled by her dad and sending herself careening down the hill behind their house, her legs so exhausted by the end he had to carry her inside.
She's not sure what happened to the sled. Given away or put in storage, she guesses, when she and her mom had to move to a smaller apartment where it wouldn't get much use anyway. Their holiday celebrations downsized too, a fake tree replacing the majestic fir they would all pick out together the first weekend of December. The first winter without him, they didn't put up a tree at all, like if they pretended the season wasn't happening they wouldn't have to face the pain of it.
As Samira pushes into the waiting room to call her next patient back, the tree in the corner catches her eye. It leans slightly to one side, most of the ornaments looking like the ones you'd typically find hiding on the back of a tree. The star on top was probably once a gleaming gold but now appears more of a dull yellow, muted in the light and general chaos of the room around it.
"Right this way, Mr. Lee." Samira gestures for the man to follow her, smiling as he shuffles through the door.
"Please, call me Ken," he insists with a wave of his hand.
Samira smiles softly and ushers him into an exam room, nodding to Mateo as he starts preparing for a blood draw. "Okay, Ken, tell us what brings you in today."
Everyone in the ED has their triggers. Types of cases that, for one reason or another, get underneath their skin and make them pause in the middle of a busy shift. Dana gets a tension in her jaw when patients are sisters. McKay has to breathe in hard through her nose and out through her mouth when women come in with handprint shaped bruises. And Samira runs extra tests and struggles to hold a smile on her face when middle aged men come in with chest pain. Not all the time—they see a lot of chest pain in their line of work, enough that some is routine. But occasionally a patient will spark something familiar—maybe their age, maybe their background, maybe just a soft smile and kind word that has her feeling for a second like she's thirteen again, watching doctors code her father after he'd been sitting up and talking to her not five minutes before.
Mr. Ken Lee is chatty as she conducts her exam, telling her about his plans for his grandchildren's Christmas presents. He'd finally convinced his daughter to let him buy her two children bicycles—with helmets, he adds emphatically, like he's seeking a doctor's approval. Samira nods and smiles, asks questions about what color and whether the kids already know how to ride, and hears a ticking clock in the back of her mind.
She tells Mr. Lee what tests she plans to order and leaves the room, feeling her hands shake as she swipes across her tablet to make the orders. She glances around for Robby, not eager to have to explain herself for what she knows he would see as unnecessary caution. But when she closes her eyes, she sees two children with Mr. Lee's kind eyes staring up at her, pleading for her not to let their grandfather slip through the cracks.
Early morning sunlight reflects off the tops of the buildings and Samira shields her eyes, watching the lone figure standing against the railing come into focus as she adjusts to the natural light after hours under the fluorescents in the ED. Her entire body aches from the eleven hours she's already been on shift, her feet practically numb as she carefully steps across the roof and hovers to a stop a few feet away from the edge.
"Everything okay?"
Jack turns his head just enough to see her from the corner of his eyes, his profile striking against the new light of morning. He gives a noncommittal movement of his head, then turns back to face out at the city. Samira twists her hands together awkwardly. It's usually Robby coming up to talk him off the roof. But Robby is off on his sabbatical, and she woke up in Jack Abbot's bed before coming in for the night shift together—staggering their entry to the hospital to avoid suspicion—so here she is, woefully out of her depth when the problem in front of her is the man she's sleeping with instead of a patient under her care.
"Do you want…" She snaps her mouth shut, unsure what she means to say. "Do you want me to go?" Or stay, she thinks to herself. Maybe that's the way she's supposed to phrase it.
Jack shakes his head, and she takes that as indication that she can move closer. With bated breath, she steps up to the railing and clenches her hands around it. The rational part of her brain is aware they are far enough back from the edge that the possibility of falling off is unlikely, but the instinctive part is shouting louder, willing her to step back and move to safety. She steadfastly ignores it.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she ventures. She has a feeling what sent him up here. They spent the last three hours desperately trying to save the victim of a drunk driving accident. A trauma room bustling with activity and sound, a well-rehearsed dance that they all knew their part of, until the woman's husband arrived, eyes bloodshot and face ashen. The steps stumbled. Samira watched as Abbot faltered—only for a second, not enough for anyone else to notice, but she has spent weeks learning the lines of his face, the tension that sits in his body, the buzz of activity that always seems to thrum under his skin. In all that time, he hasn't said anything about the wife he lost, but she knows the story. Everyone at PTMC knows that Dr. Jack Abbot's wife arrived in the ED in the back of an ambulance two years ago and never left. Drunk drivers and emergency amputations—the types of cases that get under Dr. Abbot's skin.
She waits for him to speak, listens to his ragged breathing. She feels woefully inadequate, unable to muster up a single helpful thing to say. It would all sound hollow anyway. Because she knows that pain of having the opportunity to keep someone from going through the same pain you did and failing anyway. Being an emergency medicine physician means always falling short, always failing someone no matter how hard you try.
When Jack finally speaks, his voice is haggard, strained from the long night. "You should go help with handoff." It's not exactly dismissive, but it stings nonetheless.
Samira wonders if she should argue. That's what a girlfriend would do, isn't it? Insist he shouldn't be alone, take his hand and squeeze it tightly, let him rest his head on her shoulder and comfort him as he falls apart. But she isn't his girlfriend, and he's not one to fall apart with an audience. She hesitates. Inhales, exhales. Gives him a moment to change his mind and watches it pass.
"Okay," she says finally. "I'll see you down there." It comes out as more of a question than she intends. She waits for him to look at her, his eyes clouded with something she can't name. He nods. She holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns to leave, the slam of the door behind her echoing as she makes her way down the empty staircase.
Cold seeps through Samira's sweatshirt and scrub top as she leans against the wall outside the hospital, the overhang of the ambulance bay protecting her from the snow but not the wind. She shivers, wishing she'd picked up her jacket before she came outside but not caring enough to go back in for it. The snow makes the night seem brighter, catching the flickers of the streetlights and the glow from the hospital's windows, swirling and sparkling before drifting to settle against the ground. There is already a thin layer on the road, undisturbed for now but she knows not for long. Someone has left a shovel leaning against the trash can, a bucket of rock salt beside it. In the silence, Samira closes her eyes and inhales, the scent on the air making her chest ache. She pictures her father, his eyes twinkling as he sets a mug in front of her, the warm scent of chocolate and cinnamon and cloves tugging at her memory.
"Dr. Mohan."
She snaps her eyes open and exhales sharply, her breath clouding in the air. The snow had silenced Dr. Abbot's approach so it seems like he's appeared out of nowhere, a conjuring from some part of her that's intent on torturing her with hurtful memories. "Yes?" She hopes her voice is level.
"Aren't you cold?" His brow is furrowed in concern, his hands tucked into the pockets of a sturdy looking jacket, flannel lined and dusted with snow.
Samira shrugs. "I'm fine. Just taking a break."
Abbot nods, looking uncertain. "You working a double?"
"No." She had considered it, once the snow started falling. Weighed the hassle of getting home on slippery roads against the steady pulse of a headache forming behind her right eye. "I'm done in an hour." He's early, is the thing she leaves unspoken. She used to flatter herself thinking he came in early to see her, even though he did long before there was anything between them, still does now that there's nothing. It was never about her. For a while though, it was nice to think she was the reason for anything he did.
He shifts on his feet, his eyes looking anywhere but her. The awkwardness is new. It was never like this before, not during. This is the after, she realizes. They crossed a line and came out on the other side fractured and broken, unable to make the pieces fit back together. She can't forget the burn of his hands against her skin, the feel of his lips against hers, the hard line of his muscles beneath her hands. How could they go back, after all that?
While he looks out at the road, she takes the opportunity to study him, filing away evidence to fixate on later when she can't fall asleep. His skin is pale, the circles under his eyes darker than they should be for the start of a shift. He can't seem to stay still and she can see him flexing and clenching his hands in his pockets, a grounding habit she knows he got from his therapist. His lips are chapped from the cold, and likely from biting them in moments of stress.
Without warning, he turns to meet her gaze, his eyes open and inviting, and the breath catches in her throat. She knows she should look away, should make an excuse about the cold and go back inside to busy herself with patients until the end of her shift, but she's drawn to him like a moth to a flame, some things apparently unchanged. His expression shifts. The lines on his forehead soften and his mouth parts slightly, his breath curling in the air between him. The dull yellow streetlight glints off the melted flecks of snow in his hair, giving the momentary impression of something sparkling. Samira feels caught in his gaze, warm despite the chill of the air, a lump forming in her throat as she suddenly finds herself blinking back tears.
He opens his mouth and there's a rushing in her ears, a feeling like she's standing just before the free fall. "Samira—"
She rushes to stop him, not wanting to find out what waits for her at the bottom of the cliff. "You shouldn't look at me like that."
He blinks, taken aback. "I don't know any other way to look at you." The corner of his mouth tugs up, almost like he can't help it. It sparks something in his eyes and Samira still can't bring herself to look away.
The moment stretches around them, oddly quiet and protected, snowfall muffling the noise and chaos that usually soundtracks their days. She wonders how it would feel to step closer, to take his hand and lace their fingers together, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. She blinks and tears her eyes away, focusing on the swirl of snow in the streetlight. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she finds herself grateful for the intrusion, afraid of what could happen if she let the moment go on any longer. She checks the notification to see Mr. Lee's test results are ready and replaces her phone in her pocket, allowing herself one more inhale and exhale of the cold evening air.
"I should get back inside." Samira's voice sounds too loud in the softness of the air. She moves to brush past him and stops when she feels him lean in, their shoulders nearly touching as he tilts his head towards her, the warmth of his breath grazing her chin.
"I miss you." The wind nearly takes his words away, whisking them through the air like snowflakes, each one unique and fleeting.
Samira catches them, holds them on her tongue, feels them melt against her skin. "I can't—" She doesn't finish the thought. Her footsteps crunch through the snow, leaving a trail behind her until the automatic doors part for her and she dives back into her work, unwilling to picture Jack standing out in the cold.
"Why did you become a doctor?"
They're laying in Jack's bed, Samira's head on his chest and his hand lazily stroking her hair. A single beam of sunlight shines through the gap where the blackout curtains aren't closed all the way, the only indication that it's not the middle of the night.
"Hmm?" Jack angles his head to look down at her, his eyebrows raised.
Samira repeats her question, shifting a little so he doesn't have to crane his neck. The hand that's moving in her hair stills as he seems to consider it, and she wonders if it's odd that he doesn't have an answer ready to go.
"I don't think I really had one reason," he answers, saying the words slowly like he's still thinking about it. "It's changed a lot over the years. At first, honestly, I wanted to prove I could do it. I was never the smartest kid in school growing up and…" He runs his hand through his hair and looks up at the ceiling like he's picturing those far off memories. "I don't know, back then I thought it meant something if I did what people didn't expect. Then when I was a medic… It was a bit of savior complex."
Samira nods, watching as he tilts his head back to look at her. "And now?"
Jack lets out an amused huff. "Now I think it's the only thing I know how to do."
She waits for him to say more, but he seems finished. She thinks about his answer, wondering if her why will change over the years, if she'll ever find herself wondering what got her into this. Her dad's face swims in front of her mind, that steady ache in her chest where she always keeps him reminding her of why she does this.
"What about you?" he asks, his lips curved up in a teasing smile. "Why did Samira Mohan decide to do us all a favor and become a doctor?"
"To save people," she answers promptly. "To uncover the inequities in our medical system and put practices in place to reduce them. To make sure no one falls through the cracks." Her cheeks heat and she wonders if her intensity is too much, but Jack just looks at her with admiration.
"Noble," he replies, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She smiles and lays her head back on his chest, surprised at how easy it is to feel comfortable like this.
She has almost drifted off to sleep when he speaks again, his voice softer than before, like he's only half talking to her. "What happens if you can't save everyone?"
Samira lifts her head to look at him and is surprised at the vulnerability she finds in his expression, his eyes open and deep with a hurt she recognizes instinctively. She holds his gaze and turns the question over in her mind before answering. "I haven't figured that out yet."
On Christmas Eve, Samira calls her mom on her way in to work to wish her a Merry Christmas. She can hear the hum of activity in the background, her stepfather's family celebrating with boisterous cheer. Samira hums and exclaims at all the appropriate moments and politely inquires about the ages of the many grandchildren. Her mother assumes the schedule was out of Samira's control, and Samira doesn't correct her. She leaves unsaid the reason that she can't bring herself to return home in the winter, doesn't let her mother know that the thought of celebrating without her father feels like an icicle has lodged itself in her chest, a wound felt long after the cause has melted away.
Outside the hospital, her footsteps falter to a stop. Snow keeps falling, dusting her coat with moisture, landing on her lashes so she has to blink to clear her vision. The building looms over her, its height always seeming greater from down here than from moments on the roof, though she hasn't been up there in weeks. Maybe it seems just as looming from up there and she's let it shrink in her memory. With a sigh, she trudges forward and pushes her way through the door, wincing when she's met with a blast of heat trying to offset the constant chill from the door opening and closing.
"Dr. Mohan!"
She turns at the sound of her name to find Mr. Lee, her patient from last week, weaving his way across the room with a small tin clutched in his hands. She scans him for signs that there is something else wrong, something she may have missed before discharging him last week.
"Mr. Lee," she greets him, "are you feeling okay?"
"Oh, yes, much better, thanks to you." He grins. "I remembered you said you were working on Christmas Eve. I brought you these." He shoves the tin into her hands with enthusiasm. "Yakgwa. Cookies with honey and ginger. My daughter's favorite, I make them every year."
Samira blinks rapidly against the telltale prickling behind her eyes. "You shouldn't have, really—"
He shakes his head to cut her off. "What's Christmas without some sweets, eh? Enjoy. Please. I made too much anyway."
Understanding he won't take no for an answer, Samira holds the tin carefully and smiles, warmth pooling in her chest. "Thank you," she says softly, prying the lid up to take a glimpse inside. The comforting scent of honey and ginger curls in her nose, with a note of spice that sends a new wave of tears pricking at her eyes.
Mr. Lee smiles broadly, loose and uninhibited. "Thank you, Dr. Mohan. Merry Christmas."
Inside the ED, she tucks the tin carefully in her locker and sheds her outer layers, trying her best to shake off the snow before hanging them and slamming the locker closed. A shift in the air alerts her that she's not alone and she turns slowly, already certain who she will see.
He's hovering in the doorway like he's not sure if he can come closer, already looking tired despite the shift not even starting yet. "Dr. Abbot." She greets him with a nod.
Her voice seems to spur him into movement and he steps further into the space, then drops his bag from his shoulder to punch the code into his own locker. "Dr. Mohan."
Something makes her linger, her eyes tracing his unruly curls, the shadows under his eyes, the freckled expanse of his forearms. A part of her feels rubbed raw, already emotionally drained from the phone call with her mom, the kindness of Mr. Lee, the knowledge that she's about to spend twenty-four hours with people who will inevitably bring up Christmas and what they're missing by being here. For a moment, she regrets signing up for these shifts, wishes she'd taken the time off and tried her best to hibernate for twenty-four hours until the holiday was over. Then Dr. Abbot closes his locker and looks up at her, and she can't stop herself from wanting him to keep looking.
"Going to be a long night," he says, his eyes flicking from meeting hers and looking at the door behind her. "Get rest when you can."
Samira nods. "I will."
He hesitates, like there's something else he's going to say, then seems to catch himself. Samira watches the shift, the tension building in his body, and wonders if he still studies her the same way. When neither of them speaks, she clears her throat and gestures towards the hallway. "I'll just… Yeah." Then she turns on her heel and all but runs to the hub, wondering how they are meant to get through a twenty-four hour shift like this.
"That patient earlier gave you his number, right? You should call him." There's a casual air to Jack's voice that Samira knows is forced.
She stares at him, unimpressed. "It's unethical to date patients." Never mind that she's currently sitting on his couch in one of his t-shirts and her underwear, keenly aware he's been waiting to bring this up since they left the hospital.
Jack scoffs derisively. "It's also unethical for an attending to sleep with one of his residents."
"One of your residents?" She repeats. "You're not technically my supervisor."
"That technically is doing a lot of heavy lifting." A bitter edge creeps into his voice and heat flares in Samira's cheeks, her temper rising faster than she can tamp it down.
"Oh, shut up."
Jack continues as if she didn't speak. "You should go out with someone more… Appropriate. Closer to your age."
She raises her eyebrows. "So to be clear, is your issue that you outrank me or that I'm younger than you? Neither seemed to matter when you were fucking me thirty minutes ago."
"Jesus, Samira." Jack scrubs a hand over his face, his energy draining. "That's not what I…" He frowns, starts again. "I just meant…" He sighs and meets her gaze, an apology written across his face. "You deserve more. I don't want you to look back on this ten years down the line and realize you were wasting your time."
Part of Samira recognizes the negative self-talk, the belief he has that he is not someone worthy of care and attention or connection with another person. He's in therapy, he's working on it, she knows that. The other part of her, though, the less charitable part of her… That part is pissed he seems to think she's not capable of making her own decisions.
With a huff, she stands and retrieves her pants from where they fell by the couch, pulling them on before going to look for her shoes. "I wasn't aware you thought so little of my decision making." She storms back in the living room to grab the papers she'd been reading, not wanting to lose her notes in the midst of whatever this is. "If you don't want to do this anymore, fine, but don't try and make it about what you think I deserve." With that, she locates her keys and storms out of the house, letting the door slam behind her.
At the start of her next shift, he finds her in the locker room.
"I'm sorry," he says as a greeting, holding his hands up like he expects her to run.
"Could you be more specific?" She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him, eyebrows raised.
He pauses, then speaks. "I'm sorry for being an asshole."
Samira moves to go around him. "That's still pretty vague."
He exhales a low breath. "I'm sorry I acted like I know what's best for you. It was patronizing and rude and I deserved the dramatic walkout." Something like fondness sneaks into his voice at the end and he looks at her with wide eyes. "My therapist said I was self-sabotaging."
"Is that so?" Samira replies wryly.
"Among other things." Jack's lips twitch into a smile, his eyes brightening ever so slightly. Samira didn't have much fight in her to begin with, and she finds whatever was left of it disappears at the sight.
"Look, this…" she gestures between them, then glances around to make sure no one has wandered close enough to the door to eavesdrop. "This is working. Do you really think I haven't already thought about the optics of it?"
"Of course I don't—"
"Then don't act like you're doing me some favor by hoisting me off on someone I have nothing in common with besides our age." She feels herself softening, her arms dropping down from their defensive position across her chest. "We don't have to complicate things." That's the whole point, she wants to add. Their arrangement isn't supposed to involve feelings or jealousy or concerns about what people at work would say. It's their own private bubble, something fun and flirty and definitely not serious, and the disagreement the other day got too close to something else for Samira's comfort.
"You're right. Sorry. I just… I saw him give you his number and I…" He trails off, then straightens his posture. "I'm sorry."
Samira nods. "Great. I'm going to go to work now." She rolls her shoulders and starts pulling her hair into a clip as she passes him to go to the hub, feeling his eyes on her the entire way.
They've barely worked together since the end. She has stayed on days, he on nights, their paths only crossing for the period of overlap between shifts. It's easier that way. Without an excuse to linger, her work-life balance has improved exponentially. It turns out the secret was to get involved in a messy affair with a coworker and then be unable to be in the same place for longer than hour afterwards. Not that she can explain that approach to McKay.
She twists her hair into a clip as she looks at the board and resigns herself to a long night of fighting with her own emotions to keep her rational side on top. It's just this holiday, she tells herself. It's the winter, the dark sky, the snow-heavy streets. She'll chalk it up to seasonal affective disorder, make a note to add a vitamin D supplement to her routine, and push through it.
"Incoming trauma," Bridget calls, snapping Samira to attention. "MVC, two drivers. Four minutes out."
"Got it." Samira hears her own words echoed in another voice and turns to find Dr. Abbot staring at her, holding her gaze for a split second before they both jump into motion.
Working a trauma is second nature to Samira. She lets the adrenaline of it take over, trusting herself to know what to do and to stay steady in the chaos. She welcomes it—the urgency of the moment clears out any remaining wistfulness or regret, letting her focus instead on the patient in front of her. Samira and Abbot take the first driver, Ellis and Shen the second, and it's like falling back into a routine. They move effortlessly around each other, a choreographed dance they know by heart, anticipating each other's next move without a second thought.
After the patient is stabilized and sent up to surgery, Samira realizes she feels the best she's felt in weeks. She feels useful, like she is exactly where she is supposed to be, not like she's letting anyone down or failing to reach their standards. It bolsters her, gives her confidence that she hopes she can keep for the rest of the shift, despite knowing better than to think anything could be so easy.
"I'll check on the other driver. See if you can contact the family?" Abbot asks as they exit the trauma room, tearing off gowns and gloves.
She nods, the realization dawning that despite knowing the patient will probably survive, she is still about to make a phone call that will likely ruin a family's holiday and turn it into one of the worst days of their lives. It could be worse, the voice in her head reminds her, as if it's any comfort.
"Thanks." Jack pauses, then meets her gaze intently. "Great work, Samira."
Her breath catches in her throat as he moves to the next trauma room, already pulling on a new gown and gloves, leaving her rooted in place and trying to forget the sound of her name on his lips.
Two weeks before the end, they have the same forty-eight hours off. Long enough to drive out to Jack's cabin in the mountains, the canopy of red and orange and yellow leaves getting thicker with every mile. Jack's car is too old for Bluetooth so Samira fiddles with the radio dial whenever it fades to static, turning until she finds a station that will come in for whatever stretch of road they're on. Eventually, it's all static, civilization left well and truly behind.
She looks at Jack as he drives, watching the tension fall from his shoulders the further they get from the city. He's more open out here. His smile comes easier, the furrowed line of his brow softening until he looks ten years younger. Shyly, he tells her about going camping with his family as a kid, the first time he saw the wide expanse of stars that appeared away from the glow of city lights, the awe that has stayed with him all his life. When they pull up to the cabin, Samira can't deny the calming effect of the fresh air and the canopy of trees, something like contentment sinking into her skin as she gets out of the car and follows Jack inside.
They pass the day lazily. She catches up on some reading, asking his opinion every now and then on some treatment or study. He makes dinner and gently pulls her notes from her hands to guide her to the table where a glass of wine waits for her, and she smiles up at him as he puts food in front of her. The woods around them cocoon them in silence and Samira finds it easier than she expected to let go of the racing thoughts that are usually her constant companion. She is not in the hospital right now. She is not doing her research right now. Right now, she can focus on the warmth of the cabin, the delicious aroma of the plate in front of her, the smooth taste of wine against her tongue.
After dinner, they clean up together. Jack washes dishes and hands them to Samira to dry, the movements easy and practiced like they've done it hundreds of times before. It's a level of quiet domesticity Samira has never experienced and she can't bring herself to fully settle into it, a small voice in her head reminding her that this isn't what this arrangement is about. But then Jack dries his hands and places them on either side of her face and kisses her like he's drinking her in, like a drowning man coming up for air, and she feels herself melt into him, that voice in her head silenced as they stumble their way down the hall to the bedroom.
It's slow and tender, the knowledge that neither of them will be called into work giving them the space to take their time. Samira's skin burns under Jack's hands, his lips, the scratch of his stubble as he moves down her body. There is a different weight to it here, tucked away in this cabin in the mountains with the next twenty-four hours stretching before them. This isn't a rushed hookup between work and sleep or blowing off steam after a difficult shift. This is intentional, planned. They know each other's bodies too well at this point and with all the time to explore it Samira feels herself giving into it, letting the wall she usually keeps up fall down under the weight of Jack's body on hers.
In the morning, still half-asleep, she looks across the pillow at Jack and that's when she sees it—something she's only seen in flashes, there and gone fast enough for her to pretend she never saw it at all. It's all she can see now, that depth in his eyes, an emotion that she cannot and will not allow herself to name. Naming it makes it real, makes this something more than two people who work well together and sleep together when it's convenient and don't share much else.
And then what happens? If she names it, if she lets either of them say those words, if she gives in to something deeper—what next? She knows the pattern. Their schedules won't line up. She'll snap at him after a long day, he'll tell her to leave him alone on the roof after another. He won't talk about his wife, she won't talk about her father. They both have wells of grief inside them too deep to invite someone else into and she knows that can't be fixed by a simple four letter word that she doesn't believe to be true anyway.
Later, Samira won't have to wonder which of them was the first to pull away. She starts it, the next morning as they drove back to Pittsburgh. Slowly starts building the wall between them back up, brick by brick. Saw herself through his eyes and runs scared in the other direction, waiting for him to be the one to bring it all crashing down.
The second driver doesn't need surgery and is wheeled into a room in the ED once she's stable. Ellis finds her belongings from the ambulance and manages to reach her emergency contact, and in almost no time her husband is rushing into the ED, his eyes wild with panic until someone manages to intercept him and figure out who he's looking for. Samira watches Ellis lead him to his wife's room, her voice low and calming in an effort to prepare him for the damage he's about to see, the lump in her throat returns.
She doesn't have to look to feel Abbot's gaze on her. She wonder if this strange, Abbot-tinged sixth sense of hers will ever go away, will fade away the longer she tries to ignore it. Now that it's not being used for stolen glances across the room, secret smiles when no one else is watching, will she one day be able to be blissfully unaware when he is in the same room as her? She studiously avoids his gaze and picks the first patient she sees on the board, distracting herself the only way she knows how.
Somewhere around 4 a.m., Samira realizes she's starving. The board is the lightest it's been all night, so she takes the opportunity to duck into the locker room and retrieve her cookie tin, then heads for the break room. She's already biting into a cookie as she pushes the door open and stops short when she finds the room already occupied, Dr. Abbot sitting with a half empty mug of coffee in front of him, his elbows propped on the table and his hands rubbing at his temples.
"Hi," she mumbles around the cookie in her mouth, flushing as the door slams shut behind her. "Sorry, I…" She swallows, watching as he drops his hands and straightens his posture, his expression cautious. "I didn't know anyone was in here."
"No worries. Just giving my leg a break." His voice is even, measured, and she wonders briefly if he'd be so honest about the limits of his body with someone else. She guesses not.
Not sure what else to do, Samira holds out the tin. "Cookie?" He blinks up at her and hesitates, then carefully selects a cookie and holds it in his hand, like he's not sure she meant to give it to him. "A patient brought them for me." The honey is sweet on her tongue, the accompanying spice of ginger cutting through it with perfect balance. It's warm and comforting, and maybe that's why the words come out before she can stop them. "He reminded me of my dad."
Jack looks up at her, his eyebrows lifted in surprise, then takes a small bite of the cookie in his hand. His lips tilt up slightly at the taste and she feels her own expression mirroring his, a small private smile over a shared sweet. It doesn't mean anything that seeing him smile lifts some of the weight that's slowly settled on her chest over the course of the shift. It's the cookie, the kind gesture from the patient, the almost nostalgic flavor in her mouth. She ignores the flash of fondness as Jack brushes crumbs off his shirt and settles his hands on the table, drumming them against the top like he's not sure what to do if some part of him isn't moving.
Suddenly aware of the bubble they've found themselves in, Samira busies herself with getting the plate Dana left for her in the fridge and popping it in the microwave, staring at it as it rotates as if her gaze is the only thing keeping it working. She knows Jack is still sitting behind her, can hear as he lifts his mug off the table and takes a sip, then sets it back down. She tries not to picture the expanse of his throat, the muscles she used to run her teeth over moving as he drinks. The microwave beeps and she jumps, banishing the thought from her mind.
When she turns to sit, she half expects him to get up and leave, but his leg must really be bothering him because he stays where he is, though he shifts back in his seat slightly as if to give her more space. He raises his eyebrows at the plate she puts down. "Dana?"
Samira nods, shoveling a healthy bite of baked ziti into her mouth. It heated slightly unevenly, half of it scalding and half of it cold, but she's barely eaten in the last eight hours and welcomes the homemade food regardless. "Did you eat?"
Something twitches in Jack's face. He nods and sets his hands back on the table, starting up the drumming rhythm again. "She left me a plate too."
Samira hums around her next mouthful and nudges the tin of cookies closer, offering another, but he shakes his head.
"What patient?" he asks, gesturing to the cookies with a lift of his chin.
Samira swallows her last bite of ziti and moves on to what Dana had labeled as vegetarian meatballs. "His name is Ken Lee. He came in with chest pain last week and was telling me about getting his grandkids new bikes for Christmas. I mentioned I was working on Christmas and he showed up today with cookies." Again, her eyes prick at the memory of Mr. Lee's smiling face, the unabashed warmth as he presented his gift.
Jack's eyes haven't moved from her face. "Chest pain?" There is another layer of meaning to his words, a recognition of why this particular patient may have stuck with her.
She blinks back her tears and keeps her gaze on the plate in front of her. "Early stage aortic valve regurgitation." Those faces swim in front of her again, children with Mr. Lee's eyes, looking adoringly at their grandfather as he presents them with their Christmas gifts. "Early enough for treatment but…" She trails off. It's a condition that can be treated, not cured, and she can't help but wonder when it will reach a tipping point in that nice man's life.
"Good catch," Jack says softly. "That often gets missed in the ED."
Samira looks up at him. "He was really kind." It feels necessary to say, the tin of cookies laying open between them as evidence.
"He was lucky to have you as his doctor." The words come out rushed, like he thought to stop himself but it was too late. Samira's cheeks heat as she stares at him, her meal sitting heavily in her stomach. Jack blinks rapidly, opens his mouth and closes it again. "I just meant…"
"I know." Samira stands to throw her plate away, suddenly dizzy with the attention. He's complimented her like this before. Before there was anything between them other than professional admiration, even. But now it's tinted with something else, with memories she can't afford to sink into of his praise taking different forms, of heat between them and not much else.
The room feels too small. Careful to avoid his gaze, Samira gathers her tin of cookies and replaces the lid carefully, staring down at the cheerful Christmas pattern printed on top. "I'll go check on triage," she explains hurriedly, not waiting for a response before she's out the door.
"This isn't working." He says the words carefully, slowly, like he's delivering a difficult diagnosis.
They're in his kitchen, untouched coffee between them. She has a shift in an hour, is already dressed in her scrubs with her bag packed and waiting by the door.
Samira barely blinks. They both knew this was coming, didn't they? Two people damaged in their own way, layers of scar tissue over their hearts, far too capable of compartmentalizing and denying themselves what they really want. She engineered it, pulled away little by little until he stopped trying to break through the wall. "No, it's not."
She wonders if he expected her to argue. If by saying this isn't working, what he really meant was we should fix it. If he wanted them to hash it out, to dig out the ugly parts and lay them bare for the other to see. He probably talked to his therapist about it, words like vulnerability and attachment and avoidance floating around a comfortably furnished room, Samira's name on his lips when she wasn't there to hear it.
Jack scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. Samira knows how those curls feel between her fingers, surprisingly soft as she tugs them to bring his lips closer to her body. "I wish I could…"
"I know." She wishes she could open herself up, be vulnerable even if it means getting hurt. Wishes he could do the same, that he could break through the wall of grief and guilt that surround his heart, the memories of all the things he's lost keeping him from holding on to something new. Wishes they weren't both so stubborn, so willing to burn themselves rather than share the warmth of the fires they're tending.
Maybe if they'd met at another time, in another place. If she was older, if he was younger. If he'd never been married, never had to bury his wife. If she'd never watched her mother crumble under the weight of grief and loneliness, cementing in Samira's mind that love is a risk, something that will leave you hollow and angry and broken when it is inevitably taken away. Maybe they could have been good.
When morning comes, Samira says goodbye to the lucky crew finishing their shift and hello to those just starting, ignoring the dull ache of a headache forming behind her eyes as she stares down the barrel of another twelve hours. Santos greets her by handing her a cup of hot coffee she picked up on the way in and if they were different people, Samira thinks she might hug her.
"It's partly a bribe," Santos insists. "Give me the good cases."
Samira shrugs and sips the drink. "There's not much out of the ordinary so far."
Santos gapes at her. "Seriously? No one's been impaled by a Christmas tree?"
"I don't think that happens all that often."
Santos rolls her eyes and pushes off from the hub to go off in search of something good, and Samira takes a moment to work on some charting, her feet grateful for the time spent sitting down.
It doesn't last long. Christmas Day brings a new kind of chaos, each patient now accompanied by the knowledge that they really, desperately, would rather be anywhere else. Samira can't seem to move fast enough, each patient she discharges replaced by two more needing attention. When another car accident comes in, she jumps into the trauma with a strange sense of relief because at least this has order to it, a system she can follow and work through in the urgency of the moment. She and Abbot run the room again and this time Santos is there as witness, her eyes taking on a knowing look as the patient is stabilized and taken up to surgery. She bumps Samira's shoulder with hers as they remove their gowns, her eyes fixed on Abbot across the room.
"So you guys made up?"
Samira looks at her sharply. "What?"
Santos rolls her eyes. "You and Abbot. You've been weird lately. But that was normal."
Samira throws her gown and gloves into the waste bin and reaches for the nearby hand sanitizer, rubbing her hands together and wincing when she inhales the sharp scent. "I don't know what you mean." Then she turns and runs before Santos can call her bluff.
With one hour left in the shift, Samira again finds herself in the secluded corner of the ambulance bay, the cold seeping through her shoes a welcome remedy for her aching feet. They're oddly well-staffed—a few people scheduled for the night shift came in early, looking varied degrees of frazzled after a day spent with family to the extent that Samira wonders how many of them faked being called in early to get away. Since she's been on for nearly twenty-four hours, she guesses no one will miss her if she takes a few minutes to herself.
"I was looking for you."
Samira glances back to the doorway with a sigh, resisting the part of her that wants to tell Jack he shouldn't say things like that to her anymore. Somewhere during the twenty-four hour shift, she's mellowed towards him, managed to push their history aside and remember what it was like to work as colleagues. But then he says things like I was looking for you and all her progress goes out the window, replaced with sharpness that wants to cleave him away from her while simultaneously holding him closer.
Jack settles against the wall beside her, his hands in his jacket pockets. She gets an odd sense of deja vu as they stand in the yellow glow of the streetlights, once again surrounded by a snowy, silent night.
"The husband of our MVC driver from last night went home to get the gifts from under their tree and brought them back for his wife to open," he tells her with an upward twitch of his lip.
"That's sweet."
Jack hums in agreement, then lets silence fall. Sirens sound in the distance and Samira listens until they fade, apparently not coming their way just yet.
"I liked working with you today." It's a quiet confession, his words carrying on the cold air and settling into Samira's skin. She shakes her head slightly, her arms crossing across her chest in protection.
"Jack." There's a warning in her tone, though she knows as well as he does that it's half-hearted.
"Sorry." Equally half-hearted.
She sighs, her breath curling into the night in a gentle mist, and wonders if the ache in her chest would soften if she just let herself lean into Jack Abbot, to accept that it wouldn't be perfect but they could try anyway. She thinks about the nights in his bed, the rare off days spent together, that trip to the mountains that marked the beginning of the end. If she hadn't been scared, if she hadn't let both of their fears and anxieties take the lead, where would she be today? The answer hits her with a sweet sort of irony. She would be exactly where she is now. Spending Christmas in the ED with Jack Abbot.
"I know we didn't…" Jack winces and lifts a hand to run through his hair. "Sorry. I shouldn't…" He sighs. "I just wanted to say. We were good, right? Some of the time." His eyes search hers and she sees her own pain reflected in them, her desperation for something to change while knowing she doesn't have the power to make it happen. It's what will catch them every time, an insurmountable hurdle for them both.
"Yeah," she manages. She thinks about their laughter mingling together in the warmth of his house. Thinks of his hands on her waist, pulling her in for a kiss. Thinks of meals cooked together and cleaning up dishes side by side and falling asleep with his arms around her, safe and secure. "We were."
He nods, blinking rapidly. She wonders what parts of it he's replaying in his own mind, if their memories line up or paint a different picture altogether.
"I'll head back inside."
As he moves, the wind shifts, and a sound overhead draws Samira's eyes up to the awning protecting them from the elements. A laugh slips from her lips. "I guess Princess got her mistletoe after all," Samira remarks, pointing at the little cluster of leaves taped overhead. "Probably trying to catch that EMT she has a crush on."
Jack makes a strangled sort of sound, his eyes flicking up and then finding Samira's with that same heat she's gotten used to. He takes a step closer to her—slowly, as if waiting for her to stop him. When she doesn't, he leans in and presses his lips to her cheek. The touch is achingly soft, warm and comforting, and Samira closes her eyes as he lingers there, only opening them when she feels him pull away.
"Merry Christmas, Jack." Her voice is barely above a whisper. His face fills her vision and she finds herself thinking how easy it would be to close the distance between them, to kiss him for real and bury herself in it until she comes to her senses and can blame it on the mistletoe. She wonders if she's imagining the scent of honey and ginger in the air.
He inclines his head towards her, his eyes pools of emotion she wants to let herself dive into. "Merry Christmas, Samira."
As he walks back inside, she gives herself another minute to stand in the cool night air, holding on to the warmth of his lips on her skin for as long as she can keep it.