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The flirting thing with Abbot had come easily. Jack Abbot was a known flirt. It didn't matter the person. Dana or Dr. Al or Myrna–Whitaker if he was really in the mood to make someone blush. He'd flash a crooked smile or a wink with a sly remark to anyone in his proximity.
So when Samira asked him over the hustle of the Pittfest MCI what else was in his go-bag and he'd just smiled and replied "Oh, just wait and see," the flirty tone had not surprised her, but the tug of intrigue in her stomach it had elicited caught her a bit off guard.
So the next time Abbot had asked in passing if she had any weekend plans, despite her intention to curl up in her bed with her laptop and refrain from human contact for forty-eight hours, she'd quipped back a coy, "Wouldn't you like to know, Abbot."
She wasn't even sure where it had come from. She regretted it immediately. He was her superior even if he rarely supervised her, and she was certain she'd crossed a line, but Abbot's brows had just shot up. "Boy, would I ever," he'd responded, his tone exaggerated, and Samira had felt a jolt of electricity that prompted her to laugh out loud. And so it had begun.
She was by no means a practiced flirt. Her romantic history left something to be desired, always a nose in a textbook or picking up an extra shift for experience or extra cash. It left little time for romantic entanglements. But something about the back and forth with Abbot was simple.
He was undeniably handsome, intense hazel eyes, strong arms, salt and pepper curls tossled in such a way as to seem effortless (but Samira knew the effects of expensive curl cream when she saw it and wasn't fooled). He was objectively good looking. And if she caught him staring, eyes roaming her face or body every now and again, she didn't hold it against him. He was a widower, not a monk. If anything, it made their back and forth more fun. It was an outlet for sexual energy between two people who were attracted to each other–two people with no semblance of life outside the hospital walls.
Certainly, nothing would come of it–not just for the age and rank difference of it all, though that was certainly part of it. He was in love with his wife. He'd removed the silver wedding band from his left hand a few months ago, but it still hung from the chain of his dog tags around his neck. It put a distance between them that lowered the stakes, made Samira feel safe to bat her eyelashes and make tamely suggestive comments and receive them in return.
So as Samira clocked in for a stint of night shifts and Abbot made his way over, she couldn't stop the involuntary smile that spread across her face.
"I checked the schedule, and imagine my surprise to see night shift gets Dr. Samira Mohan for three days this week. To what do we owe the pleasure?" He asked easily.
"Just can't seem to stay away from you," she shot back with a doe-eyed look, and he just chuckled, low in his chest. "No, Parker's taking her girlfriend for a Valentine's weekend getaway so I told her I'd cover," she explained.
"Got it. That's nice of you. You don't have a Valentine you'll be disappointing by working the 14th?" he asked.
"Not unless you're offering," she answered coyly.
"Don't threaten me with a good time. I'd be honored." he answered easily, earning a laugh from Samira. "But seriously?"
"When would I even have the time to find someone? And who in their right mind would want to go on a date with someone married to their job–on Valentine's Day of all days. All that pressure."
Abbot looked unconvinced. "You're stunning and brilliant, kid," he told her. Samira's blood heated at the compliment that seemed more sincere than their usual banter. "Surely, you can find some idiot to take you to a nice dinner and buy you flowers you pretend to like and a heart shaped box of slightly waxy chocolate."
Samira raised an eyebrow. "Why would that appeal to me? Most people hear fancy food and think steakhouse. I don't even eat meat. And I'm not sure anyone has ever bought me flowers. I don't even know what I'd like."
"Point," Abbot allowed.
"And you know what's better than heart-shaped chocolates?" she asked, on a roll. "Cardiac massage. I want to hold an actual heart and keep it beating with my bare hands. Find me someone who gets that, and I'll consider it," she challenged.
Abbot just smiled wryly, like he knew something she didn't. "You're something else," he told her fondly.
"Back at ya," she shot back, returning his smile, before turning and heading to a room to start her shift.
—
Her first two nights went on without much fanfare. The Pitt was busy enough but not unmanageably so. As a senior resident, she was frequently pulled in to run traumas or supervise students, but she had always enjoyed the pace and energy of night shift. She attributed it to Abbot's laid back attitude in contrast to Al-Hashimi's efficiency or Robby's unpredictable temperament. There was an ease to it Samira reveled in.
But as she clocked in on the night of the fourteenth, there was a noted thrum of excitement to the air of the Pitt. She shucked her jacket, but when she opened her locker to place it inside, she found there was very little room. The space was occupied with a large bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown parchment paper and a violently sparkly red gift bag, with tufts of tissue paper sticking out.
She blinked several times, trying to make sense of it, considering the possibility that a stint of nightshifts and the sleep disruption that it entailed had caused her brain to snap and hallucinate the contents of her locker, but she reached for the bouquet and the rasp of the paper was decidedly real against her finger tips.
She examined the flowers in the bundle which only served to confuse her further. Samira knew next to nothing about floral arrangements but even she could tell it was unusual. There was no cohesive design or color scheme. Instead, the arrangement featured what must have been over two dozen flowers, each single stem the only of its kind. It was composed of all different types and colors of flowers–some she recognized, a rose, a sunflower, a tulip, and others she could put no name to. She understood that from a design standpoint, it was a disaster, but there was something...utilitarian about it, like whoever had chosen the arrangement was covering all their bases. She found herself utterly charmed by it.
She reached for the glittery bag, removing the frothy tissue paper, and pulled out a truly outrageously pink utility bag. It was ridiculous, over the top in a way that had her barking out a laugh to the empty room. She opened the various zippers and Velcro patches and found that it was stuffed nearly to the brim with emergency supplies–11 blades, hemostatic bandages, a beautiful combat tourniquet. Sharpies. Gloves in her size. A tactical airway. The same one she'd seen used during Pittfest.
Samira felt overcome with emotion, something huge swelling in her chest, making her a little dizzy. It was maybe the most thoughtful gift she'd ever been given. It was incredibly lovely and entirely too much–much more than was warranted between casual, if flirtatious friends. Samira took great care to place both back in her locker and set out to find the man who'd left them.
She found Abbot, casual smile on his face, chatting with Santos. "Can I speak to you a minute?" she asked him softly when their conversation reached a stopping point."
"Anything for you, Mohan," he shot back with a wink, but Samira found herself unable to offer a coquettish response as she usually would.
"Alone?" she prompted, voice low.
Abbot's brow furrowed in curiosity, but Trinity looked between their faces with such a look of delight and mischief Samira was certain fresh gossip would circulate in no time. Abbot ignored her. "Yeah. Sure."
He followed her into an empty exam room, and Samira smiled a little in spite of herself which seemed to relax Abbot's posture a touch. "Did you leave the world's ugliest, most incredible go-bag in my locker along with a very confusing bouquet of flowers?"
Abbot chuckled. "I take my duties as your Valentine very seriously," he assured her.
"You're very sweet," she allowed fondly. "But I cannot accept it."
His expression was questioning. "I honestly thought you'd find the pink thing funny, but I'd be happy to order a different color."
"No. I found it hilarious. That's not the point. It's way too much," she insisted.
"I'd argue that it's exactly the right amount," he countered.
"And I'd argue that you're ridiculous. This is a made-up holiday and that tourniquet alone was too expensive," she shot back.
"Ridiculous for good reason, though," he reasoned, eyes gleaming. "And I never did show you the rest of my go-bag. Now you have one yourself. It's a little less elaborate, but I figured I could not reasonably get away with giving you a Butterfly."
"You can't reasonably give me any of it!" she laughed.
"I can do whatever I want. I'm a rich, old, white guy. It has its perks," he teased. She supposed he had a point.
"Whatever you want, huh?" she repeated, a little coyly, sliding back into the comfortable rhythm of their banter.
"Within reason. A few things I think I'd still need your go-ahead for," he answered with a wink. Samira rolled her eyes.
"And what's up with the flowers?" she changed the subject, a half-raised white flag.
"You said you'd never gotten any and you didn't know what you'd like, so I covered all the bases. This way you can see which ones you like," he explained as though it was perfectly reasonable.
"There's a certain charm to your neuroses. I'll give you that much," she allowed.
"If you're the one giving it, I'll take what I can get." Samira wondered briefly what it must be like to move through the world like Jack Abbot. "So what was the verdict? On the flowers?"
"Oh. I don't really know. The big ones that kind of look like if a daisy was a sunflower? I don't know what they're called. Like I said, I know almost nothing about flowers," she admitted.
He just looked at her for a moment, hazel eyes intense–a mixture of surprise and what Samira would almost call sadness. "Gerber daisies. They're called Gerber daisies," he told her, his voice low and a little choked.
"Gerber daisies then. That one was my favorite," she told him, trying to parse his reaction, but his smile returned, a little softer than the usual bravado.
"Well. At least that's easy to remember," he told her, with the cadence of a joke she wasn't in on.
"Why–" she asked, but he cut her off.
"So you're keeping the Valentine then," he interrupted, teasing.
"Depends. Do I have to report it to HR?" she asked, mostly joking.
"Sweetheart, if at any point you feel the need to report me to HR, I want you to feel free to do that. But it's just a gift. Something I thought you deserved to have. No strings," he assured her, his tone still light.
"Well, in that case, thank you very much, Dr. Abbot," she replied sincerely, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"Happy to do it, kid," he answered. "You wanna get back out there? It's Valentine's day. You think we'll get any festive injuries?"
She turned to walk out of the exam room, cognizant of the eyes on them as they both exited. "Romantic holiday. My gut says we're gonna spend the night pulling foreign objects from orifices," she bemoaned.
"What do you think is more likely? Something without a flared base or a swallowed engagement ring hidden in food of some kind?" he teased.
Their eyes met, something passing between them before they said,
"Both."
"–Both."
—
By the time 9 p.m. rolled around, Samira had, in fact, removed a diamond ring from someone's trachea and had passed off a foreign body removal from the other end onto an intern.
She exited an exam room, sanitizing her hands and noticed a gathering of doctors and nurses around the hub. She approached the desk where Abbot was leaning and noticed pizza boxes scattered about.
"You ordered food?" she asked Abbot.
His face lit up when he saw her, and Samira's heart went a little funny but she shoved it down.
"Yeah. I figured, it's a holiday. Why not?" he answered. "Hold on a sec."
She furrowed her brows and watched him grab a pizza box set off to the side and hand it to her. She opened the box and let out a laugh.
"You bought me a heart-shaped pizza?" She asked in a tone of disbelief.
"With a truly disgusting combination of toppings, no less," he grinned in response. "You said you were generally opposed to fancy food, so I figured this was still festive."
"Mushroom, olive, and jalapeno is a perfectly respectable pizza combination," she replied with faux indignation.
"It's an abomination," he countered.
She made a show of grabbing a piece from the box and moaning as she took a bite. Abbot raised an eyebrow.
"That good? Really?" he asked with a suggestive tilt to his brow.
Samira laughed. "Actually, yeah," she noted, surprised. "Where is this from?"
"Pizza Parma," he told her with a shrug. "It was the closest place I could find doing heart pizzas."
"That must have cost a fortune," she replied. Fancy pizza shops were not usually in her budget. "You really did not need to spend that money on a festive pizza for me."
"Rich, old, white guy, remember. What else am I gonna spend it on," he dismissed. "Besides, everyone's pizza is heart-shaped. Don't go thinking you're special," he chastised lightly.
Samira felt like she'd been doused in freezing water. Right. Their flirting thing. She wasn't special. Abbot was just like this with everyone. She wondered at what point she'd let herself forget that–at what point it had stopped being a selling point.
She tried to return his teasing tone, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Keeping your options open. I like it. Why settle for only one Valentine?"
"Anyone who thinks having only you is settling is a moron, sweetheart," he replied, a breath more earnest than she expected.
She rolled her eyes. She really needed to tone it down. She was starting to take statements like that from him to heart–decidedly dangerous territory–so she changed the subject. "I did pull a ring from a windpipe, already."
He leaned back on his heels, looking impressed. "That was quick. What was it hidden in?"
Samira scrunched her nose. "Creme Brulé."
"Well, that's gross," Abbot replied, mild disgust clear on his features, lightening the air between the two of them.
"That's what I thought. Cake, I get. Champagne even. Baked with eggs? Who does that?" she joked.
"Love makes people do stupid things," he replied, smiling knowingly.
"Have some experience with that?" she teased, and her eyes dipped to where the chain around his neck dipped into this undershirt.
"And then some," he shot back, cheeks a little pink, probably remembering some inside joke between him and his wife.
"Well, thanks for the pizza," she told him. "I'm gonna get back to it."
"Any time, Mohan," he assured her. "Grab me if you need an eye on anything. I'll pull you if something fun rolls in."
She smiled and exhaled, tension leaving her body, knowing they shared very similar, if unusual, opinions on what constituted fun.
---
Samira took on cases at a steady pace after that, moving through rooms at a rate she never quite managed on day shift. She sat down to catch up on her charting around 4 a.m. but no sooner than she had sat down, she heard Abbot's voice calling from across the room, echoing loud and urgent off the tile floors.
"Mohan! Samira, grab a gown! Trauma 3 minutes out. Unrestrained driver in an MVC. Possible flail chest," Abbot shouted.
Samira was on her feet in an instant, grabbing a gown and heading towards the ambulance bay. Abbot gestured for her to turn, and then tied the gown at the base of her neck before turning for her to do the same for him.
The ambulance rolled in, paramedics jumping into action and Samira and Abbot spoke at the same time.
"What do we got?"
" –What do we got?"
"Sorry," Samira quickly apologized.
"Not at all," Abbot quickly corrected.
"Unrestrained driver. Suspected broken ribs on either side. Pulse is thready," the paramedic said, rolling the man through the entrance.
"What's open?" Samira shouted across the hub.
"Trauma 4," Lena answered.
"Let's get him there," Samira instructed Abbot and the paramedic, and they rolled him in.
From there, Samira and Abbot worked in sync, administering meds, checking vitals.
A nurse cut away the clothes from the man's chest, and Samira began to examine him, trying to work as quickly as possible.
"Multiple rib fractures in ribs 4-9. Paradoxical motion present on the left side," she called.
"How do we proceed?" Abbot prompted steadily.
"Check for a pneumothorax," she said, pressing her stethoscope to his chest. "Breath sounds very weak but even. No pnuemo. Someone page Walsh and tell them to get an ER ready."
The slow beeping sound of the man's pulse became a solid tone. "Fuck," Samira said. "Asystole but CPR is out."
"Why won't CPR work in this case, Dr. Mohan," Abbot prompted.
"The floating section of the chest risks puncturing a lung and is not rigid enough to support compressions. We're gonna have to–" Samira answered quickly.
At that moment, Walsh stepped through the door. Someone must have paged her already. "Crack his chest," she finished brusquely.
Emery Walsh was not exactly warm and fuzzy, but Samira thought she was the exact person she'd want working on her if she was in this man's shoes. "Resuscitative Thoracotomy," Samira supplied.
Walsh worked quickly, decisively, slicing between the fifth intercostal space, ordering suction to clear the blood from the chest once it was open. "Lungs are bruised but not punctured. Abbot, you on cardiac massage?"
Abbot surprised Samira by answering sternly. "This is Dr. Mohan's trauma."
Samira was taken aback but didn't have time to dwell on it and moved into position. "I got it."
"Begin compressions, Mohan," Walsh instructed.
Samira reached into the man's chest cavity with both hands and began to squeeze the heart at a steady pace. It wasn't the first time she'd done a cardiac massage, but it was no less thrilling for it. The feel of literally taking a person's heart in her hands, of being the instrument responsible for pushing blood through atria and ventricles was no small thing. She kept steady rhythm in her head, the rest of the room a blur around her, time an errant mystery.
"Hold compressions," Walsh instructed, pulling Samira back to reality.
Her hands went still but she felt the contraction of the heart anyway, a steady thud-thud.
"Sinus rhythm," she called in relief. "It's weak but it's there."
"Nice work, Mohan," Walsh clipped. "Let's get him upstairs."
After some shuffling, the gurney was off to the elevators, and Samira found herself panting in a nearly empty trauma room, heart racing in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
Abbot startled her a little. "You're a rockstar, you know that?" he told her, voice dripping with sincerity.
"Thanks for letting me take the lead," she replied, just as earnest.
"It was a pleasure to watch," Abbot told her and Samira's heart continued to thud in her chest. "Better than waxy chocolate?"
"Better than almost anything," she answered easily.
"Almost?" He hedged, cheeky grin on his face.
Her heart was still racing, norepinephrine pumping through her system. She blamed it for the place her mind went.
She looked at the man standing in front of her, staring at her as though he were proud of her, like she was something wonderful, and for a moment, she thought of his strong body pressed up against hers, muttering the kind of praises she usually received from him over a trauma but in a different context. Gruff voice telling her she was brilliant, that she was doing so well.
She hoped her face didn't betray her when she answered. "Almost."
His eyes narrowed, but then he seemed to come back to himself. "You're gonna come down a little hard I think. That was intense. Take a breather before you get back out there."
"I'm fine. Better than fine," she assured him.
"Trust me. I know. But indulge me," he asked.
She barked out a laugh at the choice of words. "Alright. For you, I guess," she allowed.
"Seriously though, Samira," he said, and his use of her first name and his intense hazel eyes meeting hers cut through the endorphin high, bringing her mind into focus. "You were brilliant. You should be proud of yourself. I know I am."
Her head went a little fuzzy for an entirely different reason. "Thank you, Dr. Abbot," she answered earnestly. Abbot seemed not to notice the effect his words had and just winked, turning to head back towards the board, but Samira just stood there a moment, taking deep breaths until her heart rate returned to something approaching normal.
—
Seven a.m. rolled around eventually and Samira found herself almost disappointed to have the next forty-eight hours off. She stared up at the board and contemplated asking Robby if she could hang around for a double, still riding the high of such a great night.
"Not a chance," Abbot’s voice murmured in her ear, startling her only a little. She turned to see him standing over her shoulder, just a little closer than propriety allowed.
"I wasn't–" she tried, turning to face him.
"Thinking of asking Robby to stay on? Yes, you were," he answered with a fond roll of his eyes. "You need to eat a meal and get some sleep."
"I'm really not even–" she began but Abbot just fixed her with a look. "Fine," she relented.
"Go get the stuff from your locker, and I'll walk you out," he told her.
"I don't need a babysitter," she shot back.
"Don't I know it, Mohan," he answered, cheekily, earning a smile from her. "But someone has to make sure you actually leave this place. You're almost as bad as I am."
"There are worse things, Abbot," she told him. "But I concede. Let me grab my stuff and I'll be right back," she promised, turning to walk into the locker room.
She returned with her bag and flowers in her hands and tried to ignore the curious looks she got from the dayshift nurses. She'd be doing damage control the next time she was on days.
She met Abbot at the door. "People are going to talk, you know," she said, gesturing to the contents of her hands.
Abbot had it in him to look repentant. "Sorry about that."
"No. It's okay," she assured him. It was more than okay, really, but she wasn’t sure he needed to know the way it made her heart swell to be thought of with such knowing intensity.
"Did you drive today?" he prompted.
"Nah. My car's being finicky again. Took the bus," she shrugged.
"Let me drive you home," he offered, not for the first time. Ordinarily, she'd put up more resistance, but the thought of toting her gifts on her bus ride had her readily agreeing.
"Thanks. Lead the way," she told him.
They came to a stop in front of his old Jeep. "I really don't know how to thank you for today. Or Yesterday I guess. It really was the best Valentine's day I've ever had," she told him earnestly. "I wish there were some way for me to pay you back."
A smile lit up his face. "No thanks necessary, sweetheart," he assured her. "There's never a need to pay me back. There are no strings attached."
She laughed a little falsely, trying to ignore the new and nagging feeling in her heart. "That's kind of your thing, right? No strings?"
Abbot's brows furrowed, suddenly looking serious. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh. Nothing bad. You're just a flirt. With me. Or Dana. Or Dr. Al. Myrna. You flirt indiscriminately. It's cute," she reassured him.
"That's not fair," he countered. "I also flirt with Donnie and Whitaker." There was a look of cheeky bravado on his face that for some reason, Samira didn't quite buy.
"Fair point well made," she allowed.
He paused a second, looking at her, his gaze intense, as though choosing his next words carefully.
"Does it–does it bother you? Me flirting?" he asked hesitantly.
"Not at all. Flirting with you is fun," she told him. A lie. A truth.
He also seemed unconvinced. "I agree, but Samira. You know it's not the same thing, right? The way I am with you and the way I am with Dana or Baran. You know that?" he prompted.
Samira swallowed, unsure if she was overjoyed or nauseous.
"Do I?" she asked.
"Maybe you don't, I guess. I thought I was being pretty obvious about it," he admitted, and Samira could feel the thud of her heart in her chest.
"I–" she tried but couldn't quite gather an entire thought to put into a complete sentence.
"If that's what this is to you, just flirting between friends, I can do that. That's more than enough, Samira. There's never any pressure from me one way or the other," he assured her. "But I–it's more than that. You do mean more to me than that."
"Do you–" she tried. "I mean–Are you saying you're interested in–that you might want...strings?" She kicked herself internally. She was usually more composed than this. The implication that this thing between her and Abbot was more than casual had her mind racing, her heart swelling.
"With you? In a heartbeat," he answered immediately.
"How on theme," she chuckled at the choice of words.
"I really do try," he answered with a crooked grin.
She thought about everything that had passed between them in the past few months–in the past few hours. She tried to see it through clearer eyes–what someone else might see in the way they were with each other and suddenly felt a little stupid.
"I think–I'm starting to see that, yeah," she agreed.
"So..." he hedged, sliding hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels a little–all traces of his usual easy bravado replaced with a nervous uncertainty. "It's officially February 15th. No pressure associated with February 15th.”
“True,” she agreed.
“Can I interest you in breakfast?” he asked, nervous lilt to his voice.
"No pressure? No strings?" she teased, feeling giddy at the prospect.
"Maybe a couple of strings. You let me pay for your pancakes and if it goes well, kiss you goodbye?" he tried, ghost of a smile on his face.
"I'm fine with you paying. As you've repeatedly pointed out, you're a rich old white man," she allowed, and he laughed aloud, a warm, hearty sound that went straight to her chest. "But–"
Samira looked around the parking garage to make sure they were alone, and stood on her tip toes to set her gifts on top of the Jeep, before placing a hand on Abbot's shoulder to pull herself up to his height. She pressed her lips to his softly and for a second, Abbot remained frozen, hands still in his pockets, but he took a deep inhale and his resistance seemed to break.
He brought an arm around and up her back, pulling her into him. His mouth opened to hers and she reflexively let out a sigh, relaxing against his body. His tongue traced along her lip and she dragged her teeth across the tip of it. His hand came to cup her face, warm and calloused and broad across her cheek, holding her in place. Strong. Present. She'd never been kissed so overwhelmingly so she allowed herself to revel in the movement of their mouths against one another for a few seconds longer before pulling back to look up at him.
They were both a little breathless and his eyes seemed dazed, but a warm smile spread across his face. "Not that I'm complaining, because fuck, kid," he exhaled fondly. "But what was that for?"
"No pressure, remember," she answered, teasing. "Now we can eat our breakfast without the kiss at the end looming over us," she explained.
He chuckled, low. "Brilliant as always, Dr. Mohan," he told her. She noted the flush on his freckled face. She'd never seen him look so young, unburdened.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," she returned primly.
"Jack," he corrected, his index directed to his chest.
Something warm bloomed Samira's chest. "You wanna get out of here, Jack?" she asked, the flirtatious tone she'd grown used to using with him returning with a vengeance.
"Absolutely," he answered immediately.
Jack grabbed the flowers and bag from the top of his car and carefully placed them in the trunk, before rounding the car and opening the passenger door, offering Samira a hand. She took it, if only to enjoy the feeling of her hand in his, and climbed in.
Jack didn't shut the door behind her, instead just stood there, taking her in, his heart in his eyes. "You really are something else, you know that?" he exhaled with a shake of his head.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said as much to her but it was the first time she understood the weight of it–the enormity of what could exist between them. She turned her head to the side, in answer, and looked up at him hoping he could see the depth and sincerity of her feelings in her assurance.
"Right back at you."