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“This is weird, it’s so… quiet,” Dana announces, cutting into her steak.
Across the table, Lena laughs. “It’s a restaurant, that’s the idea.”
“I’m serious. My body thinks something bad is about to happen.”
“That’s because you’ve worked in the ED for twenty years,” Abbott says dryly.
Robby hums agreement over the rim of his wine glass.
The four of them are tucked into a corner booth in one of those trendy downtown restaurants where the lighting is dim and the menu contains fancy words nobody can pronounce.
Dana had picked it.
Which meant Lena had spent the last twenty minutes accusing her of secretly being rich.
“I still think you’re hiding a second job,” Lena mutters.
Dana points a fork at her. “I know how to use Google reviews.”
“You knew there was valet parking.”
“That’s not suspicious.”
“That is deeply suspicious for a charge nurse.”
Abbott snorts quietly into his drink.
“Don’t you laugh, you’re paying tonight.” She points a finger at him.
Lena raises her glass. “To Dana finally taking leave before she collapsed dramatically in the ambulance bay.”
Dana clinks glasses with her. “I still think medical leave sounds fake.”
“You got punched in the face.”
“Details.”
“You literally ran a mass casualty event with a black eye.”
Robby pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need all of you to understand how concerning it is that you genuinely think this is normal.”
“Too late,” Lena says. “Emergency department already got to us.”
The live music starts midway through dessert.
Soft piano drifting through the restaurant.
Dana barely notices initially. She’s too busy arguing with Abbott over whether Santos intentionally causes chaos or merely attracts it naturally.
“She’s a menace,” Abbott says affectionately.
“She’s an intern,” Dana counters.
“She climbed onto a counter to reset a monitor because she ‘didn’t trust the wheels on the stool.’”
“She was right though,” Lena says.
“The stool literally broke afterward,” Dana agrees.
Robby just laughs quietly into his drink.
There’s affection underneath all of it.
Exasperated, exhausted affection.
Trinity Santos had arrived in the Pitt like a small natural disaster—loud, brilliant, emotionally stunted, occasionally concerning.
And somehow, impossibly, they had gotten attached anyway.
“She and Whitaker are weirdly good together,” Lena muses.
Dana groans immediately. “Do not call them work spouses.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was absolutely thinking it.”
“They share one brain cell,” Abbott mutters.
“And somehow Santos usually has custody of it,” Robby adds.
Dana smiles despite herself.
The music shifts.
Piano first.
Then a voice.
Soft at first. Warm. Controlled.
Robby stills instantly. Halfway through lifting his wine glass. Because he knows that voice.
Not consciously yet. Just something familiar enough to catch under his ribs.
Near the front of the restaurant, applause rises lightly as two performers step up to the piano.
A guy with curly hair and suspenders adjusts the microphone first, grinning sheepishly at the crowd.
The woman beside him is laughing at something he says quietly under his breath.
Dark clothes. Hair braided back tonight.
Robby’s eyes widen slowly.
“Oh you have got to be kidding me.”
Dana frowns. “What?”
The woman turns toward the piano.
And the entire table freezes.
“No fucking way,” Lena breathes.
Because standing under soft amber lights is Trinity Santos.
Not in scrubs.
Not trauma-room intensity.
No defensive sarcasm or sharp-edged exhaustion.
Just Santos in fitted black trousers and a dark sleeveless top, one hand wrapped loosely around a microphone.
Beside her, Whitaker looks deeply resigned about the entire situation.
“Oh my god,” Dana whispers.
Abbott stares openly. “Is that Whittaker?”
The person in question taps the microphone awkwardly. “Uh, hi. Evening everyone.”
Santos mutters something beside him.
He sighs dramatically. “Right. Sorry. We’re Annie and Oliver…Twist.”
There’s scattered laughter from the audience.
Dana physically chokes on her drink.
“No.”
“Yes,” Lena says weakly. “Oh my god they absolutely named themselves that.”
Whitaker points accusingly at Santos. “This was her idea.”
“Because it’s funny,” Santos says into her mic.
“It’s not.”
“It objectively is.”
“You made me introduce myself as Oliver Twist.”
“You live in my apartment rent free. Suffer.”
The audience laughs again.
At the table, Robby is staring like his intern just casually revealed she can breathe underwater.
Then Santos smiles toward the pianist.
And sings.
The entire room goes quiet.
Not gradually.
Immediately.
Because holy shit. This is different. This is trained. As natural as breathing.
Her voice fills the space, smooth as velvet, rising clean and clear over the piano.
Whitaker joins in on harmony halfway through and somehow—somehow—they’re actually incredible together.
“Oh my god,” Lena whispers again.
Abbott looks genuinely stunned.
Robby just watches Santos with narrowed eyes like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Because this girl walks into trauma bays like she’s personally declaring war on mortality.
And now she’s standing beneath soft amber lights sounding like she belongs on Broadway.
The disconnect is severe.
At a nearby table, a group of businessmen in suits have gone completely silent.
Mid-thirties maybe. Expensive watches. Half-drunk whiskey glasses forgotten on the table.
One of them leans forward slowly.
“Jesus Christ.”
“No kidding,” another murmurs.
“She’s hot.”
Dana’s eyes flick toward them automatically.
Then—
“Look at that breath control.”
A low whistle.
“Wonder what else she can do with that mouth.”
Dana turns so fast Lena nearly gets whiplash.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The table of men blink at her.
Dana is already standing.
“This isn’t a dive bar. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with people?”
One guy lifts both hands defensively. “Relax, we were joking—”
“No, you were being creepy in public because apparently nobody taught you how to behave around women.”
Lena bites down hard on a laugh.
Abbott looks exhausted on Dana’s behalf.
The men glance awkwardly toward the stage.
And realize Santos definitely heard them.
Because her eyes flicked over briefly.
Just once. Sharp enough to cut.
Whitaker hears it too apparently because his expression shifts immediately into protective annoyance.
But Santos only lifts her chin slightly.
And keeps singing. Harder now.
Like spite improves vocal projection.
Honestly? It probably does.
The song builds.
Whitaker harmonizing beautifully beneath Santos’ lead vocals.
And Dana abruptly understands several things all at once.
Why Whitaker never complains about paying rent.
Why Santos always seems exhausted despite impossible schedules.
Why they’re both suspiciously coordinated during procedures.
These idiots rehearse together.
Of course they do.
The final note lands flawless and ringing.
Silence hangs for half a second.
Then the restaurant erupts into applause. Real applause.
Not polite restaurant clapping. People cheering.
Someone near the bar actually yells “holy shit.”
Whitaker bows dramatically.
Santos looks mildly embarrassed by the concept of being perceived.
“Thank you,” she says quickly into the mic. “Please resume ignoring us.”
The applause somehow gets louder.
Dana collapses back into her chair.
“I cannot believe this.”
Lena is openly delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Abbott rubs a hand over his face slowly and laughs. “Of fucking course she does. REBOA girl”
Robby’s still watching the stage thoughtfully.
Because Santos looks… different here. Loose. Comfortable.
Like this version of herself exists entirely separate from medicine.
Whitaker starts another song, joking with the pianist while Santos rolls her eyes fondly beside him.
It hits Robby suddenly how young they are.
Not in competence. God knows Santos carries herself like she’s been forty since birth.
But here? Laughing under warm lights with her roommate and singing for extra cash at expensive restaurants?
She looks twenty-five.
The businessmen wisely avoid further commentary.
Dana keeps glaring intermittently anyway.
“Stop looking at them like that,” Lena says.
“I’m just making sure,” she says darkly.
On stage, Whitaker finishes a solo verse and gestures toward Santos dramatically.
“Annie everybody.”
“Oh my god,” Abbott mutters.
Santos flips him off without missing a beat in the music.
The audience laughs. Robby laughs too before he can stop himself.
Because of course she would.
The set continues another twenty minutes.
Jazz standards. Acoustic covers. One absurdly good duet that leaves half the restaurant staring openly.
Santos transforms while she performs.
Not softer exactly. Just… certain.
Every movement controlled. Every breath precise. No hesitation. No defensive humor.
Like the music peels away all the frantic energy she usually hides behind.
And apparently everyone at the table notices.
“She’s happy,” Lena says quietly.
Dana glances back toward the stage.
Whitaker nudges Santos with his shoulder during an instrumental break and she actually grins fully at him.
Bright and unguarded.
Yeah. She is.
The set ends to thunderous applause.
Whitaker bows again because he’s incapable of seriousness for longer than thirty seconds.
Santos mutters, “You’re embarrassing.”
“You love me.”
“Debatable.”
The crowd begins settling again as the pair disappear briefly backstage.
Dana immediately downs the rest of her wine. “Nope.”
Abbott raises an eyebrow. “Nope what?”
“I cannot supervise someone after hearing them sing like that.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“She hit notes, Jack.”
“So?”
“So now if she screws up I’m gonna feel like I’m crushing an artist’s spirit.”
Lena loses it laughing.
Robby smiles faintly. “You’re attached.”
Dana points aggressively at him. “Don’t psychoanalyze me mister.”
“Noted.”
A few minutes later Santos and Whitaker emerge from backstage carrying water glasses.
Whitaker spots their table first.
And stops dead.
“Oh no.”
Santos turns.
Freezes instantly.
The horror on her face is immediate and magnificent.
Dana waves brightly.
Whitaker looks ready to fake his own death.
“No,” Santos says softly.
“Oh absolutely yes,” Lena replies.
The pair approach slowly like nervous wildlife.
Whitaker gets there first.
“So,” he says carefully. “How long have you been sitting there.”
Dana smiles. “The whole time.”
“Oh my god.”
Abbott leans back in his chair. “Oliver Twist?”
Whitaker points at Santos immediately. “Her fault.”
“It’s a good stage name.”
“It is not.”
Robby looks at Santos steadily. “You never mentioned this.”
Santos visibly wilts. “…it didn’t seem relevant?”
“You professionally sing in restaurants.”
“We semi-professionally sing in restaurants.”
Whitaker nods. “Important distinction.”
Dana gestures vaguely at them both. “Since when?”
“Together, after Pittfest,” Whitaker grins slyly at her, “but Annie here did this all through med school.”
Lena blinks. “Years?”
“Needed rent money,” Santos says with an awkward shrug. “Turns out rich people tip well when you sing sad jazz at them.”
Whitaker brightens. “One guy tipped us a hundred bucks once because Santos made his girlfriend cry.”
“She was already crying.”
“You intensified it.”
Dana is still staring at Santos suspiciously. “You kept this secret.”
“I keep lots of secrets.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to become a work thing!”
Too late now.
Especially because nearby diners are absolutely recognizing them.
A woman passing their table stops abruptly. “You two were amazing.”
Whitaker smiles easily. Santos looks like she wants the floor to open.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
The woman leaves.
Dana watches Santos carefully.
“How many people know about this?”
“Outside of you,” Whitaker pauses. “Basically nobody.”
“Huh.”
Santos narrows her eyes. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The charge nurse face.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You absolutely have a face.”
Lena points at Dana. “She does have a face.”
“It means she’s emotionally invested now,” Abbott says dryly.
Dana ignores them.
“You rehearse after shifts?”
Whitaker groans. “Please don’t ask scheduling questions.”
“You’re interns and med students. When do you sleep?”
“We don’t,” Santos says honestly.
“That explains so much.”
Whitaker steals one of the leftover fries from Dana’s plate. “In fairness, singing pays better than my campus job did.”
“And Santos likes performing,” Lena says knowingly.
Santos immediately denies it. “Incorrect.”
Whitaker snorts. “You literally bully me into taking extra gigs.”
“Because you have stage presence.”
“You threatened me with eviction.”
“That too.”
Robby watches the exchange quietly.
Easy rhythm. Friendship..
And suddenly Santos makes a lot more sense.
The constant deflection. The humor. The refusal to let anyone too close at work.
This part of her life belongs entirely to herself. No wonder she hid it.
One of the businessmen from earlier passes their table awkwardly on the way out.
The guy who made the comment won’t quite meet Santos’ eyes.
“Sorry again,” he mutters.
Santos shrugs lightly. “Don’t be weird to women in public and you’ll probably have an easier time.”
Whitaker chokes laughing.
Dana looks deeply satisfied.
“Goodnight,” she tells the businessmen firmly.
They flee.
Lena wipes tears from her eyes. “Dana, you terrified them.”
“Good.”
Whitaker looks delighted. “Can you come to all our gigs?”
“Absolutely not,” Santos says immediately.
Too late again.
Because Dana’s already smiling.
“Oh, Annie,” she says sweetly. “I think this might become a regular thing.”